As Charley drove toward Megan’s house so Krista could see her, she yakked excitedly. After all her hard work, things were coming together pretty much the way she had hoped. Even though items that had been ordered would continue to arrive for the next couple of weeks, the house was basically ready enough to take on summer visitors, once a couple more mattresses arrived. They could get Megan settled when John brought her in a few days. Hope and the girls were due in a month and Aunt Jo and Krista had their bus passes so they could see each other. “And as long as my mother keeps her word and promises not to come—” She laughed suddenly.
Krista was quiet.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Krista—you must have hated to leave your mother so soon,” Charley said.
“What do you suppose she’s hiding?” Krista asked.
“Hiding? What makes you think she’s hiding something?”
“She was so fidgety. So nervous about little things—taking time off, her job, going to the lake...”
“Krista, she’s probably worried and nervous about everything! Not the least of which is what she’s going to do if she pisses off my mother! You know, you haven’t seen Louise in a very, very long time, but she’s changed. She’s so bitter, so angry. It’s understandable that losing a child would take a serious toll, but nursing that anger for this long? I can’t imagine the effect on Jo. Jo always depended on my mother. Go easy—Jo wasn’t expecting you and she’s got a lot to juggle. Louise, having you home, seeing Hope and darling little Brattie and Turdie...”
“That would be Bobbi and Trude.” Krista laughed.
“Oh, heavens, my mistake! You know, when Eric was ten years old I had a business trip to Philly and I took him along so he could meet his cousins. I had already scared the shit out of him with Louise, then we went to Philadelphia, where Hope was struggling with these two subhuman creatures... Wait till you meet them, Krista. At fourteen and sixteen, spoiled and rich, they’ve got to be a treat. Just what Hope puts in the Christmas letter about them is enough to—”
“I don’t suppose you saved any?” Krista asked.
“Hope doesn’t send you her world-famous Christmas letter? The one that lists their latest vacations, brand names and important people they’ve socialized with during the year? I swear to God, she includes everything but Frank’s annual income.”
“She wrote me once,” Krista said. “When she was addressing her wedding invitations it occurred to her that if she was going to keep me a secret, she’d better tell me not to put the prison’s return address on the envelope if I ever wrote to her.” Krista cleared her throat. “That turned out not to be a problem.”
“Does she know you’re out of prison?”
“Well...I didn’t tell her.”
Charley chuckled and it had a decidedly evil sound. “This should surpass interesting,” she finally said.
* * *
After a brief reunion between Krista and Megan, Megan could not sustain the wait to get to the lake. She begged and pleaded until John brought her two days later, provided the new mattresses had arrived. They had. John and Megan both raved about how perfect the cabin looked, how homey and welcoming, making Charley proud.
John stayed only one night, then left to get back to the city to work. “I think he really left because he wasn’t able to stand three women talking and laughing nonstop,” Megan said. “That’s okay. He’ll be less in the way once we’ve had a chance to catch up.”
“Did you get unpacked?” Charley asked. “I can help if you haven’t.”
“Everything except these three boxes—I told John to leave them alone. I shouldn’t be the only one here who gets her own room this summer,” Megan said. “I can double up, too.”
For the time being Krista was keeping her belongings in the master suite but taking the third bedroom for sleeping, keeping the drawers and closet free for Hope. When Hope and the girls arrived, Krista was okay sharing the big bed with Charley.
“Maybe. We’ll see. Depends on how you feel,” Charley said. “I just don’t want you to have any trouble sleeping, that’s all. And you should have a room of your own that John can share on weekends.”
“I’ve been sleeping like the dead lately,” Megan said. Then she winked at Krista, whose mouth hung open.
“It takes a little getting used to,” Charley told Krista.
“I have a surprise you’re going to love,” Megan said. “In one of these boxes...let’s see...” She read the contents as described in black, heavy marker on the outside of the boxes. Dishes, pans, linens, clothes, shoes... “Ah! Here!” She began to tear open the box.
“Shoes?” Krista questioned. “I’d heard you women on the outside were very big on shoes, but...”
“Not this time,” Megan said. “We don’t need many shoes at the lake. This was just a ruse in case Mother stopped by.”
Charley turned her attention to them now—the idea of getting something over on her mother held instant appeal.
“I stole these,” she said, lifting several large photo albums out of the box to expose a cache of loose pictures in the bottom of the box. There were also a couple of large padded envelopes full of old snapshots. “When Grandma went to the nursing home and Mother was getting ready to have an estate sale and get rid of the Grand Avenue mansion, I went over to Grandma’s in the dark of night, with a flashlight and my key to the back door, and poked around in an old box of photos. John came with me. That was before I got sick. We had a blast.”
“Why didn’t you just ask for them?” Krista wanted to know.
“Well, I asked for and got a couple of the big albums...the formal ones... Remember how we used to pore over them when we were little? Our mommies’ proms, parties, coming-outs, weddings? And the years and years of formal sittings after we started being born? I’m surprised they held together for all the little hands pulling at them. So, she said I could have these, but to tell the truth, I didn’t trust Mother with the rest of the pictures. She’s so damn angry about the past, I figured she’d either hide or destroy them. Like all the lake pictures, there are hundreds of them, and we’re all ages. There are a lot of faces in here I don’t know. We’ll have to sort through them, identify them, maybe make some new albums.”
“Look at this,” Krista was saying, leafing through piles of loose pictures. “Our mothers in puberty...out on the dock...”
“Oh, my God, the Berkey-Hempstead cousins in braces!” Charley said, howling with laughter.
“Oh, Jesus, is this what I think it is? This was taken moments after Beverly was born, in Grandma Berkey’s bed, here at the lake!”
“Let’s see. Oh, boy, you’re right, look at them grin! Mother and Jo, like they planned it. Mother said Jo had miscalculated, as usual. You know,” Charley said, putting the photo down and looking upward as if for an answer of some kind, “for years that event was told as a funny story, but after the summer of ’89, it became another example of Josephine’s incompetence.”
“Of course my mother says she could have made it to the hospital, but Louise was bossy as usual and insisted they stay at the lake.”
They looked at each other and laughed. Then they dug around to find another picture to tell another story.
“I knew they’d come in handy,” Megan said softly, watching Charley and Krista plow through them, laugh, groan, gasp, light up in recognition. Meg pulled out the largest of the albums, leather bound and gold embossed. She sat on the sofa with it on her lap. Small as she was, she resembled a child reading an oversize book.
On every holiday from the time Josephine and Louise were born, they were dressed up and seated for a formal picture. The photographer would come out to the house. Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving—in the study by the fireplace, in the living room on the satin sofa, in the rose garden behind the house. There was also a wedding book for each daughter and then, as would naturally follow, formal pictures of the extended family. Louise and Carl, Charley, Megan and Bunny. Josephine and Roy, Hope, Krista and Beverly. Presiding over them, year after year, the judge and Grandma.
The portraits, all eight-by-ten color behind vinyl sheets, pulled them out of their lives and put them into this fairyland that could be viewed forever. You couldn’t tell, when looking at the portraits, that Roy was frequently drunk and out of work. Nor could you see that it was Lou, in the other family group, who was given to violent rages against her mostly silent husband, more often verbal than physical but in many ways more destructive.
Charley remembered. She was quite young when she heard, You think you can treat me like that and get away with it? You’ll see when I’m not here anymore and it won’t just be me, but me and the babies. I’ll take them with me. Check in the basement when you come home next time and see if we’re not all hanging there, dead!
Her mother, mouth twisted in rage, railed at her silent and stoic father. She might’ve been young but she was old enough to have carried that screaming threat straight into adulthood. There were a few times when, as a budding teen, she came home to an empty house and for a split second wondered if her mother and sisters were dead in the basement.
But no. No. That had not happened, only threatened.
Megan flipped the page of the album to Christmas 1985. They were coordinated in black and red velvet; the men wore dark suits and red ties, the little girls wore red jumpers and black Mary Janes; the women wore black velvet and pearls. In ’86, they wore ensembles of red and white. In ’87, they were decked in black and silver with touches of red and green here and there, on the men’s ties, in bows in the little girls’ hair. In ’88, it was red and green—the Roy Hempsteads in red and the Carl Hempsteads in green. The judge and Grandma reigned over them in black formal attire.
Their last Christmas together as a whole family.
Whatever it was that had held them together, whether it was the controlling hand of the judge or the denial of the dysfunction and brutality, whether it was the need to give an external impression, whatever it was, you had to give it some credit because they sure looked damn good. They didn’t look like screamers or drinkers or bed wetters or nightmare victims or insomniacs or nervous wrecks. It sure didn’t look like pending amnesia or attempted suicide or homicide.
“Did everyone know our homelife was crazy?” Charley asked Krista.
“Your homelife?” she asked with a laugh. “Did your father have to get blitzed to go to the judge and Grandma’s?”
“My dad didn’t drink much, that I recall,” Charley said.
“See, that’s what would be worth untangling,” Krista said. “We remember everything differently. We came from different families. We weren’t the same at all. Just because our mothers wanted us to think we were a set didn’t make it so.”
Megan began to remember what things were like when they were children. She could see it almost as if she was back in her mother’s kitchen and she was approximately thirteen years old. But she was seeing it with a new perspective.
She was pouring two glasses of Kool-Aid, probably for herself and Krista, watching and listening to her mother and aunt discuss the meal, their husbands, kids, parents, their conversation speckled with laughter. Hope and Charley were upstairs in Charley’s bedroom listening to music and reading magazines and talking about boys. Bev and Bunny were in the rec room down in the basement playing Barbies. There was the distant sound of some sporting event on the television; Carl and Roy occasionally erupted in cheers or groans of misery.
“Don’t slice the eggs yet, they’ll get dry,” Lou commanded.
“I could devil them up?” Jo asked. She would always ask how Lou would have her do things.
“I think we’ll do the eggs last. Here, let’s make the patties and relishes.”
“You betcha.”
“Do those pretty radishes like you do,” Lou said.
“You betcha. Should we put the girls at the picnic table?”
“Let’s keep ’em in. It’s a little cold yet. We’ll put them downstairs.”
“Want to warm the buns in the oven again?”
“Oh, yeah, I loved that before, didn’t you? Toast them a little.”
“Aw, shit! He coulda had that! Jo! Bring me and Carl a beer!” Roy shouted from the living room.
“Don’t bother taking one to Carl,” Lou said. “He doesn’t need another one.”
“Roy doesn’t need one, either, but you think anyone could tell him that?” Jo said with heavy sarcasm.
“How many is that he’s had so far?”
“A hundred or so,” she said. Then she popped the cap off a cold beer, took a swig and passed it to Lou. “I’d rather have one than count his. Share?” she said with a grin.
Lou laughed. “Why not? They’re both a little easier to take when we’ve had our beer.”
“After Roy’s had his, there isn’t anything to take, if you know what I mean.”
“Carl doesn’t need as much as Roy, if you know what I mean.”
Meg remembered there was always lots of laughter. Helpless laughter. Secret laughter. We. Our. Them. Us.
There were many weekend days like that, most of them spent at Lou and Carl’s because Roy and Jo were always moving from one little low-rent house to another. When there wasn’t a command performance with the judge and Grandma, Lou and Jo brought the husbands and kids together so they could be together.
Even though Roy was Carl’s younger brother and the brothers had married sisters, they weren’t naturally drawn together as friends and companions. Roy was ten years younger than Carl and they hadn’t spent much of their childhood together. But Lou and Jo were only a year apart and had been inseparable almost from the day they were born.
Suddenly Megan understood what had happened to the family. It wasn’t the deaths and abandonments and all the dysfunction that had torn them apart—it was only one thing. The rift between Jo and Lou.
Louise was too harsh and temperamental, but Jo always softened her outbursts. Jo was too passive and needy, but Lou propped her up and gave her strength. Lou was tall, Jo was short; Jo was frilly, Lou was sturdy. What Louise could not do, Jo could do with her eyes closed and vice versa.
No matter how hard she tried, Megan couldn’t remember the fall of ’89 at all. The shade went down in ’89 when Lou and Jo were attractive, energetic women in their thirties and the curtain came up over a year later to find them both devastated by losses that stronger women could not have borne alone. The weight of it on Louise made her coarser and more rigid, but the losses turned Jo into herself and made her more helpless. Stretching her memory for all it was worth, Megan could not remember her aunt Jo being so weak before the women parted angrily. Louise had always been bossy and controlling but upon losing her softer sister there was no relief from her temper.
Megan had closed her eyes so she could see the vision growing in her mind, but when she opened them the album was gone and a blanket had been drawn over her. The sun was low; Charley and Krista were keeping their voices deliberately soft as they fussed over some food in the kitchen. Charley was telling Krista how to chop the vegetables while Krista was asking questions about the bread and soup and salad being prepared. Megan realized she may have created a dream or scene around the back-noise of their conversation, which sounded, in muted tones, like Lou and Jo. As she sat up on the sofa, the women in the kitchen turned her way.
“Well, good morning,” Charley said. “How about some tea?”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Gee, I think it’s been two hours. Did we wake you? I decided it wouldn’t be a very good idea to put off dinner when—”
“No, but I had this dream. This wonderful dream. About our mothers, working together in the kitchen, just like the two of you are doing now, just like our mothers did a million times, for so many years. For a second there I had a glimpse of what went wrong. The one single thing that, if you could change it, would make it all right again.”
There was a moment of complete quiet. “You do that, too?” Charley finally asked.
“I do that all the time! Do you?”
“It’s like an obsession with me—this pulling out the thread of the bad thing, removing it, and now everything is all right. Krista?” Charley asked.
“Oh, please,” Krista said, chopping. “With my life, you have to throw out the whole fucking loom.”
“The thing is, even your problems didn’t start until after Bunny drowned,” Megan said, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. “In my dream, though, it wasn’t about Bunny at all. Or even about Daddy or Uncle Roy or the judge or anyone else. It was only about Lou and Jo and how, since they were born, they were totally inseparable. And then rrrippppp, they’re torn apart. And everything changes. And collapses.”
“Oh, honey, it’s not as though there weren’t plenty of problems—” Charley said.
“I know! There were a million problems—why wouldn’t there be? With that domineering old man in everyone’s business all the time, passive-aggressive Carl playing the White Sheep and devil-may-care Roy playing the Black Sheep. And six kids in six years? Jesus, life was complicated to say the least! But as long as Lou and Jo stuck together, everyone made it. Charley, if Mother and Aunt Jo had been speaking at the time you were pregnant, Aunt Jo wouldn’t have let Mother send you away. She never approved of that and she said so. And if they’d been speaking, Aunt Jo and the kids would have been living with us—Jo would not have been alone, sinking deeper and deeper into depression. And Hope would not have moved in with the judge and Grandma, and Krista would not have run off with Rick French—”
“May he not rest in peace,” Krista put in.
“I’ve always wondered, what did that feel like? Did it feel like, ‘Oh, no, what have I done?’ or did it feel like, ‘Die, you son of a bitch, die’?” Charley asked.
“I zoned out. Almost completely. Like I had no choice. It was sort of automatic, like jumping out of the way of an oncoming train.”
“Hey. What about it? You think I could be right?” Megan asked.
Charley and Krista seemed to consider Megan more than the question. She looked like a waif, her frail body wrapped in a blanket, her crown of thin peach fuzz spiked, her eyes huge against her emaciated face.
“And if you’re right?” Charley finally asked.
“Well,” Megan began, then stopped. “Well...” she tried again, but paused. “I suppose we could try to get them back together?”
“No!” Charley and Krista said in unison.
* * *
Charley was reflective after the pictures came out. She’d been at odds with her mother for at least thirty years. They started squabbling when she was about thirteen, which was textbook—pubescent girls and their mothers were famous for it. But then there was the baby and their bickering escalated into warfare. Nothing could make Charley so insane as to have someone say, You’re just too much alike!
But there was a time they’d been so close. Louise might’ve had a quick temper but Charley had loved her so much, admired her, thought her beautiful. Louise had been tall, athletic, strong, encouraging. It was Louise who taught her to swim, Louise who drove her to ice-skating lessons and sat on the bleachers and watched her moves. Louise had somehow gotten her through high school chemistry and algebra II. And Louise helped coach the cheerleading squad.
Charley remembered wanting to be like her mother—she was decisive, got things done, took charge. If not for Louise, two women and six kids could never have gotten to the lake every summer.
There were those times Charley curled up on the couch next to her mother to watch Cagney and Lacey and Magnum, P.I. and The Love Boat. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the softness of her mother’s turquoise velour robe. And while Louise divided her cuddle time with the other girls, Charley felt like her favorite. If she wanted to give Bunny a little extra time, she apologized to Charley. “I’m sorry, honey. Let Bunny sit by me for One Day at a Time. And after the younger girls go to bed, we’ll turn on Magnum.”
Charley would cuddle Meg or share a bowl of popcorn with her.
There were lots of those times until Charley hit thirteen and still quite a few after that. She was the firstborn of the lot, had the most confidence and the most responsibility. And she had loved her mother. She thought of her as a best friend. Louise was fearless and so strong and reliable. If Charley got sick it was Louise who knelt behind her in the bathroom and held her hair back. Louise made those midnight runs to the emergency room. Louise sat up until Charley was safely home. True, if she was late there was hell to pay, but now that she was a mother she understood—Louise couldn’t sleep until all her chicks were tucked in.
When Charley got pregnant she let Louise down. Her brilliant daughter had been trapped and Louise was furious. That was to be expected. But any compassion or understanding had been leached out of her by Bunny’s death.
And when Charley needed her mother the most, Louise sent her away.
Charley had had the thought a time or two of exploring the possibility that she and her mother could make peace, but the thoughts never lasted long. Louise was stubborn and bitter, still very angry. Charley had called her toxic.
Louise was also alone. For the last twenty-some years Charley talked to her every few months unless Louise called her, which was so rare it was laughable. It was usually to report something like Grandma Berkey broke her hip or some distant relative Charley couldn’t even remember had died. In fact, Louise hadn’t placed a call to Charley in the past seven years, but Charley dutifully called her every couple of months, sent her Mother’s Day, birthday and Christmas gifts. Louise sent a sausage and cheese gift basket at Christmas and an annual birthday card with twenty dollars in it. And when Charley did talk to her, who did her mother mention? Only Grandma or Megan. Charley had no idea who her mother’s friends were, though she’d played bridge with the same group of women for years. She didn’t date, though she’d been widowed for twenty-five years. At least, Charley didn’t think she did—who would date her? Megan and John had checked on her regularly, had her for dinner sometimes, up until the cancer.
Louise would die without them making peace. Charley had accepted that.
* * *
The first of June was ripening the flora and more activity could be seen at the lodge across the lake. The sun was coming up earlier; there were always fishermen out on the lake by the time the sun came up. There was one cold rain shower, cold enough that Charley put a couple of logs in the fireplace because Megan shivered. The three women sat on the same couch, sharing a blanket, listening to the crackle of the flames.
“I’m going to have to get a job of some kind,” Krista said. “If I can come up with a list of places to apply, will you give me a lift, Charley?” Krista asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Do you know what to look for?”
Krista shook her head. “Manual labor, I think. Washing dishes, cleaning hotel rooms, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll write you a letter of recommendation,” Charley said. “You must be nervous.”
“No,” Krista said. “I’m completely terrified.”
“I can imagine,” Charley said. “But do your best and do so knowing we’ll keep you afloat until you find the right thing.”
“There is no right thing. I hope to find anything. And I hope I don’t have to take you up on much of that,” she said. “I mean, I’m already wearing your underwear, for God’s sake.”
“You’re wearing Charley’s underwear?” Megan asked.
“Mine wasn’t up to her standards,” Krista said. “It kind of looked like twenty-five to life. Charley’s is exactly what you’d expect—pristine, perfect, bright white, flawless.”
Megan giggled.
“Before we get around to jobs and all that, before my mom or anyone else shows up for a visit, I wonder if we could do something. If it’s not upsetting to you, Meg. I want to know if our memories of a couple of things match.” She chewed her lip. “That morning, for starters. When we lost Bunny. I remember you brought Beverly in, Charley. You were the strongest swimmer. I know you remember.”
“Vividly. Meg?” Charley asked.
“That’s all I want,” Megan said. “You know, I’ve got nothing! Do you have any idea how awful it was having people shield me from the truth? Cleaning it up all the time?”
“I don’t want you upset. Your health...”
“My health needs some honesty. God above! Tell it, Charley. Tell it like it really happened, not the way you told me before, when I was a little crazy.”
“You weren’t crazy,” Charley said. “You were in shock!”
“Let’s have it,” Megan said.
* * *
A couple of weeks or so after Charley lost her virginity, she was awakened by a horrible, high-pitched scream. Then came many screams. Then yelling and hollering and door-slamming. “Beverly! Baby! Come on, baby! Beverly!”
Aunt Jo was in the water up to her knees in her nightgown, calling to Beverly, who clung to the overturned rowboat about a hundred feet from shore. Charley and the other girls all ran to the water’s edge. Louise was sprinting back and forth from the house to the shore, yelling, “Where’s Bunny? Where is Bunny?” She was looking inside, outside, in the boathouse, loft, shed, under the dock, everywhere. Their neighbor, Oliver, came over to see what was happening, but all the action was really onshore. In the early dawn, all they could see out there in the lake was a very still, overturned boat, surrounded by fog and the unmistakable bobbing of Beverly’s head.
Charley didn’t even think. She was the strongest swimmer. She ran into the water, dived and swam. It had stormed the night before and the water was like ice. She reached Beverly quickly. She was alone, silent, holding on to the side of the boat with one small, blue hand. Her eyes were fixed and dilated, her lips were purple edged, her teeth were chattering.
“Where...is...Bunny?” Charley asked breathlessly.
Beverly couldn’t respond.
“Beverly, can you swim back with me?” Charley asked. “Will you put your arms around my neck?” she begged. But Beverly wouldn’t let go of the boat. Charley could see that Beverly’s condition was poor—she was in shock and probably had hypothermia. She didn’t want to waste a lot of time trying to convince her to swim.
“Oliver!” Charley called. He was already approaching them in his little fishing boat.
They had a little trouble getting Beverly into Oliver’s boat, but once she was wrapped in a blanket, they tied a rope to the overturned rowboat and towed it in, too. There was no sign of Bunny anywhere.
Apparently the two littlest girls had grown adept at sneaking out. So adept that no one noticed, not their mothers, sisters or cousins. How many times they’d pulled their prank was unclear because Beverly was hardly talking at all. To anyone. All she said was, “We like to rock to sleep on the lake.” She was catatonic and had to be hospitalized.
The police, sheriff and fish-and-game people were all called, but it took days to recover Bunny’s body. They all stood at water’s edge again as divers brought in Bunny’s swollen, discolored, nibbled remains from the cold water. The baby of the family—Mary Verna—sweet Bunny was only twelve years old. Near as anyone could discern, Bunny had slipped from the boat during that nighttime storm but Beverly was somehow able to hang on. When the storm cleared as the sun rose, the boat was right in front of the house...close enough to have called for help or dog-paddle in.
Louise never cried. Charley thought about that often—she never cried. She had horrible black rings under her eyes, her lips were cracked and her face was gray, but she was dry of tears. When Aunt Jo embraced her to comfort her, Louise kept her arms locked at her sides and turned her face away. Aunt Jo kind of leaned back to look at Lou’s face, questioning this avoidance of affection. Then Charley heard Louise’s very quiet but vicious voice. “Somebody had to pay for what happened here this summer, and we damn sure know it wasn’t going to be you. It’s never you.”
Over twenty years later those words and the icy tone with which they were delivered could still make Charley shiver. She never understood what they meant.
Bunny was buried and the family was rocked to its core. The unraveling began immediately. Uncle Roy had already abandoned them and he never returned, leaving his family adrift and unsupported. Aunt Jo sank into a deep depression. Beverly slipped into some kind of psychosis and had been taken to a hospital. Krista started skipping school, shoplifting and hanging out with hoodlums. Hope left her miserable mother and hoodlum sister and moved in with Grandma Berkey and the judge. Louise was filled with rage. Megan withdrew from everyone and seemed to hum quietly to herself all the time. All the time. Like she was off her rocker, too.
Charley couldn’t do anything to help her family. She was struggling as much as the rest of them and she needed her mother, but Louise was not emotionally available. Charley waited as long as she could, hoping to find Louise alone, receptive and of stable frame of mind.
“Mom?” Charley said one day in October. She had looked for the right moment and even now it didn’t seem right but she couldn’t wait any longer. “Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Louise looked at Charley over the top of her sewing machine. She had immediately cleared out Bunny’s room and set up her sewing there. She sewed from morning to night—clothes, curtains, place mats, slipcovers, pillowcases, aprons. Things no one wanted or needed.
“Mom, I have a problem. A really big one,” Charley said, then hung her head and looked at her feet.
Some instinct must have propelled Louise out of her chair. She came around the machine and stood in front of Charley.
Charley took a deep breath and lifted her head. She looked into her mother’s eyes and said it. “Mom, I’m pregnant.”
For a moment the storm simply gathered in Louise’s gray eyes and then, like a shot, her hand came from nowhere and slapped Charley across the face. The sting temporarily blinded her.
“How could you,” Louise shouted. “How could you do this to me!”
* * *
“Is that how you remember it?” Charley asked Krista very softly, a catch in her voice.
“Pretty much,” she said. “I didn’t hear what our mothers said to each other. For a long time I thought my mother must have loved Bunny more than her own kids. She seemed oblivious to us—we were hitting the skids. Especially me. I think I get it now.”
“What’s there to get?”
“Something else happened here that summer. Something Louise blamed my mom for. She couldn’t have possibly blamed my mom for Bunny’s death. No one was at fault there—it was a terrible accident.”
“Can you ask your mom?”
“Eventually,” Krista said. “I have a lot to atone for before I’m going to be trusted with secrets. You okay, Meg?” she asked.
Meg wiped her eyes. “I’m happy,” she said.
“How can that possibly make you happy?” Charley asked. “It’s a horror story!”
“It’s the real story,” Meg said. “Not the tidied-up version.”
“It is that,” Charley said. “And that’s when Mother really changed. Louise was never easy. In fact, she was damn difficult at times. She always had an ugly temper.”
“But not around Aunt Jo,” Megan reminded her.
“That’s why summers were so great,” Charley said in a somewhat reverent breath. “Aside from some occasional bickering, there was no craziness. I used to like my mother.”
“I loved Aunt Lou,” Krista said. “She was strong and brave.”
“And funny,” Charley said. “So funny she’d have us all wetting our pants.”
“And decisive,” Meg said. “No matter what came up, she knew what she wanted to do. She never hesitated.”
“It’s like all the good parts of Louise were sucked right out of her,” Charley said. Then more quietly: “I used to depend on my mother. I used to love her. But when I needed her most she turned on me.”