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chapter four (#ulink_6ec5b1c6-1eaa-5fee-bd4d-6c3ab42487d2)
Polly was settled at the breakfast bar working on her homework while Effie’s mom pulled a pan of cookies from the oven. Oatmeal raisin, Polly’s favorite. Effie hated raisins in anything, especially cooked. Their soft and gooey texture made her gag. But then, she wouldn’t eat chocolate chips, either, even though she liked the taste. She simply couldn’t bring herself to trust them, because they looked too much like rat turds or broken bits of cockroaches.
“Nana, I’m going to be in the school play.” Polly’s blond ponytail swung as she rocked a little on the stool.
“Polly,” Effie warned. “Sit still, or you’re going to tip the chair.”
In perfect tween style, Polly sighed and rolled her eyes, so much Effie’s mini-me that she couldn’t even be annoyed. God help her when Polly hit teenagerhood in a few years. Her mother’s wish that Effie would be blessed with a child just like her had never been meant as a compliment.
Effie wanted to squeeze and kiss her daughter but held herself back. Polly would suffer the embrace, of course, but Effie had decided when she was pregnant that she wouldn’t be that smothering kind of mother. The kind who licked her thumb to clean a smudge off her kid’s soft, fat cheeks, or who hovered. Anxious. The kind who baked cookies, she thought as Mom slid the edge of a metal spatula beneath each perfectly shaped cookie to lift them onto the cooling rack.
“What part are you going to play?” Mom turned with a smile.
Polly shrugged. “I’m in the chorus. I get to be in all the scenes where they need people in the background.”
“That sounds like fun.” Mom tugged open the fridge to pull out the jug of milk. She poured a glass and set it in front of Polly.
“It’s not a real part,” Polly said.
“It will still be fun.” Effie went around her mother to open the fridge herself. She pulled out a can of cola and popped the top, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard. She poured the clear fizzy liquid into it and held it up to the light before turning.
Mom had been staring with that look on her face. The one that meant she was trying hard not to comment. Effie sipped slowly without looking away, daring her mother to confront her about the habit and knowing she wouldn’t. Not in front of Polly, anyway.
“I’ll wash the glass, Mom, don’t worry,” Effie said.
It wasn’t that, of course. Mom was in her element when she was scrubbing and sewing and baking and cleaning. A single dirty glass was nothing to her. It was Effie’s reason for using the glass instead of drinking straight from the can that bothered her, but what was Effie supposed to do about it? Some things never left you, no matter how much you wanted them to.
Polly closed her math book. “I have to be an office worker and a hot dog seller, with a cart. Meredith Ross gets to be the ice cream seller, which I think is better, but they wouldn’t let us trade parts. Meredith thinks she’s so great, though. Can I have a cookie?”
Mom nodded. “Sure. But only one. You don’t want to spoil your dinner.”
“Sure she does,” Effie said. “Who wouldn’t want cookies instead of meat loaf?”
“You used to love meat loaf.” Mom’s voice was sharper than usual.
Effie looked up. “I used to love cookies more.”
“I like your meat loaf, Nana. And scalloped potatoes. And red beets,” Polly said. “But no green beans!”
“No green beans,” Mom said with another long look at Effie. She took a cookie from the cooling rack and gave it to Polly. “If you’re finished with your homework, why don’t you take Jakie out into the backyard and play for a bit until it’s time for dinner?”
“Mama, when are you leaving?”
“Soon.” Effie watched as Polly hopped off the stool. “Jacket.”
When the girl had gone out the back door with Mom’s aging Jack Russell terrier at her heels, Effie braced herself for the lecture. It was better to take it than avoid it. Otherwise, it would be twice as bad the next time. Kind of like letting a teakettle heat without the lid down on the spout—you could avoid the screaming, but you could also forget it was on the stove until it caught the burner on fire when the water all boiled away.
“You’re too thin,” Mom said flatly. “You have to eat, Effie. You’re going to get sick, and then what will happen to Polly? You don’t have health insurance!”
Effie had not actually been sick in years, not longer than a day or so anyway, and nothing more serious than a few sniffles or a cough. “I do, actually, Mom. There’s a little thing called Obamacare, remember?”
“And if you get sick and can’t work, how will you pay for it?”
“I just got a very nice royalty check from SweetTees, and one should be coming in from The Poster Place.” The two biggest companies to which Effie licensed her images. “That’s the great thing about doing what I do. The money comes in so long as stuff is selling, even if I’m not making something new. I have my Craftsy shop for new commissions that come in regularly, too. And I don’t live above my means.”
“A regular job with benefits, steady hours...”
Effie shuddered at the thought of going back to corporate work. “I spent the first few years of Polly’s life working to afford day care for her, Mother. It’s not like I don’t know what it’s like to work in a cubicle. This is so much better. I’m home to get her off to school. I’m there when she gets home. If I want to work until two in the morning and nap from ten to noon, I can do that.”
“It’s just...your work...it’s so unstable,” her mother said. “That’s all. I worry.”
“I’ll eat an apple a day and keep the doctor away. Okay?”
“You need more than an apple. Look at you.” Mom plucked at Effie’s sleeve. “Skin and bones.”
“Men like skinny women.”
It was a mistake, Effie knew that at once, but the words had hurtled out of her before she could stop them. Mom frowned and backed up, then turned, shoulders hunching. She went to the rack of cookies and began putting them into a plastic container. They couldn’t have been cool enough yet. They were going to mush and stick together.
“Well,” Mom said. “I guess you’d know all about what men like. Wouldn’t you?”
It made it hard to feel bad for her mother when she came back with a crack like that, even if Effie deserved it. Which she didn’t. Not really. At least, not anymore.
“There’s nothing wrong with knowing what men like, Mom. You could try it yourself, you know. Then you wouldn’t have to sit around here alone all the time.”
Mom didn’t turn. “Maybe I like being alone.”
“Nobody really wants to be alone, Mom. C’mon. Dad’s been gone a long time...” Effie stopped. Her father had died of a heart attack, too young. She still missed him, and no doubt her mother did, too. “I’m just saying, there’s nothing wrong if you wanted to go out sometimes.”
“I have plenty to keep me busy. I have no need to paint myself up and whore myself around, Felicity. I don’t believe my value as a person is reflected in whether or not a man wants to put his penis inside me.”
“Liking sex doesn’t make me a whore,” Effie said.
“No,” her mother said. “Letting them treat you like one does.”
Effie’s fingers curled into fists that she forced herself to open. “It’s not the fifties, okay? If a woman wants to date a lot of different men, that’s her...that’s my choice.”
Mom turned as she pressed the lid onto the plastic container. It shook a little as she gripped it in both hands. So did her voice. “What kind of example are you setting for Polly?”
“That’s a shitty thing to say.” Even during the height of what Effie thought of as her “experimenting” phase, she’d never brought any of the men home. Nor had she brought around any of her thus-far lackluster LuvFinder dates. “You know I don’t expose her to strangers. What I do with my business as an adult person is just that. My business. Don’t you dare give me grief about Polly.”
“No, no, you don’t expose her to strangers.” Her mother’s voice dripped with derision. “Just that one man. Probably the worst of them all. Him, you let slink around all the time, don’t you?”
It was an old and tired argument. “Heath loves Polly like she’s his own. And she loves him. He’s good to her.”
“He’s no good for you,” Mom snapped. “He’s the opposite of good, Effie. He’s horrible for you, and that means he’s no good for your daughter!”
“I know you hate him,” Effie began and thought of more words but stopped herself before she could say them. They wouldn’t matter. All these years later, all the same words. Nothing she said would make a difference.
“Of course I hate him,” Mom answered. “What I don’t understand is how you don’t.”
For a moment, Effie sagged. It was too fucking hard to deal with her mother sometimes, even on the best days. With this old argument rearing its head, all she could do was hold up her hands like a surrender. She shook her head, silent.
Her mother slapped the plastic container down on the counter. “You’re better than he is.”
“Why? Because his parents split up when he was a kid or his mother wears her skirts too short and his dad works in a convenience store, or because he never went to college?”
Those were all part of the reason, though she doubted her mother would ever admit to such snobbery. Effie ran a hand across her mouth, smearing her lipstick onto her palm. Now, shit, she would have to redo it. She rubbed the pink streaks into her skin.
“I’m going to be late,” Effie said. “I’m just going to freshen up in the bathroom and then get going. I’ll pick Polly up tomorrow after school, if that’s still okay.”
“And if I say no, I want you home tonight at a reasonable hour so you can pick up your own daughter and take her home so she can sleep in her own bed, where she belongs? If I tell you that, what would you say?”
Effie gave her mom a steady, unflinching look. “I would say that your granddaughter loves spending time with you and sleeping over here is a treat for her, and you know it, and you taking her to school in the morning is an even bigger treat, because we both know you always take her to the doughnut shop on the way. She loves that. She loves being here. She loves you. And so do I, Mom.”
Her mother picked up and put down the container of cookies on the counter hard enough to rattle them inside. “Who is he tonight?”
“Someone I met online. Dating service. It’s just a date, okay?”
“Have you seen him before?”
“No.” Effie shook her head. “This is the first date. We’re going to dinner and possibly a movie. Totally bland and lame. He works with computers, wears glasses and doesn’t have any pets.”
Mom sighed and rubbed at the spot between her eyes with her middle and third fingers, a habit she’d had for as long as Effie could recall. “What else do you know about him? Have you left his name and information somewhere, in case something...happens?”
Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty, charming, detailed. He was seven years older than Effie. Divorced with no children, though he spoke warmly of nieces and nephews. He didn’t smoke or do drugs or even drink to excess, or if he did, he was both lying about it and very good at hiding any evidence of it.
“He’s probably not a serial killer,” Effie said. Her mother didn’t laugh. “I get it, Mom. Okay? I get it. You worry.”
When her mother didn’t reply, Effie took a step forward to hug her. Her mom didn’t yield at first but softened after a few seconds and rubbed Effie’s back. Her mother sighed.
“I worry about you, Effie. I’m your mother. It’s what I do.”
And had always done. Effie understood it, perhaps more so now that she had a daughter of her own. She squeezed harder, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry detergent and, fainter beneath, a hint of Wind Song. Her mom had grown thin herself, the ridges of her shoulder blades hard under Effie’s palms.
For a moment, Effie thought about canceling her date with Mitchell. She could stay here, hang out with Mom and Polly. They could watch a movie together, something funny. Her mother had kept Effie’s old room pristine, exactly as it had been the day Effie left this house for good. A shrine to her mother’s inability to let things go.
Effie could let go, though, and she did, putting some distance between them. “I’ll pick her up after school tomorrow. I already sent a note to the school that she’ll take the bus here.”
Mom nodded stiffly. “Fine.”
There was more to be said, but Effie didn’t say it. It wouldn’t change anything that had happened, and it wouldn’t make a difference in anything going forward. Nothing would.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and left her mom behind.
chapter five (#ulink_f9fb7ea5-47fa-57f4-afd3-2694ca1c3240)
“When do you think she’ll get up?” Heath paces beside Effie’s bed.
With a sigh, she tosses back the covers so he can get in beside her. It’s cold in their apartment and too early to turn up the heat. “She’s three. She’ll be up when it’s light out, and then it’ll be nonstop for the rest of the day, so I’d get another hour of sleep, if I were you.”
Christmas. As a kid, Effie had woken before dawn to creep downstairs and peek at what Santa had left beneath the tree, but although Polly’s excited about presents, she hasn’t quite grasped the concept of getting up before the sun rises to open them. There isn’t much under the tree for her anyway—going to school means only part-time work for Effie, and there are a lot of bills to pay before she can afford to spend too much on junky toys that will be broken within a day or two. There will be more gifts at Effie’s mother’s house later in the day, probably too many, and Polly will be overwhelmed with it all, but there’s no telling Mom not to spoil her only grandchild.
“I can’t sleep.” Heath sighs and flops onto his back, taking up too much room in Effie’s double bed.
She shoves him onto his side with another sigh and curls against his back to make it easier for them to share the space. It’s warmer, too. Her feet are icy, so she tucks them between his calves. His yelp of protest makes her giggle. In seconds, he’s turning to face her, tickling until they’re both breathing too hard.
That isn’t all that’s too hard. The press of his erection on her thigh is too familiar to deny. And it’s Christmas, Effie thinks when they move together, when he kisses her, when he slides inside her. How could she say no to him at Christmas?
Because the “no” is on its way, and she feels it every time he tries to hold her hand. A few days ago, Effie got some mail addressed to “Mrs. Heath Shaw” despite never having signed up for anything, ever, using anything close to his last name. They’ve been living together in this apartment for nearly four years, and what had been meant as a temporary solution has started to feel far too permanent. Still, it’s Christmas Day, and she lets the pleasure overtake her because it’s too hard to resist him even without the shiny lights and promise of something special under the tree.
Heath slides a hand between them to stroke her in time to his thrusts. He’s close, she can tell, but he’s holding back to make sure she gets off first. It’s perfect. She can’t stop it. Heath’s touch is magic, it’s fire, it’s fireworks and jingle bells. She comes with a low cry into his kiss, and Heath laughs, so pleased to have done that for her that he joins her in the moment after.
They sprawl in silence for a few minutes. She times the spacing of her breathing to his. Their hands are linked. He’s falling asleep, but Effie is wide-awake.
It would be so easy to stay here with him and Polly in this tiny, bordering-on-decrepit apartment. Easy to keep struggling through school and work and raise this child with him. But what would not be easy is this, the linking of their fingers and the sound of his breathing next to her in bed. Love is not easy, Effie thinks as she pushes up on her elbow to look at Heath’s face in the faintly brightening light coming in through the window. She keeps herself from tracing the lines of his face with her fingertip, because she doesn’t want him to wake.
She loves him. She will probably never love anyone else, not like this. But how would she ever know if she could, if she doesn’t try? If this is all they have because it’s all they believe they can ever have, how is that good for either one of them? To never have even the illusion of a choice?
Down the hall comes the pitter-patter of little feet. Polly is awake. Effie shakes Heath and slips out of bed to pull on her robe as the faint squeals of joy come from the living room. Together, Effie and Heath follow the delighted laughter. Polly dances in the multicolored glow from the tree they left lit all night for just this reason.
“Santa!” Polly cries, clapping tiny hands. “Santa was here!”
“I’ll make coffee.” Heath kisses Effie on the cheek and squeezes her for a second.
“Wait. Hold me close,” she murmurs when he moves away. She pulls him back for a longer embrace as they watch Polly shaking each package. She hasn’t yet figured out she’s allowed to tear into them. Effie squeezes Heath, her cheek pressed to his chest.
This could all be so easy, if only it weren’t always so hard.
The phone rings. Her mother, frantic and desperate, incoherent. Heath holds out the phone and Effie takes it, alarmed, until she can get her mother to slow down long enough to speak.
“Your father is dead,” her mother says. “I need you to come to the hospital.”
Dead? That cannot be. Her father is always there, has always been. Her father can’t be gone. What will Effie do, if this is true?
What she does is go to the hospital, leaving Heath to stay with Polly so Effie can help her mother take care of everything that needs to be taken care of. Phone calls. Arrangements. She stays for two days at her mother’s house in the bed that had been hers for as long as she can remember, listening to the low, keening sounds of grief filtering to her from down the hall and finding herself incapable of going into her mother’s room to offer her any comfort.
On the third day, Effie finds her mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee in front of her and a grim look. She has a sheaf of papers. She pushes them toward Effie.
“There’s money. Your dad’s insurance policy. There’s enough here for you to move out of that apartment. Get yourself a place. Unless you want to move back with me...” At the look on Effie’s face, her mother laughs harshly. “Of course not. Of course you don’t.”
Effie looks at the numbers on the papers. It’s like swallowing an icicle, this sudden realization that she does have a choice. With this amount of money, she’ll be able to buy a house. Support herself and Polly while she tries to make a go of her artwork. This money is freedom, and Effie knows she’s going to take it. She has to.
“I won’t beg you to stay,” Heath tells her. “I won’t fucking do it, Effie.”
“I don’t want you to beg me. I want you to be happy for me.”
He won’t look at her. She can’t blame him. Effie is upsetting this easy familiarity they’ve built together. She is breaking them apart. She can’t explain to him why it has to happen, for both of them. She’s not quite sure of it herself, except that before now she felt she didn’t have a choice, and the money has made it possible for her to make one. Before, Effie thought Heath was the only man she would ever be able to love, but she’s never tried to find out otherwise, never fallen in love with someone new.
