“Fine. Let’s get this over with,” Kaitlyn said. “Have a seat, Harminee.”
They sat at the dining room table, and Ophelia’s face was pale with worry. Melissa squeezed her hand, ignoring the evil look Kaitlyn gave her.
“Honey,” Melissa began.
“Let me do the talking, Missy,” Kaitlyn said. “Since she’s my daughter. Harminee, we’re going home. Back to Ohio, back to Mee-Maw and Pop-Pop and Granny and Gramps and all your friends from before. You and me will be living with Mee-Maw for a little while till we get our own place. We’ll be leaving Friday after school. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“I . . . We’re leaving? Forever?” Ophelia asked, and Melissa couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks.
“Yes, honey,” Kaitlyn said. “Your aunt Missy has done a great job taking care of you while I was away, but we don’t need her anymore.”
“Melissa?” The poor kid sounded five years old. Teeny trembled in sympathy.
“I want you to stay,” Melissa said, her voice breaking. “Very much.”
“But she’s not your mother, so she can’t make that decision. It’s best for you to be with me, sugar. Maybe Aunt Melissa can visit sometime.” She paused. “You love your mama, don’t you? We’ve stayed in touch all these years, and I know you’ve had your share of complaints about living with Miss High-and-Mighty here. Two stepfathers in five years, that’s been hard, I know it.”
Ophelia looked at the table and bit her lip.
“What do you want, Ophelia?” Melissa asked.
“Don’t you put her in the middle like that!” Kaitlyn snapped. “She’s a minor child. She’s coming with her mother, because that’s how God and nature intended it to be. Her and me have been apart long enough, right, Harminee? We want to be together.”
“Can I go to my room?” Ophelia asked.
“You need a minute?” Melissa asked.
“Yes, you may go to your room,” Kaitlyn said. “Because your mama said you could.”
Ophelia slipped away from the table, still holding the dog, and picked up her backpack and coat from the back of the stool. They heard her footsteps on the stairs.
“Did you have to make that so hard?” Kaitlyn demanded. “You know you don’t have a chance in hell at keeping her. Why’d you have to tell her to make a choice? You think you can bribe my daughter into staying? Is that it?”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t mind me taking her when you were in jail, Kaitlyn. Don’t go blaming me for wanting what’s best for her. How many times have you relapsed in your life, huh? What kind of life can you give her? What kind of job do you see yourself getting? What kind of place can you afford?”
“If you care so much, give us a nice fat check, Missy-Jo. You want your niece to live in a pretty house? Buy us one.”
“I thought you were above all that. Money doesn’t matter, it’s what God intended! You’re not getting a penny from me.”
It took more than an hour before either of them realized Ophelia was gone.
CHAPTER 29
Lillie
On the fourth day of my suspension, I installed a home security system. It was just the smart thing to do, since I’d be living alone for the rest of my days. Ben couldn’t stay in the studio forever, and . . . well, one kiss did not a commitment mean.
Which didn’t mean I was ruling out future kisses. But the smart part of me realized I wasn’t ready for a relationship yet. Maybe some casual company. I wouldn’t be averse to making out a few times a week.
It was snowing pretty hard, a thick, wet snow, but my guess was that it wasn’t sticking on the roads. On a whim, I decided to visit my dad, who’d been oddly scarce lately. Also, I had some kale soup that was taking up too much room in the fridge, and Dad was a terrible cook. I texted him that I was coming over and asked if he needed anything. He didn’t answer. Old people and technology. I knew he wouldn’t be out on the water in this weather. Ben, unlike Dad in the olden days, always erred on the safe side. Of course, Ben’s father had drowned at sea, so his caution made sense.
I wondered how he felt about his father. There was a lot more to Ben Hallowell than I’d ever thought.
I headed up to Truro, where Dad had lived in a condo since he sold us the house. The building had once been a two-level motel, but as Cape Cod became more of a second-home market, a lot of motels and hotels on Shore Road had been converted to make perfect, tiny condos. Dad had bought the model unit, completely furnished, forks, plates, bath mats, sheets and all. It wasn’t supposed to be a year-round condo (hence the affordability of the units back then), but try moving out a crusty old fourth-generation fisherman. The town had given him an exception.
I parked my trusty Honda next to Dad’s truck. There were no other cars except a Mercedes at the other end of the lot, since Dad was the only year-rounder. I went up the stairs and knocked. No answer. Maybe he was taking a walk. Or sleeping. The man did love his naps.
I unlocked the door with my key and went in. “Dad?” I said, setting the soup on the counter. “Daddy?” No answer, but I did hear music.
Was that . . . Beyoncé? It was. Dad knew who Beyoncé was? I mean, I did, of course. We were the same age. (God, how awful. I needed to up my skin care game.) Keep me coming, keep me humming, keep me coming . . .
Yeah, okay, he’d obviously left the radio on and was sleeping, because this song was filthy (and yes, I knew all the words). “Dad?” Still nothing.
Could something have happened? Could he have . . . died? No, no, he was healthy as an ox. But still. As Queen Bey asked about eating Skittles (which were not Skittles at all), I opened the door to my dad’s bedroom and saw something so horrible my brain couldn’t process it, which didn’t stop me from screaming at the top of my lungs.
My mother screamed as well.
“What?” Dad said, looking up at me from where he was . . . where he was . . . lying. On his back.
I staggered out, managing to close the door.
Keep me coming, keep me going, keep me coming . . . I could hear my parents’ terse voices inside the bedroom.
Oh, sweet and pure angelic baby Jesus, please erase that image from my head, I prayed, sliding to the floor.
But no. My parents were having adventure sex.
“We were just . . . we were just having a nap,” Dad called. “An angry nap.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pedro,” my mother said. “She knows what we were doing. Get out of those handcuffs and come talk to your daughter.”
A minute later, they both came out, Mom in Dad’s tatty flannel bathrobe, my father in jeans and a University of Montana sweatshirt, a Christmas gift from Dylan, now forever tainted.
“An ‘angry nap’?” I asked. “Also, you guys hate each other.”
“That’s only partially true,” Mom said, sitting on the couch and crossing her legs like she owned the place. “I realize you’re just as repressed as your Portuguese grandparents, Liliana, but not everyone shares your Catholic sensibilities about sex.”
“Please stop talking,” I said.
“Squashy,” Dad began.
“Nope. No pet names. What the . . . I . . . Okay, that song is porn, for one.”
“It could’ve been Megan Thee Stallion and Cardi B,” Dad said.
“You don’t know that song, Father! No! I don’t care if you do. You don’t.”
“It has a nice rhythm,” Dad said.
“Shush! Do you have any booze, Dad, because I need a stiff drink.”
“I also need something else stiff,” Mom muttered.
“Mom! I heard that! Haven’t you scarred me enough in your life?” Dad poured me a shot of whiskey, which I tossed back. “Are you guys together now?” I demanded.
“Well . . . wouldn’t that make you happy?” Dad asked.
“No!” I screeched. “Hannah will stab you both when she finds out about this.” A thought occurred to me. “Is this why Beatrice left? Because you cheated on her with Dad?”
“I can’t speak for her motives,” Mom said.
“Yes,” said Dad at the same time.
“It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?” Mom said, smiling at my father. “What goes around, comes around.”