Heather(9)
Opal puts herself between Damien and Callie, pulls on Callie’s arm with her sticky hand. “Come on, Auntie Cal. Let’s go!”
* * *
Upstairs in the bathtub Callie floats yellow plastic boats on the surface of the water, uses foam letters to spell out AUNT and CAT and DOG against the green tile.
“Mommy is going to get better one day.”
“She’s already much better, isn’t she? She’s really strong. You should be proud of her. She’s working so hard to get better for you.”
“She still has to use a chair in the shower.”
“That’s true. But she won’t need it forever.”
Don’t look, Jane had said about her scars the last time Callie helped wash her hair. Callie had been tempted to tell her that the injuries didn’t unnerve her, but Jane’s voice had sounded so uncharacteristically small that Callie had only said okay.
Sounds rise from the entryway: the creak of the front door, Frank and Lorraine greeting Damien and Jane. At the sound of her grandparents Opal jumps up so fast her feet nearly slide out from under her, and Callie barely manages to catch her under the arm, keep her from smacking her head against the lip of the tub, her little body soap-slick and slippery. The moment passes in a half second and Opal is fine, unfazed, but Callie’s heart races.
As she catches her breath, runs a towel over Opal’s narrow shoulders, she wonders if this is what Baby Doe’s mother felt when she left her child behind. How dangerous it was to love someone so small, so vulnerable and prone to harm. How she might have looked at the baby and her only thought was I can’t.
* * *
She’s putting the bath toys away while Opal stands on a step stool at the sink, squeezing a tube of toothpaste into a dixie cup, when she hears another voice. A man’s voice, but not Damien’s and not Frank’s.
It must be Luke.
“Shit,” she says, not realizing she’s spoken out loud until Opal peers over at her, a conspiratorial glow in her eyes.
“Oh god, Opal. Sorry! I—Ugh. Don’t tell your parents, okay?”
The hint of collusion pleases Opal even more. “I’m really good at secrets,” she says, and holds her little finger out to Callie. Pinkie swear.
Opal leads her to her bedroom and Callie is relieved that Opal takes a long time picking out her pajamas—more time for Callie to steel herself.
During Jane and Damien’s wedding weekend, Luke, Damien’s older brother, had been strange around Callie, alternately solicitous and aloof. As soon as she thought she was making inroads with him—landing a joke, exchanging a knowing glance as Lorraine straightened the already perfect flower arrangements in the reception hall—in the next conversation he’d find an excuse to refresh his drink. When they were meant to walk together as a part of the recessional he wouldn’t put his arm through hers, just held out a hand for her to walk ahead of him. Then, he asked her to dance as the band started up. His hands were firm on her back, but as soon as the song ended he turned away from her.
Opal gets herself into her pajamas, then goes skidding down the stairs shouting for her grandparents, leaving Callie to catch up. When she walks into the dining room she’s glad to see Jane sitting at the table. She pauses behind her chair, smooths the back of Jane’s hair where it’s tangled from the hours on the couch.
“Thank you,” she says, gripping Callie’s hand in hers for a second. “No one else was going to tell me I looked like a hot mess, huh?”
Damien comes in carrying a salad bowl. “Janie, you’re recovering. No one cares what you look like.”
“I care,” Jane snaps. “I need to feel like I’m a person and not just another lump on the shitty sofa.”
“That shitty sofa cost four grand because you insisted on a sectional.”
“Stop fighting! You guys always fight,” Opal protests.
Lorraine smooths a napkin across her lap. Even Frank, used to conflict in his work, looks adrift, uncomfortable, and crooks a finger at Opal, bends to whisper in her ear. Across the table from Jane, Luke takes a sip of his beer and raises his eyebrows at Callie.
Callie tells herself to get it over with. And someone has to break the tension, shift the conversation. “Good to see you, Luke.”
“How goes it, Hauser?”
She does her best to hold his gaze.
At the reception she eventually lost count of how many glasses of Pinot Grigio she had. She had passed Luke on her way back from the restroom and clumsily reached for his hand. She had never been with an older guy, but Jane looked so happy all night, and whether it was the booze or the forlorn feeling of being left behind, Callie was strangely, liberatingly, not herself. She was never that brazen with men but she wanted to know, one way or another, how he felt about her. Was she offensive, repulsive? Was she worthy, wanted?
She had pulled him toward her.
He dropped her hand and walked away without a word.
She figured that moving back here, spending so much time at the house, would mean a run-in sooner or later. Luke runs a plant nursery twenty minutes south. He’s still unmarried, no kids, older than Damien by four years. He must be in his mid-fifties by now. As he turns his head to watch Opal dance to “Baby Shark” she sees that he’s got some threads of gray in his eyebrows, at his temples. It suits him.