Untethered (2 page)

W
ell, aren't you going to come and give your mother a hug?”

Allie walked slowly up the aisle as her mother, Lindy—Bradley's first wife—shook her extended arms with impatience but made no effort of her own to close the gap between them. When Allie finally reached her, Lindy pulled her into a long, tight hug. “My baby!”

Char could see Lindy's lips move against Allie's ear, but couldn't hear the words. Allie nodded a few times and raised a hand to wipe her eyes before breaking down in sobs. “Oh, my poor baby,” Lindy said, kissing her daughter's hair.

When Allie stopped crying, Char and Will rose and joined the others in the aisle. Lindy let her daughter go and stepped past her, taking Char's hands in hers. “Charlotte!” She tilted her head, assessing, and apparently deciding hand-holding wasn't enough, she dropped Char's hands and hugged her. Char tried to pretend her sudden coughing fit was due to grief and not the overpowering smell of hair spray, coconut oil, and perfume.

“You poor thing!” Lindy said, pulling her closer. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” Char said, struggling to free herself. She stepped back, beside her brother. “Well, not fine, exactly. But, you know.” She reached a hand toward Allie, who took it. “We're coping. And what about you? I know things weren't great between you two recently, but you had a long history.”

“Oh, we did.” Lindy sighed. “We most certainly did. Long enough to create this beauty.” She lifted Allie's hand out of Char's and enclosed it in both of hers. She inspected the mass of entwined fingers for a long moment before letting go with one hand and touching her index finger to her daughter's thumbnail. Allie's polish was chipped. The girl snatched her hand away from her mother and put it behind her back.

Lindy peered over Char's shoulder at the casket, a palm pressed against her heart. “He was my first love. And I just can't believe that . . . my Bradley . . .” Her hand moved from her chest and hovered in front of her mouth. “And to have to miss the service. You should have heard me in the back of the cab, telling the driver to hurry up—”

“That's why I asked you to come earlier,” Allie said. “It's January. In Michigan. Anyone could have guessed—”

“Mommy's here now,” Lindy said, smiling thinly at her daughter and running a hand down the back of the girl's hair. She rubbed the end of a blond strand between her finger and thumb, and frowned.

Allie pulled her head away and her hair came loose from her mother's grasp. “But you could have been here
on time
—”

“And who is this handsome companion of yours, Charlotte?” Lindy asked, thrusting toward Will the hand that had been holding her daughter's hair and was suddenly left, jobless, in midair.

“This is my brother, Will,” Char said, as Will took Lindy's hand. “Will, Lindy.”

“This is ‘Uncle Will'? Nice to meet you.” She held on until he pulled away. “Allie tells me you were quite the savior this week.”

“He certainly was,” Char said. She watched as Allie opened her mouth, then closed it. She would bet a thousand dollars the girl was about to say, “
He
flew in
days ago.
”

Will waved them off and put a hand on Char's back, nudging her up the aisle to the door. “We can exaggerate more at dinner tonight. Let's go greet some guests.”

“Give me one minute,” Lindy said, “and I'll catch up with you.” She pointed to the casket. “I guess it would be crass to make a joke about finally being able to get in the last word.”

“We've done our share of irreverent joking ourselves,” Char said. “I think he would have appreciated it.” She smiled at Lindy and turned to walk up the aisle, Allie and Will following.

“Oh, and I'll have to join you tomorrow night for dinner,” Lindy said. They stopped and turned, and Char heard Allie gasp. “I made plans for tonight with some people who have to get to the airport, to get back home. Assuming flights don't get canceled. Most of us got out of this place years ago. You understand.” Lindy swept an arm around the sanctuary, but Char knew she was talking about Mount Pleasant, not St. John's Episcopal.

“But Mom!” Allie said. “You just got here! And Uncle Will leaves tomorrow afternoon!”

Will stepped closer to his niece. “It's not a big deal, Allie,” he whispered. “We just met.”

“I'll be here until Wednesday,” Lindy said, giving Allie the same thin smile she had produced earlier, the one that seemed to
say the discussion was over. “We'll have dinner the other nights. And I assume I'll see Uncle Will at the house tomorrow?”

Will said, “Absolutely. My flight's not till four.”

“Perfect,” Lindy said.

Allie stepped toward her mother. “But Mom—”

Lindy turned and began walking toward the casket. “Oh, my Bradley!”

“Mom!” Allie called.

But Lindy kept walking, her sobs drowning out her daughter's protests.

C
har stood in a corner of the social hall with Will, the refreshment table on one side, the doorway on the other.

“Prime receiving-line real estate,” Will said. “People can grab a cup of coffee and a cookie, come pay their respects to the widow, and keep moving, out the doorway and straight on to the main exit.” He pointed. Inside the doorway sat a table for dirty dishes, a garbage can underneath. “It's so efficient. Like an assembly line. Bradley would approve.”

Char smiled. There was much more to Bradley than fastidiousness—he had a brilliant mind, a wonderfully dry sense of humor, and a bottomless well of devotion to his family—but they had all teased him mercilessly about his love of orderliness and efficiency. Although Char ribbed him about it as much as the others, she had found his meticulousness to be charming, and incredibly sexy. There was something so alluring to her about a man who cared about the small details in the world around him, wanted those details to be arranged in a certain way, and made sure it happened.

Quality, Operational Excellence, Six Sigma, metrics, flawless
execution of key processes
: these weren't mere words on a job description to Bradley, but a way of life. He viewed fourteen-hour days in the General Motors plant in Lansing as a privilege more than an obligation. Leave early (or even on time), when there were still manufacturing inefficiencies to discover and correct? Never!

Char used to joke with him, “You act like a kid searching for Easter eggs. Can it possibly be that exciting, after all these years, to find another ‘opportunity to drive rapid and sustainable improvement to the manufacturing process'?” Magic language in the Six Sigma world—Char and Allie both spoke it fluently. Bradley, who had always been a good sport about the teasing, would laugh and say surely her question was rhetorical.

Char regarded the table. Dirty cups and saucers were stacked in lopsided tiers. Some had fallen over, creating brown Rorschach blots on the plastic tablecloth. A few crumpled napkins and discarded bits of cookie lay beside the dishes, having failed to make the final step into the garbage can.

“He'd have a field day with that,” she said, tsking. “He'd probably stop the reception and sort everyone into teams to analyze the various areas of process breakdown. There'd be a report-out by each team, a comparison of before-and-after metrics. There would definitely be Excel spreadsheets involved. Did I tell you about our New, Improved, and Streamlined Dinner Prep and Clean-Up System? Ask Allie sometime. It was insane.”

“I wonder if now is the time for us to back off on the ‘unbending perfectionist' comments,” Will said. “It was one thing when he was here to defend himself.”

“He loved it,” Char said as her friend Colleen appeared at her side and took Char's hand in hers.

“You must be talking about Bradley,” Colleen said, kissing Char's cheek, then Will's. “I heard ‘unbending perfectionist.'”

Like Bradley and Lindy, Colleen had grown up in Mount Pleasant. She liked to pretend Bradley had been this obsessive since elementary school. Lindy, who had followed three years behind Bradley and Colleen in school, liked to pretend he had been completely different back then, and that his desire to stay in their home state, in their hometown even, working in the industry she had grown tired of hearing about, had come as a divorce-worthy shock. Char suspected both women of indulging in a healthy degree of revisionist history.

“When did Ms. Hollywood make her entrance?” Colleen pointed with her chin to Lindy, who stood on the other side of the room, telling some evidently hilarious story to a group of people.

Everyone in Lindy's circle had their heads tilted back in laughter except Allie, who stood obediently beside her mother, one of Lindy's hands on her shoulder. Allie looked uncertain, and Char couldn't tell if the girl was planning her escape or hoping her mother would pull her closer. She wondered if Allie even knew.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Char told Colleen. “Flight delay. She missed her connection to Lansing so she had to get a cab from Detroit. Sounds like it was a bit of a nightmare. Roads are terrible—”

“It could be a sunny day in July and Lindy would make it sound like a nightmare coming back here,” Colleen said.

“Be nice,” Char said. As she spoke, Lindy touched a finger to the top of Allie's shoulders, and her daughter, in response, stood straighter and taller. Lindy inclined her chin and retracted her hand.

“And that outfit,” Colleen said. Lindy's hemline was six inches higher than that of any other woman over twenty, and while the rest
of the female guests of a certain age wore dark leggings, Lindy's long, tanned legs were bare. “She might as well get a tattoo that says, ‘I don't live here anymore.' I'm sure they could inject the ink at the same time as the Botox. Did I ever tell you about the time she came back wearing a fur? In August?”

Char pinched Colleen lightly on the arm. “Stop. Her dress is black. You've got to give her props for that.”

Until then, every time Char had seen Lindy, whether in the flesh or in a photograph, the woman had been wearing head-to-toe pink. It was her signature color. “You have to be your own brand,” Lindy liked to say. “Pink is the color of love.” She owned a wedding-planning business in Hollywood.
Love by Lindy: You say yes, we do the
rest
.

“Fine,” Colleen said. “I'll play your High Road game for, um, how long is she staying?”

“Until Wednesday.”

“God. Five days? I'll need a few breaks.”

“I think it's great that she's up here for that long, for Allie,” Char said. She pulled Colleen's arm until her friend turned toward her. “Isn't it great that she's up here for that long, for Allie?”

Colleen looked at the ceiling.

“Colleen,” Char said.

“You're conveniently ignoring the fact that there's a ‘down there' from which she had to travel in order to see her own daughter.”

“Colleen.”

“Fine. It's great that she's up here for Allie.”

“Good girl.” Char pointed to the refreshment table. “You may have a cookie.”

“If there are any left,” Will said. He motioned to a young girl
running toward them from the other side of the social hall, gripping several cookies in each hand.

“CC!” the girl cried in the raspy voice Char loved, using the nickname Allie had come up with for her stepmom years ago and still brought out in times of affection. It had started out as “CharChar,” but at some point, Allie had decided that was too juvenile and shortened it to a “cooler” version.

“Morgan!” Char bent down, opened her arms, and caught the ten-year-old, teetering back with the force. “It's Morgan Crew,” she told Will, looking up at him. “You know, the one from Allie's Monday-afternoon thing.” She turned back to the child. “I had no idea you were here! You must have snuck in while I wasn't looking. Allie will be so thrilled—”

She looked over the girl's head to see if Allie had noticed her. Of course she had—everyone in Lindy's circle had turned at the noise as the child ran past, shouting to Char. As the adults went back to their conversation, Allie stole away, snuck up behind Morgan, and tapped her on the shoulder. “This is a stickup. Give me all your cookies.”

“Allie!” Morgan spun around, throwing her arms around the teenager with twice the enthusiasm she had used with Char.

Over the girls' heads, Char saw Dave Crew, Morgan's father, approaching, clad in coat, hat, and gloves. At his side, Morgan's four-year-old brother, Stevie, also bundled for the outside, jogged to keep up. Following behind, Morgan's mother, Sarah, pushed one hand through the sleeve of her own coat while the other held her daughter's.

“Hello!” Char said, looking at each of the Crews in turn. “I was just telling Morgan that I had no idea you had come!”

“Of course we did,” Sarah said as she stepped closer. “Your family is important to ours.”

Dave smiled in agreement as he planted a hand on his son's head. The boy was trying to leave his father's side to join the girls, who were now huddled together, arms around each other, whispering. “Let them do their thing,” Dave told his son, who pulled once to try to get loose before giving up.

“It's nice to see you, Stevie,” Char said, trying to make standing with the adults somewhat bearable for him. She extended a hand, palm toward him, and he reached up to high-five her, slapping her hand with too much exuberance, as he always did. Char gasped, as she always did, and pretended to inspect her hand for broken bones.

Stevie laughed with delight. Any interaction that didn't require words was a welcome one for him, as was any that he could predict and repeat. Morgan had explained this solemnly to Char when they met in early September at the tutoring program that brought the two girls together. When Char later came up with the high-five/broken-hand routine, Morgan had clapped soundlessly and mouthed, “Thank you!” over her brother's head.

“Thank you for coming,” Char said to the boy.

“At!” Stevie responded, his eyes bright behind his thick glasses, one hand gesturing at the table near the door, or possibly at nothing.

Char smiled encouragingly and waited for him to say more, but Stevie had evidently conveyed his message and was regarding her as though he expected a response.

“At . . . church?” Char tried. He nodded, and Char didn't know if it was because she had correctly guessed the ending to his sentence, or because he didn't feel like trying again. This was always the way she felt when talking to the four-year-old. She wondered how many of his messages were incorrectly interpreted over the course of a day.

“Yes, you are at church,” Char said, choosing the easy way out. She promised herself she would try harder the next time she saw him in the waiting room at tutoring, and turned from the boy to his parents. “It was very thoughtful of you to come, and really above and beyond.”

“Oh, no,” Sarah said. “It wasn't at all. After everything Allie has done for Morgan, it's really the least we could do.” The tutoring program matched high-achieving high schoolers with underperforming elementary school students and met every Monday after school for two hours. Some of the tutoring pairs had moved to an every-other-week schedule, some had disbanded altogether, and, as with any school activity, there had been a number of absences in any given week. Morgan and Allie hadn't missed a single session in five months.

Char regarded the hugging, whispering pair. From the back, they could be sisters, with the same straight, straw-colored hair, now almost the same length after Morgan had spent the past few months growing hers so it would hang below her shoulders, like Allie's. From any other angle, there wasn't quite the resemblance. Morgan was paler than Allie, and she had ten freckles for each one of the older girl's.

But most noticeably, Allie was tall for her age, with long, lean, muscular limbs, while Morgan was short, her protruding belly making her seem far younger than her ten years. The little-girl body made her hoarse voice—her “pack-a-day rasp,” Bradley had called it—that much more unexpected.

“No! Way!” Char heard Allie say as Morgan nodded her head emphatically. “Oh, Morgan,” the teenager said, tousling the younger girl's hair. “I never know if I should believe you or not. You tell the craziest stories.” She ran a hand over the top of Morgan's head again and laughed.

Char turned back to Sarah. “I don't think you owe Allie any more than she's already getting. It seems like a pretty reciprocal relationship to me.”

“They are a pair,” Sarah said. “Anyway, we felt it was important for Morgan to come and pay her respects. And we wanted to pay ours, too, of course. And to tell you we're praying for you.” She touched Char's arm. “‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.'” Her husband murmured his agreement.

“Thank you,” Char told them, wondering if that was the correct way to answer. Sarah had quoted scripture to her in the past and Char had tried a few different responses, but none of them ever seemed right. In this instance, though, “Thank you” seemed like a fairly good choice.

“I find the Apostles to be such a comfort,” Sarah said. “There are some nice lines in John, too. ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.'”

Char was debating whether to repeat her thank-you when Dave instructed his wife, sotto voce, that it was time for them to go. Sarah nodded and turned to her daughter, holding out the child's coat. “Morgan honey, come get your coat on.”

Morgan, in the middle of an animated story, gave her mother a pained look, and Sarah let her arm fall to her side. “Okay, a little longer.” Her husband turned toward her and Sarah shrugged. “She's happy, at least.” He started to protest, but she spoke first. “Plus, it's for Allie more than anything.” But she told her daughter, “Five more minutes and that's it. Daddy's concerned about the roads.”