“Where’s Jonathan?” Law squints at me.
“He left a little bit ago.” I jog across the lawn to take the brown paper bag my mom offers, and shift it to one arm so I have room for another. She loads me up again and we fall in step on our way to the house. Law’s hands are free, so he lengthens his stride and swings open the door for us.
“What do you mean, he left?”
“It’s no big deal. We were almost done anyway.” The air-conditioning hits me like a splash of cool water. I set my bags on the kitchen table and lean against the counter to drink it in.
“But where did he go?”
I’ve turned this conversation over and over in my mind. I knew Law would ask and I knew I would have to come up with an acceptable answer. But lying is tricky, so I decide to keep it simple and true. “Cal and Beth needed help with something.”
He’s obviously frustrated, but to his credit, Law doesn’t say anything. In fact, he reaches into one of the bags and starts unloading groceries.
I have never had to wonder if Lawrence loves my mother. They don’t hug or kiss in front of Jonathan and me—for which I am eternally grateful—but he’s gentle with her. He makes her tea when she’s busy with her strings lessons, carefully setting the cup on the closed top of the baby grand piano in the sunroom turned music hall. Law even knows not to set the hot mug on the pretty walnut stain of the piano, and always makes sure to use a folder or some sheet music as a coaster. And he rubs her shoulders when she’s tense, his huge hands dwarfing her tiny frame but somehow managing to be gentle enough that she closes her eyes and sighs.
I know that Law is a good husband. He’s just not much of a father. Sometimes I get the feeling he wishes it was just Lawrence & Rebecca instead of The Baker Family. I get it: I’m not his real daughter. And we don’t have much in common. I’m chatty and quick to laugh, determined and independent. Law’s quiet and reserved, and he relies on Mom for everything from his fried eggs before work in the morning （three, over easy, with edges crisped brown in butter） to laundry and directions. When we drive somewhere together, he waits for her to say: “Turn right, Lawrence. And then the next left.” They hardly go anywhere without each other. Law is huge, I’m small. He’s rough around the edges and clumsy and provincial. I long for the twinkle of city lights.
My expectations are low when it comes to my stepdad. But it always surprises me when Law fumbles his relationship with Jonathan.
“When will he be back?” Law asks as he rearranges things in the refrigerator.
“Didn’t say.”
“Text him and find out.”
I’d like to point out that I’m not my brother’s keeper, but I’d earn myself a nugget of Law’s ever-ready wisdom and I’m not in the mood. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and tap:
Home soon? Everything okay?
The reply comes quicker than I expected.
Heading to the Murphys. Home later.
How’s Cal?
But Jonathan never responds.
“Home soon,” I tell Law, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
He’s done in the refrigerator and closes it with a thud. “I need him to help me reset the fence.”
“So go get him,” Mom says. She puts down the towel that she was using to wipe the counter. “I’ll go with you.”
“Forget it.”
“I wouldn’t mind picking up a jar of their blueberry-rhubarb jam—”
“I said no. I’ll do it myself.” Law walks away, and in a moment I hear the side door open, and then the accompanying slam.
“What was that all about?”
But Mom just stands there, worrying the edge of the dishtowel with her fingers. Her hands are the hands of a seventy-year-old, and the only part of her body that matches her husband. “Dirt and water and babies,” she told me once. “My hands were ruined by the three elements.” She doesn’t say anything now.
“You okay?” I ask for what seems like the hundredth time today. Jonathan is not okay, and Cal is not okay. Clearly Law is in a huff, and Mom looks like she might burst into tears. I feel like I am on the outside looking in, trapped behind glass as the world explodes before me. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Or why.
When she doesn’t answer, I finally say: “Want me to pick up a jar of that jam?” I have no idea if the Murphys’ stand is open—I’d doubt it, considering they were just at the clinic—but I can pull strings. Jonathan once showed me where Cal kept the little brass key to the stone building （behind a loose rock just beneath the farthest windowsill）， and I have no problem letting myself in and leaving behind some money for a jar of the blueberry-rhubarb my mother loves. Suddenly I want to do this for her so badly I can hardly stand it. She looks wistful, and I want to fill whatever hole is making her heart ache. I wonder if this is what Law feels when he crushes mint for her tea.