“Oh, right,” Markie said, as though she had any idea what Patty meant or the energy to be curious about it.
She intended to wave good night and shut the door, as she always did, but Patty didn’t move from the doorway, and Markie saw Patty’s lips part as though she had more to say. Markie was too tired to hear more, but she didn’t let on. The woman in her doorway was the sole reason she was still pulling off her work-from-home position. Patty had been taking Angel for such long walks every morning that the dog snored in her crate for the rest of the day while Markie tore through file after file. Her last file-swap session downtown had gone as well as she could have hoped; instead of accosting her in the hallway and insisting they “interface,” Gregory had merely waved from someone’s cube and called out, “Nice to see you back on track!”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Markie asked. “About your mom, I mean?”
She leaned on the open door and tried to keep her eyes open. It wasn’t exactly active listening, but it was the best she could do.
“Nothing much to discuss,” Patty said. “She’s an addict.”
Her directness woke Markie on the spot. “She spends her Social Security check before she even collects it,” Patty said. “And then she takes out loans from the wrong kinds of people and gives my name when they try to collect. Carol’s sometimes got herself under control, but she goes through these rough patches now and then, and she’s in one now.”
Markie tried to think of how to respond. How did Carol sleep at night, she wondered, knowing her daughter was working extra shifts to cover her debts?
“I’m really sorry,” she said. And I will never complain about Lydia again.
“Anyway,” Patty said, “I just wanted you to know I’m not showing up late because I’m inconsiderate. If you want to stop our . . . deal because of this, I’ll understand. I feel terrible, getting you all up so late.”
“It’s fine,” Markie said.
A few nights later, Patty arrived close to four a.m. Lola held her arms out, ready for her mother to lift her, but Patty didn’t pick her up, and instead, she asked Markie if Lola could stay in the house while Patty slept in her car in the driveway.
“What?” Markie asked. “Why? Are you . . . is there some reason you can’t drive?”
“I can drive fine. I just can’t get into my apartment. Carol and I got into it about something before I left tonight, and she took my keys and locked me out.”
“How did you start the car?”
“Oh, I keep spares hidden. This is one of Carol’s favorite tricks. But I forgot to put the extra apartment key back last time I needed to use it.”
“Just come in,” Markie said. “You can sleep with Lola or on the couch. You’re not sleeping in your car.”
“I’ve done it a million times. Lola, too.”
“Not on my watch,” Markie said, motioning her in. “Couch or Lola’s room? Guest room, I mean.”
“I’ll sleep with her,” Patty said. “So if she wakes up and freaks out, I’ll be there.”
Far from being upset about waking in the bungalow, Lola skipped into the kitchen in the morning as though she had been starting every day there for years. She said good morning to Markie, who was at the counter with a cup of coffee, and trotted to the card table in the family room to sort through her stack of coloring pages. She held one out to Markie and clutched the others in her fist as she made her way to the door.
“Can you tell Jesse I’ll see him next door for school pickup?” she asked, sliding one foot into a shoe.
“You can eat breakfast here if you want, you know,” Markie said. “We have cereal and toast. And I think there are frozen waffles.”
Lola slid her other shoe on. “Ronda’s making oatmeal,” she said. “She always makes it for me when it’s cold out.”
“Oh,” Markie said, “is oatmeal your favorite?”
Lola ran back to the counter, leaned close to Markie, and whispered, “Not when Ronda makes it!” Giggling, she raced back to the door to let herself out. “See you after school,” she said, tossing Markie a smile and a wave before she disappeared the same way she had arrived, as though she had been doing it forever.
Chapter Thirty
Lydia couldn’t comprehend why Markie didn’t want to go home for Thanksgiving.
“We are home,” Markie said, and Lydia laughed as though her daughter had said something ridiculous.
“You always spend Thanksgiving with us. And what about Jesse?”
“He’s gotten used to a quiet house,” Markie said. “He’ll be fine.”
“But your father. Have you ever even cooked a turkey?”
“I’m forty-five years old, Mother. Anyway, there’s the dog this year, and Jesse has this project he’s working on, and . . .”
She looked around the house for more excuses. Water leak, small electrical fire, hole in the roof—any of these would be welcome. If Lydia had called a week earlier, Markie could have milked her sprained ankle and crutches, but a few days before her mother reached out, the doctor had finally declared Markie healed enough to drop the sticks and start putting weight on her leg. She now wore a walking boot and was getting along quite well. And she remained unwilling to lie to her mother. She steered clear of the direct route—telling Lydia she couldn’t take a long weekend of passive-aggressive digs from her about the life choices she should have made or lectures from her father on money management and career advancement. Not to mention the McLarens and the Wilsons and the other friends who would parade through the front door all weekend for her parents’ annual Thanksgiving open house. Ice tinkling in glasses, voices getting louder and tongues looser as Clayton kept the drinks flowing and they all went through the predictable comparison of the successes and failures of their children and grandchildren. It had been difficult enough when Markie was on the success list.
Lydia wouldn’t appreciate that kind of frankness, but not because it would hurt her feelings to learn Markie didn’t like their group of friends. She was Teflon, Markie’s mother; insults slid right off her, and before they hit the floor, they morphed into cutting remarks designed to let Markie know that any problem she had with her parents’ friends was actually a problem of her own. If she couldn’t get along with the McLarens or the Wilsons, well, then, cue the long sigh as Lydia struggled to accept the fact that despite all they had done for her, Markie was simply not the daughter they had hoped for. As for Markie not liking how her parents spoke to her, Lydia wouldn’t even hear that part, having long trained her inner ear not to detect any noise approximating criticism directed at her or Clayton.
“But I thought we’d invite Kyle,” Lydia said.
“You used to ask me not to bring him home for Thanksgiving! Now we’re divorced and suddenly you want him there?”
Lydia sniffed. “I just think a nice family holiday would make the two of you see what you’ve given up.”