Calling the Shots. Ellen Hartman
weren’t ready to really connect with anyone or build new relationships.”
“Freelancing meant I had more time for Tim,” Clare said.
“It’s been good for you.” Lindsey put one finger on the screen. “Listen, I’m not trying to fight. It’s just, I guess because you never sold the house here that I always thought you’d be back.”
“I can’t sell it, Lindsey, but I can’t come back.”
Clare’s mom had died in a car accident while driving home alone at night from a bereavement support group. Her father moved into an apartment a few years later and gave Clare the house. Tim had been about two at the time and she had briefly considered settling in Seattle, close to Lindsey and her father, but she hadn’t been able to face living in the house. Frankly, she thought her dad gave it to her because he couldn’t stand to live there or to sell it, either. Her dad was more and more withdrawn, even from Tim, so she could only guess at his feelings. She tried not to think about the place beyond making sure the taxes were paid and that when she signed with new renters they had decent references.
“I worry about you sometimes,” Lindsey said. “You have so much to offer if you ever decide to put down roots somewhere. Maybe Seattle isn’t that place, but maybe there is a place that could be home for you.” She paused. “If you’re ready for a home. Which you might not be.”
“Maybe for me, home isn’t one place, it’s a feeling. How I feel about Tim and you. Can’t that be true?”
Lindsey shrugged. “It can be. But is it? For Tim, too?”
Clare looked out the window into the dark backyard. A spotlight mounted on the house lit the snow-covered bushes. “If my son was going to lobby for a permanent address, I don’t know why he picked this one. It’s freezing cold and all anyone wants to talk about is hockey. I mean, we lived in Monterey, we were in Baltimore, we had that place with the river in the backyard in Indiana…and he’s digging his heels in over Twin Falls, New York?”
“It might not be where so much as when. He’s thirteen. I bet being the new kid is harder in middle school.”
“That’s what he said.”
“I’m not colluding with him, I swear, but I remember how tough middle school was, and it got worse every year straight through high school. Maybe he’s nervous about fitting in.”
“He doesn’t seem nervous. He seems mad.” Clare sighed. “What’s with all the maybes, anyway? You’re supposed to be telling me what to do.”
Lindsey frowned. “I should probably skip the advice and just come throw eggs. I bet I’m better at revenge than I am at sympathy.”
“If I decide vandalism is the appropriate response, you’re my first choice for second-in-command.”
“Throwing eggs is hardly ever appropriate, Clare,” Lindsey said in a prim tone. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘emotionally satisfying.’”
“Thanks, Lindsey. I’m pleased I picked an appropriately bloodthirsty godmother for Tim.”
“I got your back, my friend. Fists or eggs, whatever you need.”
LATER, AS SHE LAY ON her side, holding the extra pillow close to her chest, listening to another snowstorm tapping on her window, the fight played over and over in her mind. With everything she did to keep him safe, that mess had happened right under her nose. She heard the crack of Tim’s head on the ground, the shattering of the window, him saying, “I’m handling it.”
Tim didn’t understand yet that so much about life couldn’t be handled. You could go along the way her parents had with your two daughters and your ordinary life on a friendly street in a good neighborhood and life could still run so far off the rails you’d never find your way back.
No one could expect to handle life. Loving anyone sometimes seemed like the biggest, stupidest mistake you could make. She couldn’t un-love Lindsey or her dad, and Tim was a part of her own soul, but she could try her best to keep him safe.
That must be what all parents wanted, right?
She remembered the confusion and determination in Bryan James’s voice when he’d told her that Allie was a good kid. She wondered what he’d said to Allie once he caught up with her. Did he have the right answers? Or was his house full of the kind of empty upset that hers was?
CHAPTER THREE
BRYAN TRIED TO TALK to Allie over breakfast but she studied her bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats cereal with complete concentration and refused to answer his questions. He followed her down the hall when she went to the shower but stopped when she closed the bathroom door in his face. He knocked.
“I’m getting ready for school, Dad.”
Not that long ago, “getting ready for school” meant scrambling into her boots and snowpants before she ran to the bus. Now it meant an hour in the bathroom doing God knew what. Actually, Erin would have known what she was doing. Would have been able to help her with it. He hated feeling so useless.
“I can’t pretend nothing happened, Allie.”
She turned the shower on.
He spun around, but there wasn’t anything handy for him to kick. She was so good at avoiding him, but that was how they’d gotten into this mess. He didn’t know what was going on with her and based on what Clare had said, he’d already missed a lot. The trouble was, she wasn’t going to talk to him about it. Not voluntarily, anyway.
She stayed in the bathroom until about forty-five seconds before the bus pulled up out front. He’d retreated to the kitchen, leaving the hallway empty, letting her think she had a clear shot at escape. When she got to the entryway, he waylaid her, positioning himself between her and the door as she stepped into her sneakers, shrugged on her backpack and flipped her braid over her shoulder. Even though he was squarely blocking the door, she did an excellent job of pretending she was alone, not even glancing at him when she accidentally stepped on his foot.
“You’re grounded,” he said abruptly. “Come home straight after school.”
Finally she looked up, her mouth open. “Grounded until when?”
“Until you sit down and tell me what’s going on.”
She closed her mouth. He prayed he wouldn’t cave. The bus beeped. He willed her out the door. She didn’t move. The bus door groaned as it closed and she flicked a glance over his shoulder to the road.
“Fine,” she said. “Fine. It’s not like I have anywhere to go, anyway.”
The bus beeped again. The driver wouldn’t wait much longer.
“Can I go to school, or am I grounded from that, too?”
He stepped aside and she pushed the door open. Snow swirled in around their feet. The storm door closed behind her with a snap, cutting the cold air off.
He stood watching her, but the glass fogged as she climbed onto the bus and he lost track of her. “Have a good day,” he said, knowing it was inane but wishing there was some way she could hear him.
He slammed the inside door closed and smacked it with his palm.
You’re grounded? He’d never grounded anyone before. Where had that come from?
In the kitchen, his cell phone lay next to his laptop on the table. He called Erin. Screw her if it was only 5:00 in the morning in L.A. Her fault for moving so damn far away from her kid.
She didn’t answer, and he left a short message to call him. She probably wouldn’t. It usually took about three tries before he could contact her and it was a rare day when she actually called him back anytime during daylight hours.
She was busy, she’d say.
Bryan picked up Allie’s bowl and took it to the