Charlie and I loved attending estate sales and snapping up furniture, clothing, and kitchen stuff. We were both moved by peeking into what remained of a home when the owners had passed. I’d once bought four tubes of unopened, frosted lipstick, and Charlie, a skeleton that must have been used in a doctor’s office to point out spine deformities. How strange, I’d said to Charlie, to put price tags on everything you’d accumulated.
Nothing in our Oak Glen home was worth much at all…though I had pilfered my mother’s measuring spoons, feeling sentimental as I was jamming stuff in my backpack on my way out of town. The metal spoons were a bit rusty, but I treasured them. By the time I’d left, my mother no longer cooked anyway. I wondered if she’d even noticed they were missing.
Sometimes, I thought about emailing my mom, or calling her. Sending a postcard? I didn’t even know if she was alive. And then there was my sister, Darla. She would be nineteen now, likely lost the way most of us kids on the Cape got lost, our frustration assuaged by getting pregnant, taking drugs, or both. I had taken care of Darla like a mother before I left. Who had cared for her when I was gone? When I thought about her—acknowledged how much Charlie looked like her, especially his red hair—I felt a searing pain.
Why not go back to visit Falmouth? Charlie was fifteen, grown and intelligent. Maybe knowing my mom and Darla would be good for him. About once a year, after a wine-filled evening, I googled my mom’s name, Darla, and Patrick. I never found anything, not even on Facebook.
Besides, I didn’t want Charlie feeling （like I did, every day） as if he didn’t belong in our bright life. Bringing him to that trailer park, poisoning him with the knowledge that his dad was an addict, that his biological family was poor and struggling…no. I had worked so hard to get us here. I didn’t want to look back. I didn’t want him to know I was white trash. I didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to be Liza Bailey.
If I really examine it, there’s also a part of me that was afraid Charlie would love his dad. Maybe Patrick was better, maybe he was better than me. Maybe he lived in a fancy apartment in Beacon Hill, and Charlie would choose to join him and leave me. What would I have then?
I couldn’t afford plane tickets anyway, and Charlie was not the type of kid who traveled on smelly, long-haul Greyhounds.
At our kitchen table, Charlie seemed distracted. “Mom?” he asked.
“Try the soup,” I answered.
Charlie swallowed, seemingly weighing a decision. I knew—I knew—he had something to tell me. I think now, Jesus, Christ! Ask him what he wants to say! I can’t explain why I didn’t. Why I couldn’t. It was a wall of blue fear, making my mouth dry, keeping me silent. I just wanted things to go on as they had been. I just didn’t want him to speak any words that would end our dream of a life.
Charlie looked at me pleadingly. I turned away, toward the stove. Eventually, as I had hoped, he returned to himself. He picked up a spoon and took a bite. “It’s awesome, Mom,” he said, his voice a bit flat, false.
I exhaled. “Really? You like the soup?” I said, my voice reedy, a bit hysterical.
“I was dubious,” said Charlie. “But yum.”
I laughed, then startled when a voice from the front hall said, “How come my kids don’t know words like dubious?” I looked up to see Whitney stepping into my kitchen.
“Smells amazing in here.” Whitney grinned. She wore exercise clothes, a visor in her black hair. “Can I have some? I just finished a paddle on Lady Bird Lake,” she said, opening a cabinet and taking a bowl, ladling soup. She joined us at the table. I loved how at home she was in my kitchen, like a sister.
“Um, I better get going. I have an eight-mile today, and then I’ll be at Barton Springs,” said Charlie. He lifted his bowl and finished every drop of his kao tom goong. “Mom, can we drive tonight?” he asked.
“Reverse parking on Congress and then Home Slice?” I said. Home Slice was our favorite pizza joint; we always split a pear gorgonzola salad, pepperoni and mushroom pie, and garlic knots.
“Awesome,” said Charlie, leaning in to give me a hug from behind. His smell, his smell. I closed my eyes to savor it.
“Maybe Roma could join you guys at the springs?” said Whitney.
“Um, yeah, maybe,” said Charlie. “OK, bye, Mom. Thanks for the shrimp soup.” He touched his toes, then slammed out the door and down Oak Glen. His eight-mile would wind him through the neighborhood, then up Lamar to the University of Texas and back again.
Whitney smiled. “What a sweetie,” she said.
“He is,” I said, grinning despite myself. I added quickly, “So are yours!”
“Do you have any of that amazing cinnamon coffee? I’m dying,” said Whitney.
My Mr. Coffee was empty. I felt a tension in my jaw and almost wanted to say, “Sorry, I don’t.” But I swallowed my annoyance and stood. “Let me just make a fresh pot,” I said.
“I love you,” said Whitney, lifting her phone to check her messages while I ground the beans from my Costco-sized bag, breathing evenly to dispel my irritation. I was barefoot, still in red-and-green-plaid Christmas pajamas.
I tidied up the kitchen while I waited for the coffee to brew, making notes on Sam’s “breakfast soup” recipe, which maybe needed something to make it sweeter for American palates.
When the pot was full, I retrieved one of the two nice mugs I’d found in the sale room in the back of the Anthropologie store, filled it, and brought it to Whitney with one Splenda and a dollop of milk.
Whitney sipped, still not looking up from her phone. “Mmm, perfect,” she said. Whitney loved being cared for, and she did look after me as well. If sometimes it felt as if she treated me like staff, I could live with that. Wasn’t I using her, too, in my own way? Would I still love her if she were poor, or less influential, less glamorous? I liked to think I would, but I couldn’t know for sure.
As Whitney scrolled on her phone, I tried to think of a way to say, Are you hiring me a lawyer? If I coddle you and make you coffee, will you take care of me and Charlie?
Whitney began tapping an email. I was silent, all the words I wanted to speak forming a ball in my gut. Or maybe it was the spicy soup.
Finally, Whitney put her phone down. “I’m scared,” she said.
“What?” I said. I hadn’t ever heard her say these words before.
“Can you promise to keep a secret?” said Whitney.
“Of course,” I said. “You know you can trust me.”
“I do know,” she said. “And by the way, we need to talk about a lawyer for Charlie. I haven’t forgotten. But this…I don’t know where to…who to tell. But I can’t…I don’t know what to do. Jules won’t…he refuses…” Whitney’s face transformed before my eyes. Her polished veneer cracked, and she looked almost feral. It was such a dramatic transformation that I wondered if it was fake. I had a strange feeling, as if Whitney was acting.
“I’m only telling you,” she said, putting her hand on mine.
“What is it?” I said. “You’re scaring me.”