While the food cools and my stomach consumes itself over the smell, Todd tells the rest of the story.
When my mother left Sugarbrook—and she was never very clear on why she’d left, or how or when—she stayed with a work friend, then after she quit her job, a new boyfriend, and another after that. They never lasted or made much of an impression, and none were very good to her. (“One was in a band, and not a jazz band,” Todd adds.) Eventually she left the state entirely, and landed in Torrington. While she crumbled crackers into her soup in a little diner, my mother confessed to Todd Malachai that she felt she was floating once again. Lost. Todd told her if she ever came back to Fitchburg, she’d have a friend. He could help her, and coming home might be good for her. There was even a new place in town, a place his brother-in-law had gone in the months after he was laid off.
She thanked him, insisted on splitting the bill, and left. He never thought he’d see her again, until a month later when she was knocking on his door, telling him that she’d quit her job, that she was finally, really ready to get help.
“And what, she just barnacled on to you?” I sneer. “You take her in, and she takes your money and crashes your truck?”
“Huh?” He frowns.
“Your great-aunt Hilda told me about her.”
Todd surprises me by laughing. “Oh, no! That wasn’t your mother. You really did your research, though, huh? God, Aunt Hilda was thinking of Jen Lavato. Surprised she remembered her. That girl was a piece of work. I was dumb to run around with Jenny. My dad hated her, called me a fool. He was right. That was something like a decade ago, before he died.”
Hilda said as much, thinking back. Of course, if I was any kind of actual detective instead of a stupid kid pretending, I might’ve seen the truth, and not the story I wanted to be true.
“It wasn’t that kind of thing with your mom,” Todd continues. He hands me an overfull plate and leans back against the counter, contemplating a pizza bite. “She wouldn’t take anything from me. I told her I had a spare room above the garage, but she insisted on paying rent, and paying for enrollment at New Hope. Said her cousin had sent her some money and helped her out.”
Now I know why Mom called Lilian Eugene asking for cash after all those years apart.
“But you weren’t, like, together?”
“Not for a while. Not until she got help, and said she felt strong enough for a new start. She had a job offer here in Windham—one of the doctors at New Hope connected her with a lawyer friend looking to hire an assistant. She asked me to come with her, so I did. She proposed to me last year.”
“How romantic.”
We stuff our faces in silence for a while, and after refilling my plate for me, he starts up, “Normally I wouldn’t be telling you her story like this, Imogene. I’d say it was hers to tell. But you’re probably carrying around a lot of real hurt. That’s natural. I just wanted . . . I’m explaining so you’ll give her a chance. Try to listen to her. She’s had a hard life.”
“I really don’t care.” I shove my twice-emptied plate away.
Just then the front door opens and quickly shuts, and a woman’s voice calls out from the far room. “Sweetie? Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch in the snow.”
“We’re in here!” he shouts back, watching me. I try to keep a blank face, but I can feel the blood draining out of it, pounding straight into my heart. I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on the hem of my sweatshirt and try to find a pose that says Fuck you, world. I settle for sitting up straight on the counter and crossing my arms to stop myself from cracking my knuckles.
“Who is ‘we’?” And then my mother is standing in the kitchen doorway.
Ticking my head to the side, I examine her: a small, thin woman with lots of mouse-brown hair waving down to her elbows. Framed by all that hair is a small heart-shaped face. Big hazel eyes under pointed brows. Thin lips that rest in a kind of amused miniature smile. Under one arm she carries a big drawing pad. Her coat is off, but a flouncy blue scarf is tucked under her narrow chin. My chin.
“Hi, Mom.” It comes out rough and dry, like the sound of Dad rasping a hand down his unshaved cheek.
“I knew it,” she whispers. “After the phone call. Imogene? How . . . ?”
“Oh.” I shrug. “You know. I broke into a hospital. Stole your medical files. Tracked down your cousin. Phony-called your old boss. Got money for a fake prom. Talked to your old neighbor. Found your husband’s address. Took a bus.”
One delicate eyebrow shoots upward. “You knew how to do all that?”
“I read a lot.”