Читать книгу The Babysitter - Nancy Bush - Страница 9

Chapter Three

It took two weeks for Jamie to put things together, sell her already secondhand furniture, ship necessary items to River Glen, and generally wrap up her life in Los Angeles. When she was finished, she was surprised at how little there really was to do to effect the move. She’d thought Harley might object to being yanked out of school when the school year had barely begun, but she was completely sanguine and almost eager for the move, if you could even use the word “eager” when describing the teenager. Resistant, recalcitrant, suspicious, and reluctant were better adjectives.

However, Jamie had overheard a snippet of conversation between Harley and a friend, and it appeared that a boy Harley had been interested in had been seen with one of Harley’s friends. “It doesn’t matter, I’m leaving,” Harley had told the person on the other end of the call. “They can do whatever the hell they want.”

So maybe that was the reason Jamie hadn’t heard one word of flak. As soon as she’d announced that they were moving back to Oregon, Harley had started packing up, as if she’d just been waiting for her mother to make that decision.

They stuffed the Camry to the gills and drove straight through, almost sixteen hours from Los Angeles to River Glen, taking a few bathroom stops and two turnoffs for fast food drive-throughs. Harley, who was flirting with vegetarianism, had fallen on her Big Mac like a ravenous wolf, and Jamie had hidden a faint smile and done the same. They were in crisis, of a sort. They could get back to being their better selves once they were home.

Home.

As the miles passed beneath the Camry’s balding tires, Jamie’s thoughts hovered around her mother and Emma and the events of eighteen years earlier. The guilt she’d felt upon leaving, which had been a constant companion, was magnified a thousand times. Though she knew none of it was her fault, like always, she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. If she hadn’t wanted to go to the Stillwell party so badly, if she hadn’t switched her babysitting job with Emma, if she hadn’t raced off to her new life with Paul so eagerly, almost maniacally, maybe all their lives would have been substantially better.

Except now Mom was dead. She’d died on the very night Jamie—and Harley, apparently—had received those eerily creepy messages of her death. Irene Whelan was a victim of heart failure, according to Emma, who was very short on serious information. Jamie managed to connect with Theo Reskett, from the Thrift Shop, but she, too, had been kept in the dark about Mom’s deteriorating health.

“Emma never said a word,” Theo revealed. “You’d think she would have told me, but she never said a word about your mother.”

No one had told Jamie either that Mom was ailing from heart disease and had been for a while.

But then, you didn’t ask, did you? You didn’t want to know.

That wasn’t exactly true . . . she had wanted to know. She just hadn’t wanted to be sucked into a conversation with Mom, or even Emma, that would go round and round and only serve to exacerbate her guilt, which it invariably did.

Theo owned and managed Theo’s Thrift Shop, Emma’s place of employment ever since she’d recovered from the attack that nearly killed her. Since Mom’s death, Theo had stepped in and stayed with Emma, though Emma had insisted that she was fully capable of taking care of herself, which was almost true, except it wasn’t. Emma left alone was a little like leaving a teenager in charge of a house while the parents were away. Most things might be taken care of, maybe all, but there was also the chance of serious problems erupting, bad choices being made. Emma, nearing forty, had the mind of a twelve-year-old . . . maybe. She’d regressed after the attack and had never fully moved forward developmentally since.

“I see his eyes!” she still cried whenever she was stressed. Mom had told Jamie that much. When she was still living with her sister and mother, Jamie had tried and tried to learn what that meant, but pressing Emma had only increased her fear and distress, and Mom had angrily told Jamie to back off. Though Emma’s hysteria had diminished in the years after the attack, her attacks of fear almost gone by the time Jamie left with Paul, they’d never completely disappeared.

Now, as she and Harley reached the outskirts of River Glen, Jamie drew a calming breath. She hadn’t seen Emma in nearly two years and was anxious about meeting her again and the living arrangements that would need to be made. Emma needed a caretaker, and that caretaker had been Mom. Now it was going to be Jamie, at least for the time being. It was hard to know what to expect next, impossible to plan. Jamie was going to have to take things day by day.

But one thing was for certain, at least in Jamie’s mind, and that was that she was going to fulfill all requirements needed for her to get her teaching license in Oregon. She was duty bound to be in the state at least for a while, and though substituting was fine, Jamie really needed a full-time job. She’d made a point of lamming out all those years ago, but she felt almost glad to “come home” as her mother had requested in her dream . . . and Harley’s. . . .

Jamie shook that off. She and Harley had left for Oregon in the early hours of the morning and now, as they reached the outskirts of River Glen, it was about six p.m. Harley, who’d been half-sleeping most of the trip, suddenly straightened in the passenger seat. Her long, dark hair was tangled and she brushed it away from her face. A soft smattering of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose and her blue eyes were intense, a gift from Paul as Jamie’s eyes were brown. Paul had called her his “Little Doe” or sometimes, “my brown-eyed girl,” other times “Raggedy Bitch,” or even more often, “What the fuck, Jamie?” which was how she most often remembered him and their relationship. A sad truth.

“That’s the Stillwell place,” Jamie said as they drove past the entrance to the long drive that led to Race and Deon Stillwell’s home. She’d learned from her friend, Camryn, whose contact with Jamie was mostly through Christmas cards, that both of the Stillwell parents were gone and the two sons had apparently inherited Stillwell Seed and Feed and still lived in the family home.

Harley peered down the long, passing drive that wound through the hedges and out of sight. Only the roof of the house could be glimpsed from the road. “That’s where you were the night Emma was stabbed.”

“Yes,” Jamie said soberly. She always felt that same stab of guilt. Maybe she deserved it. Mom had never hidden her feelings about how she felt about Jamie’s switch with Emma, and she’d never been afraid to talk about that night in front of Harley, even when Jamie had protested.

“It’s really too bad,” said Harley.

Jamie silently agreed.

“But if things hadn’t happened that way, I wouldn’t be here. You would have never run off with Dad.”

Jamie wasn’t sure whether that was an olive branch or a jab of some kind. Or maybe it was neither. Just Harley relating what was on her mind. “Hard to say.”

They drove into River Glen proper. The downtown area was made up of restored storefronts and a central square. It looked better now, Jamie decided. Fresh paint on the buildings and crosswalks. A new set of traffic lights. Modern city meters that allowed for credit card payments. A row of Kelly-green motorbikes, which she saw were rentals, the kind you could take around town and exchange for another.

“Wow,” Harley said in surprise, staring at the bikes.

“I know, right? I thought those were only in large cities, like Portland.”

“How old do you have to be?”

“Sixteen, I’m sure, at least. With a license.”

“Damn.”

Jamie would have berated her for swearing, as she automatically did as a matter of course, but they were turning onto Clifford Street, the street she’d grown up on, and she could see the outlines of her mother’s house. She glided to a stop on the opposite side of the street, taking her measure of it. The maple trees lining the street had grown, and the dogwood in the center of the front yard still had a few green leaves. Autumn hadn’t gained its harshest grip yet.

An older, green Chrysler minivan was parked on the street in front of the house, its side stenciled with Theo’s Thrift Shop and a phone number. Theo was eager to pass off her increased caretaker responsibilities to Jamie.

“Aren’t you going to pull in?” Harley’s blue eyes regarded Jamie critically.

“Yeah . . .”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just kind of . . . strange.”

“’Cause Grandma’s gone.” She said it with a nod, as if she understood completely, though there was no way for Harley to grasp the intricacies of Jamie’s relationship with her mother. Jamie had trouble grasping those complexities herself sometime. She’d resented her mother, especially for blaming her, but she’d loved her, too. Fiercely. Which had made Mom’s anger at her all the harder to accept.

“All right,” Jamie said now, and cranked the wheel, aiming the Camry toward the driveway. They bumped along the cracked asphalt, and Jamie pulled up in front of the garage door. “Leave everything for now. Let’s just go inside.”

Harley followed Jamie up the back steps. Jamie wondered if the keys to the house were still in the backyard gnome. One of these days she was going to have to find out, but for now, she just banged on the door.

She heard a dog barking, small, excited yips, and she and Harley exchanged a glance. While Irene Whelan had been alive, there had been no pets.

“Dogs dig up gardens,” Mom had said.

“We don’t have to have a dog,” Jamie had argued. “How about a cat?”

“No.”

Even Emma had tried to persuade their mother. “A small dog. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get into the garden.”

“No.” Mom had been adamant. Emma had started wheedling, but for once, Mom was proof against Jamie’s older sister’s tactics. No dog. No cat. No pets.

Emma came to the back door, throwing the lock and yanking it inward. “Hi, Jamie. Hi, Harley,” she said in her monotone way.

Emma’s hair had grown out to her shoulders, the light brown tresses darker and streaked with gray. She blinked at the bangs hanging in her eyes, but didn’t brush them aside. Her shirt was light-and-darker-gray-striped, the tails hanging over a pair of black sweatpants. Her feet were in once-white sneakers that had seen better days.

“Good to see you, Emma,” Jamie said, sounding somewhat stiff, not how she wanted to come off.

Harley said, “Hello, I—” just as a black-and-white streak of fluff shot from the front of the house and swarmed their feet, nearly tumbling down the back steps in its haste to greet them. A small dog of indiscriminate breed, Jamie determined, its bright, beady eyes nearly obscured by a thatch of white-and-black fur that fell forward, much like Emma’s bangs.

“How cute!” Harley cried, reaching for the animal. It lithely sidestepped her attempts to catch it and started barking madly, as if it suddenly decided it was a watchdog pointing out an intruder.

“That’s Dummy,” said Emma.

“Dummy?” Jamie repeated.

“He has a stupid name, so I call him Dummy,” she explained as they entered the house. “He’s Theo’s.”

“I saw her van outside,” said Jamie. Harley was still trying to corral the speeding dog.

“It’s the Thrift Shop van,” corrected Emma.

“Yes . . . well . . .” Jamie was reminded how everything had to be precise with her sister.

They followed Emma inside, with “Dummy” squirreling after them, squeezing between their legs, nearly tripping them, then shooting forward like a dart when Theo, who’d been in the living room, ducked her head around the corner so they could see her.

“Oh, we’ve been waiting for you!” she declared, unable to hide her relief. She’d called Jamie several times, urging her to hurry home, but Jamie had been unable to get here any sooner than she had.

Theo’s hair was a mop of gray curls and she wore a pair of half-glasses at the tip of her nose. She was in jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt open over a black T-shirt.

“I saw the van outside,” said Jamie.

“That thing is on its last legs. Truly. I don’t know what I’m gonna do when it’s gone, but that day is coming.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” said Emma.

“I know, doll.” Theo smiled indulgently at her.

With what money? Jamie almost asked, but she knew that would be a waste of time. Emma’s reality was Emma’s reality.

Harley asked, “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Bartholomew,” Theo said. “He charged to the back door before I could catch him.”

“Dummy,” Emma said with a nod, as if her point were proved.

“He’s so cute!” said Harley.

“Yes, well. He’s a charmer.” Theo made eye contact with the dog and shook her head, which caused “Dummy” to dance around on his hind legs and bark some more. “Oh, stop it,” Theo said with a wave of her hand, but she was smiling indulgently all the same. “I’ve got to go. I laid out some dinner for you. Nothing much. Just wanted you to have something when you got here. That’s quite a drive, isn’t it? I’m no good in a car that long.”

“I’m no good in a car that long,” repeated Emma.

Bartholomew had started growling, but Jamie thought it might be a good-natured, playful kind of noise. At least she hoped it was.

“Come here, you,” Theo said, swiftly moving to grasp the dog’s collar before he could shoot away, which he’d definitely gathered himself to do. She dragged him forward until she could get her arms around him. “Okay, now. Stop wiggling, you little beast.” Over her shoulder as she headed toward the front door she said, “I’m going to leave and give you all some peace.”

“You’re going to leave us?” Emma asked, alarmed.

“Your sister’s here now, Emma.” Theo regarded Emma soberly, making eye contact. “I’ll see you at the store.”

“But you’re coming back?”

“No . . . not here, to your house. Jamie and her daughter are here. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” She peered at Harley, who was still enamored with the dog.

“Harley,” said Jamie.

“Oh, yeah. Hi,” said Harley.

“Harley. How could I forget? I won’t forget again. It’s memorable. I gave the lawyer your number. I told you that, right? I have his number on my desk and I’ll text it to you.”

“He called me,” Jamie assured her. “I’m meeting with him on Monday.”

“Oh, good.” She hesitated, holding the dog close to her side as he was wont to wriggle free. “You need anything else . . . ?”

“I think we’re okay. Thanks, Theo,” Jamie said, meaning it.

She gave Jamie a sad smile. “It’s been a hard month,” she admitted. “Take care.”

When she was gone, there was a moment of silence. Harley was looking through the front windows wistfully, her eyes on the dog. Emma seemed kind of shell-shocked. Clearly she hadn’t expected Theo to leave her with, well, a family that were mostly strangers to her.

She swiped at her bangs, said, “Mom always cut my hair.”

“I’ll get you to a stylist,” Jamie said.

“I can do it,” said Harley. “I can cut your bangs and trim up your hair.”

“Since when?” asked Jamie.

“Since . . . about now. I’ve cut some girls’ hair at school.”

“I don’t think—”

“Okay,” said Emma, and walked toward the small dining set off the kitchen.

“Right now?” Harley was surprised.

“No time like the present,” Emma said succinctly. Another Mom-ism.

Harley looked happy. “Okay.”

“Wait. Maybe we should just try the bangs first?” Jamie suggested, seeing this was going to happen.

“I can do it,” Harley said again, a bit more belligerently, following after Emma.

Jamie couldn’t help glancing at the tabletop, unerringly finding the place where she’d carved her initials, JW, into the maple top. Mom had tried to sand them off, but even with her ministrations they were still visible. A stupid, childish whim that had caused one of their huge fights.

Emma said now, “It’s still there,” and Jamie looked up to realize her sister’s eyes had followed her gaze. “You should talk to Mom about it. It will make you feel better.”

Jamie’s pulse jumped, and she wasn’t quite sure how to take that. “Well, Mom isn’t here. . . .”

“Oh, yeah, she is.” She flung out an arm and pointed to the mantel. “There.”

A plain wooden box sat in center place.

“Are those . . . ?” Harley’s lips pressed into a grimace.

“Ashes.” Emma nodded importantly. “Mom went to the funeral place and signed up for it, so that she would be with us when we got together. She paid for it herself. The man told me.”

“The man?” Jamie asked.

“At the funeral place. He said she was in good hands. Theo agreed. She took me and Mom home and put Mom there. You should talk to her. It will make you feel better,” she said again.

“Well, that’s creepy,” said Harley, definitely put off.

“It’s not creepy,” said Jamie.

“Yes, it is!” her daughter disagreed. “Really creepy. I can’t even look that way. Where are your scissors? Do you have some?” she asked Emma, turning a cold shoulder toward the fireplace.

“I’m not supposed to use them. Mom said.”

“Could you just show me where they are?” Harley asked.

“Okay.”

Emma led Harley down the hallway to the downstairs bathroom. Jamie could hear the medicine cabinet open and shut, and then several drawers pulled out and slammed closed again. She wandered toward the wooden box, reaching a hand up, then closing her fist before she could touch its smooth sides. It wasn’t her mother. Her mother was gone. What remained were only ashes.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” said Jamie when Harley had Emma seated in one of the kitchen chairs, scissors in hand.

“Could you get that out of my sight?” Harley asked, half-turning away as Emma was facing the mantel with a full-on view of the box.

“We are supposed to spread her in the garden,” Emma said. “Theo said that’s what you’re supposed to do. Spread her out. Mom loved the garden, so we need to spread her out there. I was waiting for you.”

“Sooner the better,” muttered Harley. “And I think I’ll pass.”

“No. You come, too,” stated Emma.

Jamie could see her daughter’s expression even if Emma couldn’t, and she had to smother a smile, the first moment of levity she’d felt in a long time. Harley was horrified, but didn’t find it as easy to put off Emma as she could her mother.

“I’ll start getting things from the car.” Jamie headed away from the makeshift beauty shop.

“Can we get a dog, Mom?” Harley’s voice floated after her.

“No dog. Mom won’t allow it,” said Emma.

“We’ll see,” Jamie called back.

“Mom won’t allow it!” Emma stated more emphatically.

Well, Mom’s not here.

Jamie stepped into the cool October evening. She stood outside for a minute, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of the roses that lined the side of the detached garage and bobbed their heads toward the yard. They were almost over, the leaves nearly gone, the petals growing limp. She recognized the brilliant red of Mr. Lincolns, her mother’s favorite.

This experiment of stepping in and taking care of Emma was going to be . . . different. A challenge, for sure, but maybe also a taste of family for Harley in a way she’d never had before. Paul had been gone too long for Harley to remember him as anything but a dim figure, more lore than reality. Jamie wasn’t sure how long she planned to stay, but it didn’t look like Emma could really live by herself. She was compromised and always would be.

Heart heavy, Jamie hefted out several boxes and set them on the driveway, which was spiderwebbed with cracks. For all the beauty of the garden, the house and garage, the drive and walkways, all looked like they could really use a good handyman. A good handyman and a cheap one. Jamie wasn’t entirely sure what her mother’s finances were, but she’d been contacted by one Elgin DeGuerre, the lawyer Theo had mentioned, and undoubtedly he’d be able to clear things up.

Before she’d left LA, Jamie had gone online and learned what her requirements for teaching would be in Oregon, and was planning to get started right away. Tomorrow morning, she was registering Harley in school. That was priority one. Preliminary information had been filed, but the school needed to see both Jamie and Harley to admit her.

Paperwork and more paperwork. A lot to be done to resettle. Just thinking about it made Jamie tired and dispirited. What she could really use was a nice glass of wine, something crisp, clean, and dry. A glass of rosé, or Pinot Gris.

But not yet. There was still too much to do.

“Ta da!” Harley said, tossing her hands in Emma’s direction as Jamie came downstairs after her second trip to the car.

Emma’s bangs looked all right, good even, but one side of her shoulder-length hair was noticeably higher than the other. Jamie debated on what to say and decided to hell with the truth. “Looks good,” she stated brightly.

Harley regarded her suspiciously, then looked at Emma. Her face clouded. “It’s shitty.”

“Don’t swear,” Jamie and Emma said together, with Emma adding, “Why is it shitty?”

“It’s uneven. I might have to make it a little shorter on this side.” She pointed to the longer sweep of hair.

“Okay.” Emma sat back down.

Jamie spent the next hour finishing unloading the car and putting their things in their respective bedrooms. Emma, looking better after Harley’s corrections—Jamie had to admit the cut was not too bad—was still ensconced in her old room, and Harley had pounced on Jamie’s one-time room next to it. Jamie found herself placing her belongings in her mother’s room, though she made up the fold-out couch in the tiny office-cum-storage closet-cum-guest room next to Emma’s. She could dress in Mom’s bedroom, but she couldn’t sleep in her bed just yet. Maybe never. It seemed sacrilegious in an indefinable way. It was Mom’s bed. No one else’s. She’d bought it new when Dad lammed out. Jamie would figure out what to do over time.

In the back of her head, she was seeing this move home as temporary. Maybe she and Harley would stick around the Portland area. Maybe not. Being in the house she grew up in felt like going backward. She didn’t want it. Didn’t even know if there was enough money to keep it. If she and Harley did stay in the area, they would need to find their own place.

But what about Emma?

An inner part of Jamie was already rebelling. Emma was capable of taking care of herself on a day-to-day basis, at least domestically. She could dress herself, take a shower, brush her teeth, even put on makeup, pretty much the full-on toilette of anyone else her age. But she had difficulty in so many other areas. Socially, for sure, but also the comment their mother had made about her inability with scissors. She’d never been able to cook because she struggled with processes. She was forgetful, yet sometimes frighteningly insightful. There was no accounting for what she was thinking at any given time.

Traitorously, Jamie wondered if Dad would be willing to take care of Emma. At least some of the time. And maybe there could be a helper, an aide of some kind.

She’s your responsibility.

Jamie looked at her mother’s clothes, hanging in the closet. She was going to have to gather them up and donate them. She was going to have to do a lot of donating and cleaning up . . . and organizing . . . and figuring out what to do.