Eddie lived in Danvers, though it was against the rules of his job. He listed Uncle Ray’s office in Boston as his official home address to satisfy the city. She learned that later. As they pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch-style house, she had no idea what awaited. She didn’t even know it was Eddie’s house, just that he was bringing her somewhere until Sylvia got better. The house looked bedraggled in the rain, sad and hollow, like Kathy felt. Her worldly possessions were in a cardboard box in the back seat. Everything she owned—clothing, school supplies, her sketchbook and pencils, her books and lip gloss and curling iron.
Eddie carried the box into a beige-carpeted living room, set it down on the coffee table, and told her to wait. There was a suite of matching furniture, upholstered in gold brocade and fitted with tight plastic covers. The plastic made a squeaking sound when she sat. Eddie disappeared down a small hallway, calling his wife’s name. After a moment, fast footsteps approached. A small, neat woman with short hair, clad in slacks and a sweater, stared daggers at her.
“Jesus friggin’ Christ,” she muttered, and turned away.
Kathy’s stomach clenched. That woman knew who she was to Eddie without being told, and she wasn’t happy about it. She was going to kick Kathy out on the street. Where could she go? Foster care was the next stop. There was a foster kid at school. Kids made fun of him for wearing the same clothes every day, but it was his eyes that Kathy noticed. Haunted.
In the next room, Mrs. Wallace was shouting at Eddie. Kathy put her hands over her ears, trying to block it all out. But she couldn’t block the smell of the place, a combination of cleaning fluid and yesterday’s cabbage that got into her throat and eyes and hair.
Her hair.
“She has red hair!” Mrs. Wallace screamed.
“It’s brown.”
“It’s red in the light.”
“Am I the only redhead in Boston, for Chrissake?”
“How stupid do you think I am? That’s her kid. Admit it.”
“Who?”
“You know exactly who I mean. Sylvia, that shanty Irish tramp.”
How dare she? Keep my mother’s name out of your ugly mouth, Kathy wanted to shout. But she couldn’t say a word. This woman had power over her—whether she was safe and housed and fed. Biting her lip, she clenched her hands in her lap.
“That ended years ago,” Eddie said.
“Then who’s that sitting on my couch? Be a man and admit what you did, Eddie. That’s your bastard out there.”
“The mouth on you.”
“You bring your bastard into this house and expect me to act like a lady about it? Get the fuck out.”
“All right, all right. She’s Sylvia’s kid. There, I said it. Happy now?”
But he hadn’t said the thing that mattered most. He hadn’t claimed her as his own. He never did. She could hardly expect it now, in front of his witch of a wife. Still, it stung.
Mrs. Wallace had noticed.
“Your kid. She’s your kid. Say that.”
“Why do you dwell? What good does that do?”
“Jesus Christ, I’m sick of your bullshit.”
“What’s past is past. I got nothing going on with Sylvia anymore. Haven’t for years. She works for Ray as a receptionist. He came crying to me, saying she’s sick with leukemia, can I take the kid while her mother gets treatment.”
She hated Eddie then, not for herself, but for her poor mother, who’d wasted her life on him, ungrateful monster.
“If Ray’s so concerned, let him take her. She’s not my problem.”
“He can’t. He’s at the Mayo Clinic with Sylvia.”
“The Mayo Clinic? Wait a minute. How long are you asking for the girl to stay?”
“Just while Ray gets Sylvia settled. Then he’s coming back, and he’ll take the kid. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Till he gets her settled? What’s that mean?”
“A few days, that’s all. The kid’s quiet. She’ll be no trouble.”
“And what if the mother doesn’t come back? What then?”
The way she talked about Sylvia dying, in a voice so cold, so matter-of-fact—Kathy wanted her dead. She closed her eyes and prayed. Please, God, strike down that evil witch. But nothing happened. They were still talking in there, and Kathy had to hope they’d let her stay.
“She’s not gonna die, I promise,” Eddie said.
That was the first hopeful thing she’d heard. She grabbed on to his words, whispering them like an incantation as she fidgeted on the plastic-covered sofa. She’s not gonna die, she’s not gonna die, she’s not gonna die.
“No,” Mrs. Wallace said loudly.
“What do you mean, no? Don’t tell me no.”
“It’s too much to ask. I don’t want her in my house.”
“Your house? This is not your fucking house. I pay the mortgage. I pay for your car, your clothes, your food. I support your mother and your deadbeat brother. You know what that means? What I say goes. And I say, make her up a bed in the sewing room. Feed her. And send her to school with Charlie in the morning. It’s a few days. You can handle it.”
“Charlie! Did you think about him for one second? About your legitimate son? What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Whatever you want. Say she’s a long-lost cousin. I don’t care.”
“How dare you put her above this family! Goddamn it, Eddie. You motherfu—”
There was a crash, followed by the tinkling of broken glass, a scream, and several loud thumps. Mrs. Wallace let out a wail. Stomach in knots, Kathy cowered on the sofa, pulling a hard, shiny cushion over her head to block out the yelling and crying. It went on for a while, but eventually things got quiet. She sat up, hearing muffled sobs and Eddie talking in a soothing tone. She couldn’t make out the words, but the pitch was conciliatory. Did the wife win the argument? She didn’t want to stay in this creepy house that smelled of cabbage with a crazy lady who hated her guts and a man—her father—who from the sound of it just hit his wife. But the other option was foster care. They fed you dog food there, beat you with belts. And worse.
A key turned in the front-door lock. A kid entered, taller than her, his red hair dark from the rain. This must be Charlie, the legitimate son. She sat up straight and pulled her hand across her face, wiping away the tears that had leaked. Kids already called her names. She didn’t need him to see her shaking and go telling everyone she wet her pants or something.
Catching sight of her finally, he stopped short.
“Who are you? What’s going on?” he said.
“Your parents are fighting.”
“No shit, Sherlock. They always fight. I asked who you are.”
“I’m Kathy. Who are you?”
He took off his coat and hung it on a hook near the door, looking at her through narrowed eyes.
“Charlie. What are you doing here?”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“What are you, like homeless?”
“No. My mom is sick.”
He nodded, not unsympathetically. “Okay, but why did they bring you to my house? Your folks know my folks or something?”
She should claim to be that long-lost cousin, or there’d be hell to pay with Mrs. Wallace. The lie was on the tip of her tongue. But that ugly word rang in her ears—bastard—making her hot with rage. Screw that lady; it would serve her right to tell her precious son the truth. She itched to rock the boat, even if she tipped it over.
“No. It’s because I’m your sister.”
His face went slack. “What?”
“They brought me here because Eddie is my dad. Last time I checked, that makes me your sister.”
His eyes registered shock, then resistance, then the fear that she was telling the truth. The kid knew his father well enough to wonder, at least.
“If he’s your dad, then who’s your mom? Not my mom?”
“No, you wouldn’t know her. Her name’s Sylvia.”
He stared at her open-mouthed.
“You do know her?” Kathy asked.
“I met a Sylvia one time, with my pops. At a Red Sox game. Really pretty, blond hair, red dress?”