Markie and Simone sat for a long time in silence, holding hands, each of them weeping, lost in her own thoughts, until Lola came in. She approached Simone tentatively, and Markie could understand why; more than once, Markie had caught a glimpse of Simone and thought she was seeing Mrs. Saint. Simone seemed to understand, and wiping her eyes, she smiled at the little girl and held still while the child stood before her, scanning her from head to toe.
Finally, Simone said, “It is I, Simone, the sister of a woman who loved you very much. And I would very much enjoy a good-night hug. Could I have one?”
Lola nodded shyly and stepped forward, and Simone pulled her close and wrapped her arms around her.
“I can see why you were so important to her,” Simone whispered.
“Bedtime!” Patty called from the bottom of the stairs, and Simone released Lola, who turned to leave, but then she turned quickly back and hugged the older woman fiercely.
Letting go, the little girl pecked Simone on the cheek and said, “I loved her. And I love you!” She kissed Markie next. “And you!” she said, before running out of the room. Seconds later, Markie heard her thunder up the stairs, begging to delay her bedtime until after she had a bath.
Soon after, Bruce and Ronda came in to say goodbye before letting themselves out the side door. Markie offered to drive them, but they insisted they liked the bus. Jesse and Angel disappeared next, Jesse calling good night from the basement door before they clomped downstairs.
Markie heard the kitchen faucet running as Frédéric filled the glass of water he kept beside him during the night. Smiling ruefully, she thought about the day she moved in, when Mrs. Saint was rummaging through the moving boxes, looking for a glass so her “Fraydayrique” could get enough water. Markie thought about how annoyed she had been with the old woman that day. And the day she brought Angel over for “Chessie.” And the day she had been so bossy about Lola spending Halloween in the bungalow. And many, many other days.
It all seemed so harmless suddenly, seen in the light that Simone had cast on her sister. Markie had acted badly, she knew now. Had thought wrongly, taking her neighbor’s humble kindness and twisting it into something secretive and wicked. The woman had brought Jesse a dog because she thought he needed something to hug, for goodness’ sake! She had made sure he had the cable channels he wanted. She had arranged for him to have a job that would keep him away from his sketchy friends. She had provided him with a father figure.
And it wasn’t only Jesse she had helped. Before Markie had even made it out of the rental truck, Mrs. Saint had recognized her for the overwhelmed, overextended single mother that she was, and from that point on, she had lent Markie her paid employees to try to make her life easier. Frédéric and Bruce to help them move in. Ronda to provide snacks and ingredients. Bruce to do lawn work and gardening. Patty to help with the dog.
Markie had been incensed at the time. She had acknowledged that when it came to the Defectives, Mrs. Saint was actually trying to help, that the way the older woman had them all assisting one another with their jobs, looking out for one another, had truly been endearing. But Markie had always felt that when it came to her, the old woman was only trying to meddle. Only now, when it was too late, did she finally realize that Mrs. Saint had helped her as much as she had helped any of the others.
A split second after coming to this realization, Markie gasped. Oh my God! She helped me as much as she helped any of the others! And she didn’t only have the others helping one another, looking out for one another—she had them doing it for me, too! Markie had been thinking—stewing, really—since their meeting that morning with Mr. Schanbaum, about how Mrs. Saint had tried to trap her into being the new leader of the Defectives. She had assumed her bequest was a bribe to get her to stay on as Mrs. Saint’s replacement, the new protector of the group.
Now she saw the truth: the bungalow and money and college fund were nothing more than gifts from a woman who knew Markie lacked financial security and felt Jesse needed a father figure and a community. Mrs. Saint had been as generous with Markie as she had been with Frédéric and the others not because she had seen Markie as the new keeper of the Defectives, but because she had seen her as one of them.
And she had felt that, Markie now saw, from the very first day. From before the first day, in fact—from the day Markie had filled out the rental application and revealed her plummet from social, marital, professional, and financial grace. Markie had never been a savior, in Mrs. Saint’s view. She had always been a Defective.
Markie choked on the thought, and Simone’s head snapped up. “You are okay?” she asked, concerned.
“I . . . I . . .” Markie couldn’t think of how to explain. She didn’t want to admit to Simone what she had just discovered about herself, about how Mrs. Saint had seen her. But she decided to do it anyway, because Simone had told Markie more that night than Angeline ever had, and Markie felt it was only fair.
She felt the heat spread over her cheeks as she waited for Simone’s answer. She hardly knew Simone, and after the funeral, she might never see her again. But Markie was the woman who had allowed public humiliation to chase her away from her old town and into a dead-end job: she was not immune from other people’s view of her.
Simone put a hand on Markie’s and smiled. “Are we not all Defectives?” she said. “And can we not all be saviors?”
Chapter Forty-One
“I would like to show you the rest of these,” Simone said, putting a hand on the stack of photos sitting beside her. “I feel it is . . . right . . . that you see them. But I must check with Frédéric first.”
“Uh,” Markie said, unsure how to respond.
Before she could say more, Simone rose, and a moment later Markie heard murmurs from the family room. It sounded, from the tone and level of their voices, like Simone was trying to talk Frédéric into the idea and he was against it, but soon the voices calmed, and when Simone returned to the living room, Frédéric was behind her. He regarded the photos on the couch, gave Simone a last pleading look, and muttered something in French.
“It is time,” Simone said.
He sighed, then nodded, and she moved the photos and patted the small space beside her on the love seat.
“I prefer to stand,” he said.
“Very well,” she said, and held out the first photo for the three of them to see.
It was Mrs. Saint, radiant and youthful in a white wedding gown, her face tilted up as she smiled adoringly at her equally youthful new husband. Markie leaned closer to Simone to get a better look at the groom, who looked like a decades-younger version of the man standing stiffly, nervously, in the middle of the bungalow’s living room.
“What?” she said, and reached for the photo.
Simone let her take it, and Markie heard Frédéric’s sharp intake of breath as she flipped the picture over to read the back. EDOUARD ET ANGELINE, JOUR DE MARIAGE, 1953.
“You are Edouard!” Markie said, looking up at him with wide eyes as Frédéric’s trapped breath escaped in a long stream.