Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 48

Edna Leigh Casey



My phone rings as I’m swiping on lip gloss in my bathroom. I’m almost late for work, but I should grab it just in case.

“Hello?”

I’m greeted by an energetic, chirpy rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. I know I’ll see you this weekend, but I couldn’t wait.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Did you like the flowers?”

“Very much. I gotta go, though, okay? Call you later.”

“Okay, honey. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I put my phone back in my pocket and smell my flowers on my way to get my purse off the kitchen table. Tulips, perfect for spring. I stroke a silky petal and smile.

I glance around my apartment, which the landlord let me paint a bright salmon pink as long as I promised to return it to beige if I move out. It actually makes my room resemble a child’s eraser, but I love even that because it’s my own mistake on my own walls.

I still don’t have a car, but it’s warm enough to bike instead of taking the bus. I snap on my helmet and pedal to my new job doing information tech at the bank. It’s not thrilling work, but it’s close to home and it’s stable, and I felt I needed people again.

Because, as it turned out, isolation wasn’t such a great plan.

Forsythia trumpets the arrival of spring, manifesting as flashes of bright yellow in my peripheral vision as I zip down the road.

There’s no bike rack at the office, but they let me wheel my bike in and park it in an empty cubicle next to mine, like my very own garage. My boss, Carla, thinks it’s precious that I ride a bike and wear a Hello Kitty helmet.

But the helmet was a present from Jewel, so of course I wear it. She’s got one, too.

I’m a few minutes early—traffic was so light today—so I call Michael’s cell.

“Hi,” he answers. “Happy Birthday.”

“You ready for today?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“You sure I can’t come?”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t want you to have to deal with this anymore.”

“You know I don’t mind.”

“I know. See you tonight?”

“I’ll be there with bells on.” I pause, waiting for an “I love you” to spring to my lips, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t say it either. We say our good-byes warmly, and hang up.

We said it too fast last time, both out of relief to have found someone new, someone with whom we could erase history. This time we can wait.

After all, I’m twenty-seven today. I’m not exactly doddering.

I turn on my computer and mentally send Michael good-luck wishes in court.

Mallory took off with some new guy shortly after the disaster weekend, disappearing for three weeks and then calling the house, talking about coming back to town, seeking physical custody again, as soon as she “got things sorted out.” She has been absent ever since, except for the occasional rambling e-mail to one of the kids. Today, at Friend of the Court, Michael will petition to have her visitations suspended in light of her vanishing act and erratic behavior. If he prevails, we won’t have to worry she’ll swoop back to town and pick up the kids like old times, without us knowing anything about her mental state, drug use, or romantic entanglements. It means if she wants time with her kids again, she’ll have to petition for it, “as both parties agree.”

She could remain with her paramour out of state, or she could turn up today with a powerful lawyer, as she’s hinted in the e-mails. We’ve stopped trying to guess what will happen.

Michael and I, over evenings of Chinese food and bad movies, have dissected her behavior again and again. It might seem unhealthy, but we’re both too tired to keep things in anymore, so when the conversation circles back to her, we both give up on clamping down.

Mallory had him in a tight corner after that weekend. His son had run away on his watch, and Mallory pretended that he hit her. She could have blamed the destroyed living room on him, in fact, saying he attacked her. She’d been hinting to Angel that she had a rich new boyfriend who’d pay for a big-time lawyer.

She had Michael in her sights, but didn’t pull the trigger. And this was a mystery, and a source of anxiety that she was merely biding her time.

Then Angel showed us an e-mail she’d sent her mother. It was signed by all of the kids.


Dear Mom,





We will always love you and the good times you gave us. But we want you to know we’re happy with Dad. He takes really good care of us, and things are usually pretty calm.





We don’t want you to feel bad, but we’re asking you, pretty please, if you would not try to mess up something that’s working. If it makes you feel better, Casey isn’t living with us anymore. She and Dad still see each other but they’re taking it slow, and it’s a lot easier now, on everybody.





We still want to see you when you’re feeling good.





We know you have always done your best, but that it’s hard for you. And you’re our mom, we won’t stop loving you.





Your kids,





Angel, Jewel, and Dylan





Mallory’s response was simply: If that’s what you want.

Angel hadn’t showed us the note at first because she thought her dad would be upset with her for meddling in grown-up business. It’s taking her some time to adjust to the new Michael, who stops to think before he condemns.

Michael read the note in wonderment, and later, with the kids’ permission, shared it with me. Angel assured us the note was a joint project of all the kids, though it sounded very much like Angel when she makes an effort to be her most adult.

It was impossible to tell if that one line—If that’s what you want—was typed in bitterness or sarcasm or resignation. And some nights Jewel still cries for Mallory, and I don’t take it personally because I know she means Mallory at her best. Who wouldn’t miss their mother at her best?

But there have been unbroken weeks of peace since then, during which time I’ve dated Michael like an ordinary girlfriend, returning to my own apartment, taking out my own garbage, and leaving the laundry and homework to him.

My work e-mail is finally up, and I start taking care of business, humming along happily with the rhythm of my new, nicely boring life.

I carry my phone with me all morning, waiting to hear Michael’s court news. It buzzes in my pocket when I’m at the coffee machine, and I nearly scald myself slamming the pot down to answer it.

“Well?” I ask without preamble.

“It’s done,” he answers, sounding weary with seventeen years of dramatic personal history.

“You sound like The Sopranos,” I say, and he obliges me with a laugh, then says in a cartoon Jersey accent: “You take care of that thing with the guy like I asked you to?”

I respond in kind, “I delivered the package.”

Now we laugh together, and say our good-byes once more, because we’ll see each other at night.


Angel shows up at my door that night to pick me up, as prearranged, so she can practice driving. I swear she looks taller every time I see her.

“Nice,” she says as I lock my door behind me.

I let her take me shopping in the weeks after that one November weekend, allowing myself to be used as a life-size doll to mend some seriously broken fences.

Tonight I’m wearing a dress we picked out together, once the spring clothes hit the stores: it’s fluttery, with a subtle yellow-and-green floral pattern. It’s got a deep V at the neck, and though I swear it feels too short, Angel insists it’s perfect. The green, she tells me, brightens up my dark blond hair. It’s what my mom always called “dishwater blond.”

Nice, Sprite, my brother says in my memory, on my prom night, when I came down the stairs to Pete.

“Your car, madame,” Angel says, smirking at my wobbly navigation down the stairway in these spiky green heels she talked me into.

On the drive we talk about the weather, how it feels to be twenty-seven—old, but not doddering, I report—and the various dramatics at her school, onstage or in the hallways.

I’m not fooled into thinking our connection is magically healed by spiky green shoes. It was always easy to be girlfriends when I was not in charge of her, and that’s what we’re playing at right now.

It will do. Don’t borrow trouble, my mom would say.

We pull up to Michael’s dad’s East Grand Rapids house, the edges of the lawn bright with daffodils. I navigate the flagstone path gingerly. The evening chill has already begun to descend, and goose bumps race across my bare legs.

For a flash before we walk in, I want a cigarette, so I rush myself across the threshold, past that thought, and when I hug Michael just inside the door, I know I don’t smell like an ashtray. His hand brushes my nicotine patch when he lets go, and he smiles at me, squeezes my hand.

“You look terrific.” He looks at Angel. “Good job.”

Dylan and I exchange a high five; Jewel hugs my waist, and I ruffle her hair.

Mrs. Turner appears from the kitchen, dusting off her hands. “I made your favorite lasagna. Now go on in and have some punch.”

She rushes me toward the dining room, and everyone clatters in behind me. I stop in the doorway to gasp. Jewel crashes into me from behind.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CASEY reads the banner, decorated with copious amounts of glitter and paint. There are wrapped presents on the sideboard underneath it.

“Did you make that?” I ask Jewel, as if it could be anyone else. She wrinkles her nose under her glasses and beams like a twinkling star.

At dinner, we all try not to watch Angel eat, because from what I hear, nothing sets her off more. There’s not much on her plate, but the food actually does seem to be disappearing. Michael told me that after a fraught, high-volume argument Angel agreed to talk to the school counselor, a young woman she’s always liked, about why she doesn’t want to eat. That, along with her triumphant performance in The Miracle Worker, seemed to allow Angel to relax a little. Michael had been quick to add, “Not that I can take my hands off the wheel. Not for a minute.”

When Dr. Turner asks Michael how the writing is going, I stop with lasagna melting off my fork to stare between them, to see if Dr. Turner will approve of his son’s answer, or judge him lacking in ambition, perhaps.

Michael begins explaining about this online magazine he’s started, applying his old-school newsman training, but with stories that are more snarky, more fun. He’s getting that off the ground with all of them living here, with his parents, something that would have pained him before, and his dad would have held it over him.

But now Dr. Turner just listens, nodding, twirling cheese around his fork.

I’m sure he’s not delighted with the plan, but he’s keeping his criticism to himself. That’s something.

Michael’s also in line for a teaching job at the community college, and substitute teaching at high schools when he can.

“Any offers on the house yet, Dad?” Michael asks, now.

“Nothing realistic.”

The Heritage Hill house, which both parents and son decided they should let go, soft housing market be damned.

The phone rings, and Dr. Turner starts to get up, by reflex the doctor on call.

I’m closer, though, so I gesture for him to sit and go answer it myself, clowning for the family with an exaggerated British accent: “Dr. and Mrs. Turner’s residence.”

“Oh, well, if it isn’t the little woman.”

I don’t answer. The room around me falls silent. Mrs. Turner rises to her feet.

“So. Carrying on with your plan to steal my children? Any more of them run away lately, or haven’t you noticed, busy screwing Michael?”

I take a deep breath. I close my eyes and shake my head as if shaking raindrops out of my hair.

She’s just a person. As Michael once said, she’s not going to eat my spleen.

I hold out the phone and say simply, “It’s Mallory.”

Michael takes it, listens for a moment, and makes as if to step out of the room to talk. Then he stops, turns back to us, and says quietly into the phone, “Enough.” He pushes the button to end the call, and places the phone carefully down. He looks around at the ring of worried frowns around the table.

“Your mom is feeling a little upset right now. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmer.”

We all pause for the phone to ring again, but it doesn’t, and Mrs. Turner claps her hands and announces it’s time for cake.

When she comes back in, I’m laughing, because there really are twenty-seven candles on a round layer cake.

She says, blinking in the faint smoke, “Quick! Blow them out before the alarm goes off!”

I can barely get in a breath because I’m giggling. Michael reaches out to pull my hair back. “Don’t set yourself on fire!” he cries in mock alarm.

I don’t get them all blown out at once—my poor ravaged lungs—but it’s close enough. I don’t wish, either, because I don’t believe candles can grant wishes, or that hoping for something will make it come true.

Between bites of chocolate cake I open gifts—a pretty scarf from the Turners, a glittery bookmark from Jewel. Angel bought me a copy of The Crucible because I told her that was my favorite play. A homemade CD of Dylan playing his sax nearly has me weeping puddles of mascara down my face.

Michael’s box is last.

“I’m sorry to say that it isn’t brand-new, but money is tight and all,” he says, shrugging, turning pink.

The box is shoebox size, but impossibly light, as if it’s empty. Nothing shifts inside, either, when I unwrap it.

Taped to the bottom of the box is my engagement ring, and a note. The note reads, “Dear Edna Leigh Casey, I love you, whoever you are.”

My shaking hands can’t get the tape loose, and Michael bobbles it, too, so it’s Dylan who frees the ring from the box and hands it to his father, who turns to me, holding the ring pinched between finger and thumb.

I take it from him, and for a moment I just hold it, too, and forget his whole family is watching us. The ring blurs in my vision. But this time, no falling-dream dizziness. I feel both bright and weightless. “Wow, I mean . . . how . . . Are we ready?”

“We’ve got time. No rush.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” And he smiles, leaning in so close I can spot a piece of basil stuck to a front tooth. He lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “I bet you’ll be an amazing mother.”

I fumble the ring trying to put it on, and it bounces under the table, and Michael and I crack heads trying to grab for it, and then we sit under the table laughing along with the whole family, all of us ignoring the ringing phone.





FROM

KRISTINA

RIGGLE

AND





Discussion Questions



1. Casey seeks to reinvent herself, starting with her name and cutting all ties to her old life. Have you ever wished you could start completely over?

2. What do you think the real motivation is for Casey’s attempt to erase her past? Do you think she changed her life for the better?



3. Do you think Michael would have given Casey a chance early in their dating days if she’d been up-front with him about her old habits? Early in a relationship, do you believe it’s beneficial for someone to be an “open book,” or is it better to hold some things close to the vest?



4. Was Casey prepared to be a stepmother at the time she moved into the Heritage Hill house? Has that changed by the end of the novel? Do you know any stepparents, or are you one yourself? Given the prevalence of blended families, do you think being a stepparent is easier these days than in the past?



5. What do you think lies at the root of Michael’s perfectionism? Can you relate to his perfectionism in some way?



6. How does Michael’s perfectionism affect him and his family? Does he realize how his actions take a toll on others?



7. Michael and Mallory had sharply different upbringings and seem like a case of opposites attracting. Do you know of couples like this, apparent mismatches who are trying to make it work? Is it ever possible to make it last?



8. Is there a scenario in which Michael and Mallory could have lasted as a couple, or was their relationship doomed from the start?



9. Do you perceive Mallory as villain, victim, innocent, or some combination of these? Does her character elicit compassion or frustration, or both?



10. Do you believe Mallory has undiagnosed mental health problems? How much responsibility does she bear for her own actions?



11. The children each have their own struggles, which they seem reluctant to share with their parents for various reasons. What could Michael have done to get his children to open up? Is it inevitable that children have secrets from their parents?



12. Do you think social class plays a role in the characters’ relationships and conflicts? If so, how, and to what end?



13. How does the title relate to each character’s story? What are the things they didn’t say and what difference would it have made if they’d spoken up?



14. Are there things in your own life you never say out loud? If so, why don’t you share what you think? If you speak your mind, do you feel that it always helps the situation, or do you ever regret things you’ve said?



15. How optimistic (or pessimistic) do you feel for the family at the end of the book? What are some things you imagine happening to the characters after the book’s ending?





A Conversation with the Author



What inspired this novel?

I was imagining how an external crisis impacts our internal lives. What if a woman was ready to walk out and leave a situation she could no longer tolerate, but something prevented her from doing so, some kind of immediate and sudden disaster? When the crisis was over, what would she do, then? Would she still go? How would she be able to conduct herself through the crisis knowing what she’d been prepared to do? Oddly enough, this line of thinking came up after watching the movie Thirteen Days about the Cuban missile crisis. I’d been imagining someone enduring family strife, and on top of that, this frightening global threat hanging over her head. Casey and Michael’s disaster is not of national scope, but it’s significant enough to bring everything else in their lives to a halt. I call this book a messy, grown-up love story because real love must be able to endure through the worst, most confusing and difficult times. Sometimes love alone isn’t enough to sustain a couple when the storm comes, as it always will.

Why did you choose to write about a blended family?

As I just mentioned, it’s a messy, grown-up love story and it’s also a contemporary story. Families come in all varieties now, and sometimes that means a young woman falls in love with a man who comes prepackaged with three kids. I’m in awe of the optimism and determination of those who create blended families. By their very nature, these couples walk into a new relationship bearing scars of the past—moreso than those who have never been married before—and I find their willingness to give it another try inspiring. I also wanted to write about a competent single dad who has primary custody of his kids, because it goes against the grain of the pop-culture stereotype of the distant or bumbling divorced dad. These characters come out of my imagination, I should say. I count blended families among my friends, certainly, but I didn’t quiz them for this book and in fact spoke very little about it as I was writing. I didn’t want to excavate their private lives, or put them on the spot.

You’re back to a real setting for this book, as opposed to the fictional town in your previous novel. Why are you back to a real spot on the map?

The Life You’ve Imagined had a bigger canvas: it took place over the course of a whole summer, and featured many kinds of settings. For that situation I wanted optimum flexibility to make up landscapes as they suited the story. For Things We Didn’t Say, it’s back to a compact time frame, as with my debut novel. Most of the action takes place within forty-eight hours, and most of it within the walls of one house in one neighborhood. I was attracted to the crucible effect this would create, especially with characters who are thrown together unwillingly. I chose the Heritage Hill neighborhood of Grand Rapids, Michigan, for the simple reason that I love it. It’s a beautiful, old, and interesting part of town. As with my first novel, this book features a mix of real and fictional landmarks. Heritage Hill is real, the schools mentioned in the book are not. The newspaper where Michael works is not a faithful reproduction of The Grand Rapids Press, which is why I called it the Herald. But the Meyer May House, the Sixth Street Park, Literary Life Bookstore, the “Castle” building which now holds a dentist’s office—all those places are real.

How did the title come about?

Credit goes to my editor, Lucia Macro. This phrase represents so much of what goes wrong for the characters. I think most people in a relationship can relate to this. Think of how many times you want to say something to your loved ones, and circumstances prevent you, or you stop yourself. Why? We fear the results of our words sometimes, but silence does damage, too. It turned out to be so poignant for me, because we happened to settle on this title as my beloved mother-in-law was dying of cancer. It’s only natural when we lose someone to think of all we didn’t say.

This novel, like your others, has a large cast. Who was the most challenging character to write?

Writing from the perspective of the children was a fun challenge, but by far the trickiest character was the ex-wife, Mallory. She’s the first true antagonist I’ve tackled, but I did my utmost not to turn her into a caricature of pure villainy. She is damaged, but I would not say she’s evil. It’s an interesting question that Michael wrestles with throughout their marriage, how much control she has over her own actions, and thus how much personal responsibility she bears. I also found the failed marriage between Mallory and Michael to have a life of its own as well, and it was a challenge to portray that relationship in a way that was understandable and relatable. Sometimes the story of a marriage isn’t easily understood, especially by those from the outside looking in, and I hoped to give the readers some insight into that story.





About the Author



KRISTINA RIGGLE lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with her husband, two kids, and dog. She’s a freelance journalist, published short story writer, and coeditor for fiction at the e-zine Literary Mama. Her debut novel, Real Life & Liars, was named a Great Lakes, Great Reads selection by the Great Lakes Independent Booksellers Association. The Life You’ve Imagined was honored as an Indie Next Notable Book.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.





Acknowledgments



A deep, heartfelt thank you to my family for putting up with writing-distracted me, book-tour-traveling me, book-launch-stressed-out me, and still loving me as much as ever.

Thank you to the people at HarperCollins who lovingly tended my work from manuscript to finished book, then got those books into readers’ hands: Esi Sogah; Stephanie Selah; Teresa Brady; my amazing editor, Lucia Macro; and more people than I know by name. It sure doesn’t happen by accident or magic, and I’m grateful to have you on my side.

Much gratitude to the supportive and smart women from Nelson Literary Agency: Kristin Nelson, Lindsay Mergens, Sara Megibow, and Anita Mumm.

As ever, I’m indebted to Eliza Graham for her thoughtful and considerate reading of early drafts.

I received invaluable research assistance from Det. Pete Kemme of the Grand Rapids Police Department, Chris Byron of the Grand Rapids Public Library, and Thomas H. Logan, author of Almost Lost: Building and Preserving Heritage Hill.

I also consulted writings by Robert O. Friedel, M.D., and Richard Moskowitz, M.D., and the Web site of the National Institute of Mental Health.

To the readers, booksellers, book clubs, librarians, bloggers, and journalists who have read, written about, and recommended my work: I’m humbled and grateful.