Heartbroken (8 page)

“And it’s well built, not like a lot of places,” she was saying. “Some of these homes have paper-thin walls. You can hear everything from room to room. But not here.”

“Oh, yes,” said Dean. “I can see that. Very solid construction.”

They made the loop of the whole house for show. Dean liked the office with its big oak desk and ergonomic chair. Emily loved the girl’s room with the dollhouse and four-poster bed. The broker gave Dean her card and asked them to sign the sheet, provide an e-mail; she’d stay in touch about her other listings. Mr. and Mrs. Greg Glass, [email protected] Emily liked it when he wrote that; it made her feel good, for some reason.

As they walked back out to the car, she almost told Dean the thing she’d wanted to tell him. But when she looked back, the broker was standing on the front stoop watching them. And when Emily looked ahead, Brad had rolled down the window. She saw his hand dangling out with a cigarette between the fingers. She had a strange feeling, a little rise of panic, that she couldn’t move forward or move back. It wasn’t the right moment for good news. Emily wondered if it ever would be.

chapter five

Dear Kate,

The weather has been cold here at Heart Island. The water never quite warmed this year. Be sure you bring the proper gear, not like last year. I wonder if Sean’s kayaking skills have improved at all? Perhaps we can manage a day trip without someone needing to be hauled to shore.

I know Brendan and Chelsea complained about the lack of television reception; I am afraid that hasn’t changed. Perhaps you’ll want to bring a portable DVD player again to keep them entertained. Though I will say that cell phone reception has come to the island, so that should make Chelsea less sullen. It’s very spotty, for reasons I can’t explain. But at least it’s something.

I’ll be doing the final grocery shopping tomorrow. So if you have any special needs, let me know—or you’ll be quite out of luck, since we’re trying to avoid any unnecessary trips to the mainland. The menu for the last week will be written in stone unless you speak up now. Is Chelsea still a quasi-vegetarian? Does Brendan eat ANYTHING but macaroni and cheese? You know, it is impossible to be high-maintenance on Heart Island. I imagine, as the children get older, they’ll understand that better. Though I’m still waiting for you and Theodore to come up to speed on this point—ha-ha!

K
ate skimmed the rest of her mother’s e-mail and fought the urge to lie down, the way she often (always?) felt after communications from her mother. The embedded insults softened with terms of endearment and the digs masquerading as jokes never failed to drain her of energy.

Your mother’s an expert sniper
, Sean had said.
You know you got hit; you just don’t know where the shot came from. You can’t do anything but lie there, bleeding out
.

The question was why Birdie always felt the need to aim and fire. If confronted, she’d say something like: “Oh, Kate, don’t be so sensitive.” It was a perfect double whammy, to hurt someone and then to act as if it were weakness on the part of the injured to cry out in pain. How could Kate have been angry with Theo for not wanting to go to the island anymore? The truth was, she wasn’t angry with him. She was angry with herself.

“Are we going to go camping again this year?” Brendan asked.

Kate started a little. She was sitting in her office, at the desk with her back to the door, which was, she knew, very bad feng shui. If you kept your back to the door, allegedly, you were energetically turning away from new business and new opportunities. You were also allowing enemies to sneak up on you, according to the feng shui expert who’d written the article in one of the many magazines dedicated to simplifying life. It made an odd kind of sense to Kate, though she hadn’t gotten around to rearranging the furniture. Why did the act of simplifying your life seem so complicated and require so much effort? Why was there never any time to do it?

“I don’t know,” Kate said. She closed the e-mail and swiveled to face Brendan.

Kate hated camping. It seemed silly to sleep outside in the woods when you could be sleeping inside in your bed. What was the point? To seem outdoorsy? Some people would give anything to be sleeping inside.

“We’ll see about the weather,” she said. She tried to keep her voice bright.

“What’s wrong?” Brendan asked.

Both her children were delicately tied in to her moods; she could never hide anything from them. She was glad about that in some ways, because she didn’t
want
to hide anything from them. Not the big stuff, anyway—she knew how toxic that was. On the other hand, they didn’t need to know everything going on in her head every second, did they?

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“Lies,” said her son. He flopped himself down on the couch next to her desk, put his feet up on the cushions. She could see, even from a distance, that his ankle was swollen. It was turning a deep purple around the bone.

Brendan was her little Tonka truck, sturdy and beefy, indestructible. The falls and accidents he’d had over his short life were legendary, but he seemed to get up and walk away, immediately game for the next adventure. Today he’d hurt his ankle during soccer. And now he was limping badly.

Instead of watching the rest of the game, they’d spent an hour at the urgent care center near their house. After he’d twisted his ankle, as she comforted him on the field and held the ice to it, she’d wondered—selfishly, guiltily—if this was reason enough to cancel the trip. But the doctor had said that nothing was broken or fractured; it was just a bad sprain.

“Where’s your ice pack?” she asked.

“It’s too cold.”

She had to love the logic of her ten-year-old.

“It’s
supposed
to be cold.”

He gave her an earnest look. “I’m taking a break from it.”

She got up and went into the living room, where he’d tossed the ice pack on the floor, and returned to her office. She placed it gently on his ankle. He didn’t look up from his handheld game.

Sean had purchased the device for him recently, mainly because they felt like they had to, since Chelsea’s father had given her an iPhone for no reason at all. This had been one of the major points of contention between Kate and her ex-husband recently: whether he could give Chelsea extravagant gifts without Kate and Sean’s permission.

Even though they could, Kate and Sean made a conscious effort not to give the kids everything they wanted when they wanted it. Chelsea and Brendan each had a list, and they got what was on that list eventually—usually for birthdays, Christmas, or some school accomplishment, after saving for part of it themselves, or by earning it in some other way, and, of course, the random surprise. But because of her ex’s sudden desire to win Chelsea over (now that he was sober and “confronting his past mistakes”), not to mention his titanic guilt complex, he was giving her things—like the iPhone, piles of clothes, designer bags.

“I have a right to buy my daughter gifts,” he’d said to Kate during this afternoon’s heated conversation. She was inadequate at the task of explaining why it was not okay to give Chelsea things that Kate would have made her wait for or earn. Or how it upset the balance of fairness between Chelsea and her brother. You couldn’t explain the complex strategies of good and careful parenting to someone who’d never had a thought about anything or anyone but himself.

Close up, Brendan’s ankle looked even worse than it had on the field. She put a tender hand on it and sat down next to him on the couch.

“Listen, bud,” she said. “Maybe we should think about canceling the trip.”

Brendan glanced up from his game with wide eyes. She pressed on.

“It’s going to be hard for you there while you’re injured.” She was
such
a horrible mother. What a total cop-out to try to use Brendan’s injury to get them out of this trip.

“It’s fine!” he said. He sat up quickly. “It’s not
that
bad.”

He stood to prove his point, then tried to hide the resulting wince. He sat back down, deflated. She draped an arm around him and pulled him in close.

“I love it there,” he said.

She felt a powerful twist of sadness. She loved it there, too. Something magical lived on Heart Island, something beautiful. It had been there long before her mother’s family had ever owned it, and it would be there long after they were all gone. None of the awful things that had happened on the island, or because of it, could change that. It wasn’t only the glorious air or the unspoiled lake water. It wasn’t simply the rocky shore or the wind in the trees. It wasn’t the musical quiet or even the clusters of butterflies. It was something Kate had never been able to explain or define, but it drew her there again and again, even though an equal number of things pushed her away. Theo had obviously given up on it. Kate couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.

She looked at her watch. It was time to go get Chelsea. She told Brendan as much.

“Are you going to cancel?” he asked. “Because of me?”

He looked so sad sitting there, so disappointed.

“No,” she said. She ruffled the soft mess of his hair. “You’ll be all right.”

She thought he’d smile in relief, but he frowned.

“Why don’t you want to go?” he asked. He had wise hazel eyes that were green in a certain light, and the same sandy hair as his sister’s (but his was a wild and untamable mass of curls). His nose and cheekbones were, to his eternal dismay, a riot of freckles.

“I do,” she said. “It’s complicated.”

He shrugged, moving on. “Can I watch TV?”

She’d recently started allowing Brendan to stay at home alone while she ran a quick errand here and there. He was smart, reasonably trustworthy. And, she figured, how much trouble could he cause
in under half an hour, especially if she told him he could watch television? She always had a low-grade feeling of unease when she left him.

“Yes, but order the pizza in about twenty minutes,” she said. “Don’t forget.”

The odds were about fifty-fifty that he’d remember to do what she asked. She’d have Chelsea call and check when she got in the car. Tonight they’d all start packing. Tomorrow would be a frantic rush of last-minute errands and stuffing suitcases to the brim, arguing about what could come and what must stay. By Sunday morning, they’d be in the car, heading north. She tried to remember what it was like to be excited about a trip the way she was when she was younger, like Brendan. But she couldn’t remember. All she really felt was dread.

I
t came to nothing. Chelsea was giddy at first, as she drank her strawberry banana smoothie, just wondering
if
he’d come, and if he’d be as cute as his picture. Sometimes it seemed like anticipation was the most fun of anything.

They waited, the scent of cinnamon rolls heavy in the air, getting excited every time they saw someone who
could
be Adam. In the seemingly endless stream of moms with kids and gangs of boys and girls all spending their Friday afternoon at the mall, no one approached them. There were a couple of boys with torn jeans and spiky hair that could have been the boy in the photo. But one had a tattoo, the other a pierced nose, and they didn’t see anyone they were sure enough about to wave at. Slowly, the excited tingle diminished.

Lulu promised that she wouldn’t flirt if he
did
show up. Anyway, Lulu had a sick crush on Conner Lange, who had been calling her the whole time. Lulu thought he was going to ask her to homecoming this fall. Lulu liked jocks, not alternative, punky boys. Chelsea did
not
like jocks; she did not understand the whole team-sports
thing and why people were so collectively
into
it. She liked guys who were into art and music, who liked to read and understood poetry.

“Which is why you never like anyone,” said Lulu. “Because no one cares about any of those things.”

“Some guys do,” said Chelsea. Didn’t they? Her father did. Adam McKee looked like the type of guy who would.

“Maybe,” said Lulu. “But they’re all geeks. Or gay.”

Chelsea didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, they talked about how Lulu had to do better in algebra this year. Chelsea said she would help when she got back from her trip if Lulu promised to study harder and spend less time on Facebook.

“That island,” said Lulu. She drank the rest of her water. God forbid she should have a smoothie. “You’re going again.”

“It’s a family thing,” said Chelsea. “We go every year.”

“What am I supposed to do for the rest of the summer?” Lulu took aim with the bottle and landed it directly in the recycle bin.

“It’s just a week until school starts,” said Chelsea.

“I guess.” Lulu looked a little sad, and Chelsea felt a tug of guilt. She’d never invited Lulu to the island, although Lulu had been on other trips with Chelsea’s family. Heart Island was different somehow. For whatever reason, Chelsea couldn’t imagine Lulu there.

Lulu didn’t have many other friends. They both knew why; she was hot, and she was mean—not a good combination. Most girls hated her on sight. Chelsea had never asked herself why she wasn’t intimidated by Lulu’s beauty or why Lulu wasn’t mean to her. She just didn’t remember a time before she and Lulu were friends.

“It’s getting late,” said Chelsea. She took one last sweep of the huge food court, the giant beating heart of the mall. All the arteries led to this teeming center, mobbed with people eating all the food her mother hated. She looked from table to table. No Adam McKee. Chelsea was equal parts disappointed and relieved. “He’s not coming.”

Lulu glanced at the clock and nodded her agreement. “Oh well.”
This would be the point when Lulu would normally say something mean about him, that he was a loser or that he was probably poor because he went to public school. But Lulu was strangely silent. Chelsea checked the Facebook app on her phone. He hadn’t written on her wall or sent her a message. She shared that with Lulu, who was tapping away on her own phone and didn’t seem to hear.

Chelsea said, “We should go.”