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.
But Mom shakes her head. “No thanks. We have plenty of strawberry jam here. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking you’d like something different.”
She smiles at me, her brown eyes softening. “Don’t we all think that, all the time?”
I’m not sure what to say to that, and after a moment Mom pats my arm. “Ignore me. Guess I’m feeling out of sorts.”
Me too.
And I do decide to ignore her, to get the jam anyway, but as I jog down the porch steps, Sullivan’s truck turns down our long drive. His window is wide open, and he smiles and waves me over.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, trying not to sound as wary as I feel. I hang back, hoping he hasn’t come for me.
“I have to make a delivery in Munroe and thought you might like to ride along.” He grins and leans over to lift something from the passenger seat. It’s a puppy. A wriggling, caramel-colored bundle of Golden Retriever perfection, and I melt like ice cream on a hot July day. “Are you a dog person?”
I don’t answer, but Sullivan is holding the puppy out to me, and against my better judgment I take a few steps forward and fold it into my arms. I’m only human. The puppy smells of sawdust and sweet milk, and even though I should hand him back to Sullivan and walk away, I nuzzle his downy neck and feel the rest of my resolve crumble.
“This is the last of our Molly’s pups. We sold him to a family in Munroe, and I could really use someone to keep him occupied while I drive.”
Damn, he’s smooth. Sullivan is playing me like my mother’s cello, but even though I can spot his tactics from a mile away, I can’t resist the squeaky whine of the ball of fur in my arms. I should lecture him about Baxter, tell him I’m not interested, and send him on his way. Instead, I lift the puppy to my face. “Hey, sweet thing. You want me to come?” I whisper. I’m rewarded with a lick.
“I think that’s a yes,” Sullivan says.
“You’re a terrible person,” I tell him. “Sneaky and manipulative and—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“If I go with you, it has everything to do with the puppy and nothing to—”
“Just get in the truck.”
And I do. Heaven help me, I do.
CHAPTER 11
WINTER TODAY
Juniper didn’t stay at the hospital long. When she left Jonathan’s bedside, she found her parents standing in the hallway, watching the door to their son’s ICU room with expressions that seemed more guarded than hopeful. It was clear by the loose cuffs of Reb’s sweater that she had been stretching the fabric in her balled fists, and Law’s shoulders were so tight and close to his ears that Juniper knew it would take weeks to work out the knots in his tense muscles. A burst of pity bloomed in her chest. It was unnerving to see her parents so reduced. They had powered through her entire childhood and beyond with hard work and Midwestern pragmatism, but it was obvious that Jonathan’s accident had shaken loose the bedrock. Law and Reb seemed to have aged years in a matter of days.
“Hey,” Juniper said, pulling her mother into an embrace. Reb responded with a few limp pats on her back. “How are you two holding up?”
“Fine,” Law responded. But his jaw stiffened as if he was holding back tears.
“Are you sleeping okay? Eating? You feel skinny, Mom.”
“I’m fine.” Reb pulled away and tugged the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, making fists with the droopy fabric. “Never liked hospitals much.”
“Amen to that.” Juniper began to strip off the protective gear that she had worn into Jonathan’s room. It was light as air and obviously disposable. Within seconds it was all packed down into a ball that she tucked under one arm because there was no garbage can immediately visible. As the silence pooled between them, Juniper wondered if she should invite her parents out for lunch or offer to grab them something from the cafeteria. Maybe they needed a few basic necessities, toiletries or a bottle of ibuprofen, but before she could offer anything, Law narrowed his eyes at her.
“The nurses tell us that Jonathan responded to you.”
“I don’t know about that.” Juniper shrugged. “It certainly didn’t seem significant to me.”
“What happened?” Reb asked, her voice tremulous and bright.
“Not much. I was talking to him and a few machines started to beep. The nurse came to check on him, but it was nothing. Jonathan’s still… sleeping.”
“What did you talk about?”