“That’s sweet. I know you make a living with your art stuff, and that’s great. So great, that you can do that. But it’s freelance, and you’re single. I wouldn’t dream of taking your nest egg.” She looked down at me like she was Supergirl and I was a toddler offering to help her lift a building.
I squelched down an orange surge of irritation, sharp as citrus zest. I drew for freaking Marvel, and for DC, and Dark Horse, for the love of God. Literally thousands of art nerds would trade a good chunk of immortal soul to have my career. Thanks to V in V, my own house was paid off. If I wanted to, I could get myself a Lexus and a purse dog and shoot my forehead full of Botox like her friends in East Beach. Instead I bought mint-in-package Wonder Women, and the contents of my dining room built-ins were worth fifty times more than her Spode china. She always acted like this, though. Like I sold lumpy handmade pot holders door-to-door, but not to worry! She’d be there to pay the electric bill when the whole thing went south.
I breathed through it. Rachel and I were two broken halves that had been glued into a family. The difference was, my dad had died; I’d never once thought he might come back if I were perfect. Rachel lived her whole life like she was mother bait, shining for a woman who never even sent a birthday card. Jake’s decision to opt out had hit Rachel in her oldest open wound, and if patronizing me let her feel better, even for a second, she could have it.
“Okay, what then?” I asked. “What can I do?”
She looked around the room again, from the love seats to the lamps to the tidily filled bookshelves. “It’s so nice here. Do you think that we could stay with you? For a little?”
I hesitated. Rachel was an alpha female, marching into a house that already held both Birchie and Miss Wattie. “Are you sure you would want to? After we found the . . . after what we found?”
“It isn’t what I thought. Not at all,” she said. She spread her hands. “I don’t want to go back to Norfolk. I have no idea where Jake is, and I can’t stand being home while Barb-the-perky-real-estate-agent drags families through my house. I can just imagine her leaning in, telling some yuppie bitch and her manscaped husband that they should make an offer, any offer, because we’re desperate not to end up in foreclosure.”
I needed Rachel here like I needed a good old-fashioned zombie apocalypse, but she was asking me for help. She never had before. A window had opened in the smooth wall she kept around herself, and I was being allowed to peek through it. Of course, inside that wall was a moat full of monsters and another, bigger wall and probably some dragons, but it was a start.
“Of course you can,” I said. “If that’s really what you want.” She smiled, a true bright sunshine smile, even as I added, “You’ll have to bunk with me, though. We are flat out of empty bedrooms.”
“That’s fine. That’s great. It will be like when we were kids on family vacations,” she said, as if this were a good thing.
Mom and Keith had planned one every spring break. They’d pile us into the van and drive across the country to aquariums or canyons or theme parks. None of us were really camping types, so we’d bunk at inexpensive family-style hotels that featured two queen beds per room and swimming pools and free continental breakfast. Rachel and I always shared the bed by the bathroom. Keith had to be by the door, as if he thought pirate brigands or hostile aliens might burst through and he’d need to protect his womenfolk.
“You hated sleeping with me when we were kids,” I reminded her.
“Only because you always kicked me!” she said. “Anyway, I didn’t have Ambien back then.”
I tried to derail her truly bad idea one more time, but without making that window seal itself shut. “Well, if I do bug you, you can always borrow my house in Norfolk. It’s standing empty.”
“Thank you, but Lavender’s made some friends here. She’s been texting me in an endless stream, begging to stay, and I would like her to have a little fun this summer. I can’t really afford Disney right now,” she said, and then some plastic came back into her smile. “Unless you would rather we didn’t?”
“No, no,” I said. “Stay. It will make Lav happy, you’re right about that.” And with Rachel here, boy shenanigans were both less likely and no longer my sole responsibility. “What can I do for you right now? Are you hungry? Want some hot tea?”
“A nap. If I could lie down for a minute . . .” She sounded so pitiful, and she had been driving all night.
I led her up the stairs to my room. I carried the smaller case, in deference to Digby, and it still felt like she’d thrown half her walk-in closet in there.
“Lav’s right through here,” I said, setting the suitcase down near the adjoining door.
She came to look, cracking the door and peering in. I saw a measure of peace settle on her face at the sight of her daughter, sleeping in a coil under a heap of covers. Lav’s bright hair spilled across the pillow, catching the light from the open doorway.
“Oh, she’s so lovely,” Rachel whispered. “What is he thinking? How could he leave us? Leave her?”
I shook my head. My own father owned the only answer with no blame attached. Jake had dipped because he was selfish or scared or too broken to do better. Then I realized that Batman had an answer that left him blameless, too: He had no idea his kid existed.
I felt the last of my anger with my niece leaking away. She’d created a connection, an intangible chain. It linked me to Batman as surely as the tether inside me linked me to Digby. Of course she’d gone looking for Digby’s dad, powerless as she was to do a single damn thing about her own. The kid was terrified, and when she’d messaged the Batman, it had had zero to do with me. She’d meddled on behalf of Digby, contacting his father because she wished with all her heart that some loving meddler would brute-force contact hers. I’d missed my cue. I’d lost my temper and left her to find her comfort in the testosterone-fueled mercy of teenage boys.
Looking at Lav, thinking of the ticking heart of Digby at my center, I knew what I had to do. For both of them.
Rachel turned away and kicked her flats off, then climbed right into the bed in her sweatpants with her bra still on. I think she was asleep before I got out of the room. I closed the door quietly behind me.
I went downstairs to the sewing room. This room was the last stop for furniture that would soon be retired into the attic. Two slightly sagging wing chairs and a big plush sofa with a stained cushion shared the space with Birchie’s old Singer table. The back wall was built-ins, but instead of books Birchie had filed her fabrics here. Rolls were packed into the long, glass-fronted cabinets, and the shelves were full of quilting squares sorted by color. I had hidden my laptop in the purples.
I pulled it out, though yesterday I’d told myself I’d opened enough lids to last me, thanks. But I’d been wrong, and Lav was right.
I plopped down on the sofa, opening the old laptop and hitting the power button. It took forever to boot up; I’d only brought it to make sure Lavender stayed off my Cintiq.