LYNDEE ANTHONY is a liar. I am standing behind her, chewing on a piece of my hair as she pays for her Virginia Slims at the Quickie Mart. Knick Knack is hitting on her in that pothead sort of way, where he laughs at everything she says and punctuates his sentences with ‘damn.’ He sees the SpongeBob fob on her keychain and asks if she has any kids.
Oh my God, Knick Knack, I want to say. Don’t you watch the damn news? I wait for her to break down; I even hold my breath as I imagine her tear ducts opening, releasing the full force of her pain. Instead she laughs and coyly shakes her head no. No? I am still in shock and trying to work out her angle when she leans over the counter to grab her change from his hand. Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s Nevaeh Anthony’s mother. Maybe she’s tired of the looks, and words, and the pity. Knick Knack holds her change just out of reach so that she has to jump for it. He’s watching her chest with the rapt attention of a man watching his dinner approach. She seems to be enjoying the play—doe-eyed Lyndee Anthony, who can make Bambi look like a stone cold killer. Playing and flirting like her little girl isn’t dead.
That’s the moment I decide she’s a liar. And if she can lie about not having a kid, a kid who’s goddamn dead, what else is she lying about? Maybe I’m being too hard on her. I entertain the thought that she’s pretending to be someone else to escape. When Knick Knack has his fill of her bouncy breasts, he hands her the change, and she giggles all the way out the door.
“That’s Nevaeh Anthony’s mother, you shit,” I tell him.
He plucks a box of healthy cigarettes off the shelf and scans them under the gun.
“I know,” he says.
I balk at him. “Well, she lied about having a kid,” I say, handing over my money.
“I know.”
“So the flirting and the questions?”
Knick Knack shrugs. “Why not?” He hands me the pack. “You want to know my professional opinion?” he asks, lowering his voice and leaning his elbows on the counter so that he’s close to my face.
“She got rid of her kid. Wasn’t no stranger that took her.”
The pothead gas attendant is the first one to voice my thoughts. I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone else is in the store.
“Why do you think that?” I hiss, tucking the cigarettes into my back pocket.
“My cousin works with her at the car wash,” he says. “My cousin has a little girl, you know. About the same age as Lyndee’s kid. My cousin was saying that she couldn’t go to this party her friend was having because she didn’t have anyone to watch her daughter. Lyndee told her to slip the kid half a sleeping pill. Said it’s what she did when she wanted to go out.”
I stare at Knick Knack, sour dread curling in my stomach.
“I gotta go,” I say. I am halfway to the door when he calls out to me. “Hey, Maggie!”
“Margo,” I say.
“You look good, girl! I’d hit that.”
I roll my eyes, but there is something so deeply satisfying about that, You look good girl, I have to smile.
I am walking down Wessex when I realize I bought cigarettes, and my mother is in a jar in the corner of her old bedroom.
The Bone has one grocery store, two gas stations, and a peppering of small businesses like Fat Joe’s Burgers and the FUN! FUN! ARCADE. You’re bound to run into the same face more than once a week; at least, that’s what I tell myself as I follow Lyndee up and down the streets of Bone Harbor.
It’s not until I follow her from the bus stop to Wal-Mart one night that I realize the extent of my obsession. I trail her through the brightly lit aisles with a blue basket looped on my arm, as she piles things into her cart in a hurry: a package of bologna, two liter bottles of Pepsi, a giant jar of pickles, and a bag of green apples.
Every day she eats her apple as she sits at the bus stop, thin slices in a plastic baggie that she pulls out of her purse. I walk past her on my way home from the Rag, studying the bag of apples beside her on the bench. Watching as she sits hunched over her cell phone, her thumbs darting across the screen.
Lyndee was with her boyfriend, Steve, the night Nevaeh went missing. They made dinner and stayed home to watch a DVD: macaroni and cheese—the Kraft kind—and Transformers.
The more I see Lyndee Anthony, the stranger I feel. I see her on her porch some nights when I walk home, drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade with Steve, music pounding from the overly juiced stereo inside. I watch carefully for her grief, but it never comes. At least not for my eyes. But I can’t tell anyone, not even Judah. My mother had the same look about her—the deer in the headlights vulnerability. I buy a box of Gushers, like the ones Nevaeh used to eat on the bus, and take them to Judah’s house. We eat them on his porch as we watch the rain.
“I’ve never seen her cry,” I say about Lyndee.
“Everybody deals with their pain differently,” Judah says.
I suppose he’s right.
“But shouldn’t you cry? Just a little. Or at least look sad?”
He sucks the candy off his teeth and looks at me seriously.
“They found my tumor when I was five. I had to have surgery to remove it. The doctor did a shitty ass job and there was nerve damage.”
He runs his hand over his face, and suddenly the cocky joker is gone, and I can see all of his shadows. “God, the therapy … no little kid should ever have to be that sick. My mom was there all the time. Every day. They had to make her leave to sleep and shower. But, not once did I ever see her cry. That didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering.”