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Chapter 19

U nexpectedly, Mom picked up. She was in a dark room. Only a quarter of her face showed on the screen. “This is forbidden,” she whispered at the screen.

I caught my breath, rapidly blinking back the tears that had risen in my eyes and swallowing the lump that had done the same in my throat. She’d picked up. The woman had actually picked up. Seeing the curve of her wrinkled cheek, hearing her raspy, no-nonsense New York accent made me want to reach out and touch my phone’s screen.

I composed myself as best I could. “Hi, Mom. Good to see you, too,” I said in a light voice. “And what’s forbidden? Me calling you, or you having a phone?”

She snorted in disgust. “You’re drunk.”

I leaned closer to the screen. She looked good. A little thinner, but healthy. “Seriously? How did you know? Are you psychic? Do you have the second sight? The Holy Spirit gift of prophecy?”

“What the hell kind of nonsense are you talking about? You know you’re not supposed to call, and you only break rules when you’ve been drinking. Also, you just said, ‘procephy.’ ”

I pointed at the phone. “Twelve points to Slytherin.”

“Rah-rah, Smarty-Pants, I’m Hufflepuff.”

I propped my phone on the coffee table, then covered my mouth with my hand to hide the grin that was spreading. Even though we’d immediately fallen into our pattern of joking around, sarcasm skimming over the surface of things, I already felt better.

“How are you, Mom? How’s the Manson Family Compound?”

“It’s called The Gathering.” But she was snorting and coughing and wheezing into her hand, her brand of laughing.

“And what if they find out you have a phone?” I asked. “Does the prophet, or whatever he’s called, punish you?”

“Uncle Jimbo. And he’s not a prophet, he’s just a leader. He’s very attractive, Billie. Green eyes and this very nice, full mustache—”

“Oh my God, Mom. Ugh. Isn’t he your cousin?”

“Distant cousin. We’re all family up here. That’s the point. But don’t you worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

I had bristled at the word family. “How is it there, anyway? Fun?”

“It’s not about fun, Bills.”

“My mistake,” I said in a caustic tone. “And what about the religious part?”

She sighed.

“I knew it. It’s getting on your nerves.”

She hesitated. “I do miss my Candy Crush. Which is why I snuck into the main office and got my phone back.” She let out an evil little tee-hee, like a recalcitrant child.

I kind of loved that—my perpetually cranky mom defying her cult leader. Again my eyes brimmed with tears, and I brushed them away.

“How’s your new setup?” she asked. “Small-town living treating you right?”

“It’s interesting,” I managed. “Okay.”

“Sorry I didn’t write you back yet. I’ve been really busy. They go batshit overboard about a coupla weeds in the garden.” I heard a lighter flick somewhere offscreen. Then a sharp suck. So along with her phone, she must’ve swiped some cigarettes.

The sound broke something in me. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her. Bawl like a baby, tell her everything that had happened in the past three months, and beg her to catch the first flight out of Portland. But that would send her running. I had to keep myself in check.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” I said in a measured voice.

“You’ve got a southern accent now,” she said.

“I do not.”

“You do. You sound like goddamn Scarlett O’Hara.” She savored the cigarette. Let out a satisfied sigh.

I picked at a thumbnail. “So, Mom. I was hoping we could talk.”

She made a sound, something between a sigh and a groan.

“Mom.”

“So talk.”

I puffed out my breath, determined to get it out. “I actually . . . I cheated on Peter.”

She was quiet for a moment, then, “Well, that was dumb,” she said in a clipped and matter-of-fact voice.

“I didn’t actually sleep with the guy. I just . . . well, we just—”

“I don’t need the gory details, Bills.”

“No, Mom, I—”

“It’s none of my business.”

Now, like some faulty pipe had burst inside me, the tears finally sprang out of my eyes. As quickly as they came, I wiped them away. “Seriously, Mom, just listen. I know it’s not your business, but I don’t have anybody else I can talk to. I don’t know anyone here. I want to tell you. I . . . need to tell you this.”

“Okay, calm down. You don’t need to get all bent out of shape. Just say what you gotta say.”

I gathered myself. “So, yeah, I kissed this man. Jamie Cleburne. One night after Peter and I had a really big fight. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I needed the attention. More attention than Peter gives me because I’m . . . too needy. Or, I don’t know, broken somehow. Maybe I did it because I’m just some sort of human black hole of need.”

She snorted.

“Let’s face it, I’m the person who named not one but two restaurants after herself.”

“Jesus wept, Bills. You’re really overthinking this. Sometimes these things just happen.”

“No, Mom. It didn’t just happen. I’ve been feeling lost. Lost and scared and . . . so strange, somehow. Peter doesn’t . . . He isn’t doing well here. For a long time, he wasn’t sleeping, then he was sleeping all the time. We’re fighting all the time. And there’s something weird about this place, about this house.”

“What, is it haunted or something?”

I swallowed. No comment.

“So tell me this . . . is Big Pete messing around, too?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she snapped. “He’s your husband. You make it your business to know.”

“I’m trying, I really am. I just don’t know what to do. Mom, if you could just get away. Even for a little while. Come down here for a week, or even a weekend. I could show you the new restaurant. You could see how things are—”

She was already shaking her head. “Bills, you know I can’t do that. There’s too much to do up here. And anyway, I can’t be holding your hand. You have to take care of yourself.”

“I am taking care of myself!” I spit out. “And Peter and Meredith and the restaurant!”

“Jesus—”

“No, Mom. Seriously, tell me. When have I ever not taken care of myself? When did I not get myself up for school, wash and iron my school uniform, make my own breakfast, and pack my own lunch? When have I ever once asked you for anything, Mom? Huh? I just want my mother to act like a mother for once. Just for once, talk to me about something real.”

She was quiet, but I could tell by the set of her mouth that I’d gone too far. I sat in regretful silence.

“Look,” she finally said, “if Peter’s screwing around, you gotta get the facts. Especially if you’re headed for court. You’ve got Mere to think about.”

My stomach clenched. I hadn’t even thought that far, but she was right. This could be my future—Peter and I pulling Mere in opposite directions in a custody battle. I suddenly felt the weight of the world pressing down on me, smothering me.

“Is he . . . was he acting strange?” she asked. “Other than not sleeping?”

“There was this one thing. He has a new client, a woman who lives here. I saw her file, and he videotaped all their sessions.”

She tsked. “Videotapes? Have you watched ’em?”

“That would be a violation of HIPAA, of boundaries and rules and . . . I don’t know, all kinds of professional parameters, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but screw HIPAA. You’re gonna have to watch them,” she declared, like she hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. “Whoops, here they come. Gotta run, Bills. And listen . . .”

“What?”

I could’ve sworn her face softened just the slightest bit. “You call again, Bills. You hear? Anytime.”

I nodded. “Okay. I will.”

The screen went black. I let the phone fall onto the sofa and sat very still. Then, with two hands I wiped under my eyes, expelling all the air out of my lungs. She’d asked me to call her. That was something. And she’d made a good point, in her unique, crackpot Mom way. I had to watch those recordings Peter had made with Alice Tilton.

Peter had taken his computer, but he did have an iPad he rarely used somewhere in his office. If it was connected to his files, by the cloud or some other hard drive, maybe I could unlock it. I checked my phone again—still no texts—then poured myself the last of the Montepulciano and headed upstairs. I opened the door to Peter’s office and surveyed the messy room. It was just as I had left it that morning; the unopened square of chocolate was even still there. I went to one of the windows, unlatched it, and pushed it up. Warm, sweet-smelling air rushed in, and I breathed deeply, sitting in Peter’s desk chair.

Okay, I could do this. I was going to do this.

I found the iPad at the bottom of a stack of files in the credenza. It took me a while to find the right charger to get it going, but once I did, after a short wait, it powered up. None of Peter’s files showed up on the desktop, like on his computer, so I typed Alice Tilton’s name into the top search field. Nothing resulted, other than the few social media hits, which I pulled up. They revealed little, other than the fact that Alice Tilton didn’t give a shit about keeping up with her social media.

Fuck . Did it matter if I managed to download a treasure trove of files that proved that my husband and Alice Tilton had an inappropriate relationship? Even if I could watch each and every one—it wouldn’t change what I had done. It wouldn’t somehow magically give Peter and me a better chance; it might only make things worse.

I let the iPad drop to the desk, rose, and walked to the door. When I opened it, a rush of air hit me. Cold air that smelled of water and moss and something chemical in nature that I couldn’t identify. I felt my body rock back in the wave, but my eyes remain closed. Jesus. I was drunker than I thought.

I waited, letting my body adjust to being upright. Letting all my senses settle in the strange smells that enveloped me. It wasn’t that I had the spins, it was more like a gentle rocking, pulling me into . . .

No, toward something I couldn’t identify.

We shall meet, but we shall miss him . . .

The banjo and the fiddle played softly. It was coming from somewhere in my house. No, that couldn’t be. Not in my house. In my head. The music, the song, filled my head. It surrounded me. I gripped my head with both hands. Was I really hearing it or was it just my imagination? How drunk did you have to be to hear phantom music playing?

There will be one vacant chair . . .

“What the FUCK!” I yelled into the empty house. “What is your deal? What do you want from me?”

I turned back to Peter’s desk and stared balefully at the iPad. And then I laughed. A long, loud, full-throated cackle. The music was coming from the iPad. I rushed to the desk and jabbed at the screen. It lit up. “The Vacant Chair.” That same damn song was actually playing.

I hit pause then dropped the device and backed away like the thing was possessed. What was this song doing in Peter’s library? He didn’t like gospel. He liked nineties music, punk, and rock and roll. Maybe he’d been playing a more folky list of songs and the music app must’ve just suggested it. Yes. That must’ve been what happened.

I slipped out into the darkened hall. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet. I tried the light switch, but nothing happened. The bulb must’ve burned out. I should take care of that in the . . .

I let out a scream. Ramsey, the cat, sat in the same spot I’d found him this morning, that same supercilious look on his face. It took me a full minute to recover. A full minute during which he remained motionless.

“What is it, Rams?” I asked him.

He meowed. Turned and walked away from me a few steps.

I stepped closer. “What, Rams? You got something you want to show me?”

He meowed again. Took a few more steps down the hall. Now I realized he was sitting right in front of the spare room. George Davenport’s room.

He turned and pushing the door open, disappeared into the room. I hesitated at the door that was barely cracked open.

We shall linger to caress him,

while we breathe our evening prayer . . .

I shook my head as if I could stop the words of the song. “I’m coming in, Catawampus,” I warned him. And then I walked into the room.