Things We Didn't Say (33 page)

Michael and I, over evenings of Chinese food and bad movies, have dissected her behavior again and again. It might seem unhealthy, but we’re both too tired to keep things in anymore, so when the conversation circles back to her, we both give up on clamping down.

Mallory had him in a tight corner after that weekend. His son had run away on his watch, and Mallory pretended that he hit her. She could have blamed the destroyed living room on him, in fact, saying he attacked her. She’d been hinting to Angel that she had a rich new boyfriend who’d pay for a big-time lawyer.

She had Michael in her sights, but didn’t pull the trigger. And this was a mystery, and a source of anxiety that she was merely biding her time.

Then Angel showed us an e-mail she’d sent her mother. It was signed by all of the kids.

Dear Mom,

We will always love you and the good times you gave us. But we want you to know we’re happy with Dad. He takes really good care of us, and things are usually pretty calm.

We don’t want you to feel bad, but we’re asking you, pretty please, if you would not try to mess up something that’s working. If it makes you feel better, Casey isn’t living with us anymore. She and Dad still see each other but they’re taking it slow, and it’s a lot easier now, on everybody.

We still want to see you when you’re feeling good.

We know you have always done your best, but that it’s hard for you. And you’re our mom, we won’t stop loving you.

Your kids,

Angel, Jewel, and Dylan

Mallory’s response was simply:
If that’s what you want.

Angel hadn’t showed us the note at first because she thought her dad would be upset with her for meddling in grown-up business. It’s taking her some time to adjust to the new Michael, who stops to think before he condemns.

Michael read the note in wonderment, and later, with the kids’ permission, shared it with me. Angel assured us the note was a joint project of all the kids, though it sounded very much like Angel when she makes an effort to be her most adult.

It was impossible to tell if that one line—
If that’s what you want
—was typed in bitterness or sarcasm or resignation. And some nights Jewel still cries for Mallory, and I don’t take it personally because I know she means Mallory at her best. Who wouldn’t miss their mother at her best?

But there have been unbroken weeks of peace since then, during which time I’ve dated Michael like an ordinary girlfriend, returning to my own apartment, taking out my own garbage, and leaving the laundry and homework to him.

My work e-mail is finally up, and I start taking care of business, humming along happily with the rhythm of my new, nicely boring life.

I carry my phone with me all morning, waiting to hear Michael’s court news. It buzzes in my pocket when I’m at the coffee machine, and I nearly scald myself slamming the pot down to answer it.

“Well?” I ask without preamble.

“It’s done,” he answers, sounding weary with seventeen years of dramatic personal history.

“You sound like
The Sopranos
,” I say, and he obliges me with a laugh, then says in a cartoon Jersey accent: “You take care of that thing with the guy like I asked you to?”

I respond in kind, “I delivered the package.”

Now we laugh together, and say our good-byes once more, because we’ll see each other at night.

Angel shows up at my door that night to pick me up, as prearranged, so she can practice driving. I swear she looks taller every time I see her.

“Nice,” she says as I lock my door behind me.

I let her take me shopping in the weeks after that one November weekend, allowing myself to be used as a life-size doll to mend some seriously broken fences.

Tonight I’m wearing a dress we picked out together, once the spring clothes hit the stores: it’s fluttery, with a subtle yellow-and-green floral pattern. It’s got a deep V at the neck, and though I swear it feels too short, Angel insists it’s perfect. The green, she tells me, brightens up my dark blond hair. It’s what my mom always called “dishwater blond.”

Nice, Sprite
, my brother says in my memory, on my prom night, when I came down the stairs to Pete.

“Your car, madame,” Angel says, smirking at my wobbly navigation down the stairway in these spiky green heels she talked me into.

On the drive we talk about the weather, how it feels to be twenty-seven—old, but not doddering, I report—and the various dramatics at her school, onstage or in the hallways.

I’m not fooled into thinking our connection is magically healed by spiky green shoes. It was always easy to be girlfriends when I was not in charge of her, and that’s what we’re playing at right now.

It will do. Don’t borrow trouble, my mom would say.

We pull up to Michael’s dad’s East Grand Rapids house, the edges of the lawn bright with daffodils. I navigate the flagstone path gingerly. The evening chill has already begun to descend, and goose bumps race across my bare legs.

For a flash before we walk in, I want a cigarette, so I rush myself across the threshold, past that thought, and when I hug Michael just inside the door, I know I don’t smell like an ashtray. His hand brushes my nicotine patch when he lets go, and he smiles at me, squeezes my hand.

“You look terrific.” He looks at Angel. “Good job.”

Dylan and I exchange a high five; Jewel hugs my waist, and I ruffle her hair.

Mrs. Turner appears from the kitchen, dusting off her hands. “I made your favorite lasagna. Now go on in and have some punch.”

She rushes me toward the dining room, and everyone clatters in behind me. I stop in the doorway to gasp. Jewel crashes into me from behind.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CASEY
reads the banner, decorated with copious amounts of glitter and paint. There are wrapped presents on the sideboard underneath it.

“Did you make that?” I ask Jewel, as if it could be anyone else. She wrinkles her nose under her glasses and beams like a twinkling star.

At dinner, we all try not to watch Angel eat, because from what I hear, nothing sets her off more. There’s not much on her plate, but the food actually does seem to be disappearing. Michael told me that after a fraught, high-volume argument Angel agreed to talk to the school counselor, a young woman she’s always liked, about why she doesn’t want to eat. That, along with her triumphant performance in
The Miracle Worker
, seemed to allow Angel to relax a little. Michael had been quick to add, “Not that I can take my hands off the wheel. Not for a minute.”

When Dr. Turner asks Michael how the writing is going, I stop with lasagna melting off my fork to stare between them, to see if Dr. Turner will approve of his son’s answer, or judge him lacking in ambition, perhaps.

Michael begins explaining about this online magazine he’s started, applying his old-school newsman training, but with stories that are more snarky, more fun. He’s getting that off the ground with all of them living here, with his parents, something that would have pained him before, and his dad would have held it over him.

But now Dr. Turner just listens, nodding, twirling cheese around his fork.

I’m sure he’s not delighted with the plan, but he’s keeping his criticism to himself. That’s something.

Michael’s also in line for a teaching job at the community college, and substitute teaching at high schools when he can.

“Any offers on the house yet, Dad?” Michael asks, now.

“Nothing realistic.”

The Heritage Hill house, which both parents and son decided they should let go, soft housing market be damned.

The phone rings, and Dr. Turner starts to get up, by reflex the doctor on call.

I’m closer, though, so I gesture for him to sit and go answer it myself, clowning for the family with an exaggerated British accent: “Dr. and Mrs. Turner’s residence.”

“Oh, well, if it isn’t the little woman.”

I don’t answer. The room around me falls silent. Mrs. Turner rises to her feet.

“So. Carrying on with your plan to steal my children? Any more of them run away lately, or haven’t you noticed, busy screwing Michael?”

I take a deep breath. I close my eyes and shake my head as if shaking raindrops out of my hair.

She’s just a person. As Michael once said, she’s not going to eat my spleen.

I hold out the phone and say simply, “It’s Mallory.”

Michael takes it, listens for a moment, and makes as if to step out of the room to talk. Then he stops, turns back to us, and says quietly into the phone, “Enough.” He pushes the button to end the call, and places the phone carefully down. He looks around at the ring of worried frowns around the table.

“Your mom is feeling a little upset right now. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmer.”

We all pause for the phone to ring again, but it doesn’t, and Mrs. Turner claps her hands and announces it’s time for cake.

When she comes back in, I’m laughing, because there really are twenty-seven candles on a round layer cake.

She says, blinking in the faint smoke, “Quick! Blow them out before the alarm goes off!”

I can barely get in a breath because I’m giggling. Michael reaches out to pull my hair back. “Don’t set yourself on fire!” he cries in mock alarm.

I don’t get them all blown out at once—my poor ravaged lungs—but it’s close enough. I don’t wish, either, because I don’t believe candles can grant wishes, or that hoping for something will make it come true.

Between bites of chocolate cake I open gifts—a pretty scarf from the Turners, a glittery bookmark from Jewel. Angel bought me a copy of
The Crucible
because I told her that was my favorite play. A homemade CD of Dylan playing his sax nearly has me weeping puddles of mascara down my face.

Michael’s box is last.

“I’m sorry to say that it isn’t brand-new, but money is tight and all,” he says, shrugging, turning pink.

The box is shoebox size, but impossibly light, as if it’s empty. Nothing shifts inside, either, when I unwrap it.

Taped to the bottom of the box is my engagement ring, and a note. The note reads, “Dear Edna Leigh Casey, I love you, whoever you are.”

My shaking hands can’t get the tape loose, and Michael bobbles it, too, so it’s Dylan who frees the ring from the box and hands it to his father, who turns to me, holding the ring pinched between finger and thumb.

I take it from him, and for a moment I just hold it, too, and forget his whole family is watching us. The ring blurs in my vision. But this time, no falling-dream dizziness. I feel both bright and weightless. “Wow, I mean . . . how . . . Are we ready?”

“We’ve got time. No rush.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” And he smiles, leaning in so close I can spot a piece of basil stuck to a front tooth. He lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “I bet you’ll be an amazing mother.”

I fumble the ring trying to put it on, and it bounces under the table, and Michael and I crack heads trying to grab for it, and then we sit under the table laughing along with the whole family, all of us ignoring the ringing phone.

FROM

KRISTINA
RIGGLE

AND

Discussion Questions

1. Casey seeks to reinvent herself, starting with her name and cutting all ties to her old life. Have you ever wished you could start completely over?

2. What do you think the real motivation is for Casey’s attempt to erase her past? Do you think she changed her life for the better?

3. Do you think Michael would have given Casey a chance early in their dating days if she’d been up-front with him about her old habits? Early in a relationship, do you believe it’s beneficial for someone to be an “open book,” or is it better to hold some things close to the vest?

4. Was Casey prepared to be a stepmother at the time she moved into the Heritage Hill house? Has that changed by the end of the novel? Do you know any stepparents, or are you one yourself? Given the prevalence of blended families, do you think being a stepparent is easier these days than in the past?