I get out of my chair and cross the room to Marley. “I have the same dream,” I tell her. “The woman on the ground. The flash of a gun. Me, screaming. Only in my dream, it’s you I’m being torn away from.”
We stand there, face-to-face, looking at each other, and then the barrier between us shatters. We both move at the same time, arms around each other, cheeks pressed together, holding on for dear life to what feels like the missing half of what I’ve always needed to be whole.
“I hate to interrupt this fairy tale,” Boots says, his voice dripping sarcasm, “but would you all mind clearing out of my house?”
Marley’s body stiffens at the sound of his voice. She moves out of our embrace, but her hand finds mine, and our fingers clasp, joining us together as we both turn to face him.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“I see no point. You’ve judged me. Anything I can say that will change that?”
His gaze moves from my face to hers and back again. “I thought not. Get me another beer before you go, will you? And be sure to close the door behind you.”
“You can get your own beer,” Marley says. “You’re on your own. You might think about getting up off your ass and finding somebody to buy your groceries. I won’t be back.”
She tugs at my hand and leads me out of that smoke-filled cesspit and into the light of a beautiful spring afternoon.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It’s three days shy of a month after Mom’s funeral when a teenager walks up the sidewalk to the front door. I open the door with a smile, expecting some sort of pitch for a school fund-raiser.
“Maisey Addington?” she asks.
“That’s me,” I say, before I can wonder how she knows my name. She holds out a manila envelope, and I take it before I register that there is no catalogue full of chocolate or popcorn. As soon as it’s in my hand, she trots down the driveway and takes off on her bicycle without looking back.
I know what’s going to be inside that envelope before I tear it open.
Greg has drawn the case up himself. He is suing for full custody of Elle. He takes several pages to lay out my unfitness to be a parent. By the time I’m done reading the accusations against me, I’m inclined to put Elle on a bus and refrain from even visiting.
But Greg hasn’t counted on my family. Or his timing. The revelation of what Boots did to my mother, and to Marley, and to me, is still fresh, and we’re all full of fight in need of an outlet.
“What happened?”
Marley comes out onto the porch and plops down beside me. She’s got this sixth sense that tells her when I’m upset about something. I’ve got the same thing about her. It’s fascinating how this works, given how we didn’t cultivate some special twin radar growing up. But it’s there anyway.
I hand her the papers, and she starts reading through them, cursing all the way.
“What an absolute piece-of-shit asshole,” she says.
“Who is a piece-of-shit asshole?” Elle asks, behind us.
Marley and I exchange a glance made up of chagrin on her part and panic on mine. The language isn’t the issue. I don’t want Elle to know about this. She can’t know.
But Marley turns around and says, quite calmly, “Your father, honey.”
Elle drops onto the step below me, where she can look up at both of us. “What’s he done now?” she asks, with deceptive calm.
“She’s going to have to know sooner or later,” Marley says. “Might as well get it over with.”
This is the problem with logical, decision-making people. I would have run off with the papers, made up a lie. Protected my daughter as long as I could. But it’s too late for any of that now, so I let her read the papers.
Meanwhile, Marley is busy laying out battle strategy. “Of course we’ll fight this. Doesn’t Walter have an attorney? Maybe that Tony guy has some connections. He’s a firefighter, right? They’re tight with the cops. We need a judge we can corrupt. Or—”
“Don’t I get any say in this?”
Elle’s voice stops us cold. She lays the envelope on the step and the papers on top of it, squaring them all precisely before she looks up at me.
Her face looks remote, her eyes cold, and my heart freezes. What if I’ve been delusional all this time? What if the things Greg says about me as a parent are true, and Elle would rather live with him?
“You might,” I tell her, tuned to her reaction. “I’m sure the judge will ask. But that’s probably not the deciding factor.”
“Well that’s just stupid,” she says. “This whole thing is stupid.”
“Elle. He’s your father.”
She stares at me. “What the hell? You’re going to give me the respect-your-father lecture now, when he’s pulled this shit? Then you’re just stupid, too.”
I freeze, mouth hanging open, not sure whether I should begin with the swearing or the disrespect to her father or her disrespect to me.
Marley, on the other hand, applauds her. “Attagirl,” she says. “No abusive asshole is ever going to hoodwink you.” Before I can remonstrate, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “Maisey, go easy. You think the girl doesn’t know any swear words? If there was ever a time to say them, this is it. Also, if you believe one word of that trash he wrote about you, then Elle is right. You are stupid.”
Between the two of them, on top of what I’ve just read, I’m pretty much incapacitated. Elle comes to sit beside me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have called you stupid.”
I put an arm around her, and she leans her head on my shoulder. “I love him,” she says. “But I don’t understand him. And I want to stay with you.”
Her words thaw the frozen place inside me. I plant a kiss on top of her sun-warm hair, breathe in the smell of her—shampoo and soap and cotton. In that moment, all my rationalizations flee. To hell with the notion that a girl needs her father. If he’s going to behave himself, sure. But she doesn’t need to grow up believing it’s okay to be discounted, belittled, slapped for having opinions.
I’ll run away with her, if I have to.
Dad, as it happens, has an attorney and invites him over for battle planning. Geoff Jenkins is about my father’s age, but there’s nothing of softness in his eyes or his face. He carries himself erect and with confidence and declines the slice of pizza Elle offers him.
“This is not a social call,” he says. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get right to business.”
“Hang on a sec,” I say. “Marley?” She understands what I’m asking without me saying the words.
“Come on, Elle. Pizza is better outside.”
Elle looks torn. “Maybe I should stay here.”
“You need to go,” I tell her. “Please, Elle.” I say please, but she knows I mean it and will insist. To my relief she doesn’t push the issue. Maybe she doesn’t want to be caught in the middle any more than I want her to be there.
“All right,” she says, finally. “But don’t try to pretend you’re not just getting rid of me. You sure you don’t want any, Mr. Jenkins?”
“I’m sure. Thank you.”
As soon as the door closes, Dad turns to him. “Well? What do you think, Geoff?”
“I think we have a good case. Custody tends to favor the mother, and Maisey has been the custodial parent from the beginning. The parents are not and never have been married. In addition, I took the liberty of pulling the original parenting plan. It was filed here. So we’ll start with the request that the venue be here in Colville.”
“Is that likely?” I ask. “Greg is an attorney and has connections.”
“And I am an attorney and also have connections,” Geoff says drily. “I also have the advantage of older and deeper connections than his. I suspect the judge will not be interested in a change of venue.”
I absorb this information with the first real glimmer of hope I’ve felt since being served the court order.
Geoff continues. “Your job is to collect written statements from teachers and friends who are likely to feel you’ve done a good job parenting your daughter. Is his name on the birth certificate?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, scribbling. “Any chance she might be someone else’s child?” He peers up at me over his glasses.