Untethered Read online

  It certainly wasn’t that Char had shirked all responsibility for Allie while Bradley was alive. She hadn’t gotten too involved in the first year, but as time went on and she began to spend more time alone with her stepdaughter, she figured out how to walk the fine line of being the adult without acting like the parent. She had no problem enforcing Bradley’s “No TV until homework is finished” rule in the afternoons before he got home from work. Or reminding the child to brush her teeth before bed, or that she still had chores to finish so her request to go out with friends had better wait until those were done. And on occasions when Allie had been rude to her stepmom and her father wasn’t there to chastise her for it, Char had no trouble telling the girl she didn’t appreciate the comment, or gesture, or glare, and asking for an apology.

  But there was a difference between all of that—“parenting light,” Char described it to Will—and how Bradley interacted with Allie. Reminding a child about rules set by a parent was one thing. So, even, was taking the additional step of enforcing those rules in the parent’s absence. Any babysitter would do that, and any child would understand it.

  Devising the rules, on the other hand, was both the exclusive privilege and burden of the parent. Char wasn’t sure any child would understand it if someone else tried to take over the task.

  “I get that things have changed,” Char said. “I’m the only adult in the house now. I’m responsible for her. At the same time, though, the house I’m referring to was Allie’s before it was mine. Who am I to sit her down and tell her how things are going to be in her own home?

  “I get that she’s fifteen and I’m forty-five, but still. It seems disrespectful to me. And I wouldn’t blame her if she took it that way.” She groaned. “Is that a total cop-out, though? I mean, I called you because I’m worried about her.”

  “Misplaced worry,” Will said, dragging out the first word, “is no reason to do something rash. We’re talking about a good kid here, who’s never done anything wrong. And look, even if your worry isn’t misplaced, and she messes up a bit, so what? The girl’s father just died, and now she has to figure out where she wants to live—in her hometown, with everything familiar to her but no bio parent, or on the other side of the country, with her mom, but without any of her friends, or you.

  “I mean, my God. If the worst thing the kid does in reaction to everything she’s going through is to spend a weekend or two, or even the last part of a semester, reeking of cigarettes and going to a few parties she shouldn’t go to with some kids who aren’t on the honor roll, you should probably consider yourself lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Char said. “I wouldn’t call that lucky, if she—”

  Will sighed. “In the words of my niece, ‘OMG.’ Fine. If you don’t think you should give her any leeway here, then don’t. Confront her when she gets home. Tell her there’s a new sheriff in town, and lay down the new law. Tell her she’s not seeing the kid again. Tell her—”

  “No,” Char said. “You’re right. I’m overreacting. She’s never done anything irresponsible before, and like you said, even if she does act out a bit, in reaction to everything she’s dealing with, it’s understandable. There’s no reason to make any changes right now.”

  “Good,” Will said. “Look, you’re good with her. You have an instinct. Don’t forget that.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “That makes me feel less incompet—”

  “Don’t say it,” he interrupted. “Not one negative word. That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

  Char smiled and pressed her chin into the phone, as though the plastic rectangle were her brother’s cheek. “It’s late. I’ve kept you long enough. Thanks again, Will.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “So, you’ve now got ninety minutes. And inquiring minds want to know: are you going to work or pace?”

  “Work,” she said.

  Which she tried for five minutes after they hung up. Then she paced.

  Fourteen

  Week after week, as January turned into February, Allie kept seeing Kate and the boys. Week after week, Char kept her mouth shut.

  Mostly.

  Now and then, she commented lightly to Allie that it would be nice if the kids came to the door instead of honking from the driveway. If the boys would make eye contact with her, rather than with their phones, when she went outside to speak to them. If they would address her as “Mrs. Hawthorn” instead of “Hey” when they did deign to acknowledge her. If Allie didn’t smell like an ashtray when they dropped her off at home.

  Each time, Allie would say, equally lightly, “Okay, Mrs. Rockwell.”

  It was a nod to their playful ganging up on Bradley over his Norman Rockwellian idea that they should all gather together each morning for “the most important meal of the day.” It was Allie’s nonconfrontational way of saying Char was being old-fashioned. For a while, “Okay, Mrs. Rockwell” turned a situation that had potential for argument into one that strengthened a bond.

  Sort of.

  What began as a funny “bit” between them eroded over the weeks, and by the middle of February, Char sensed a creeping in of impatience, both hers and Allie’s, over the situation. Their once-light banter about Allie’s new friends took on a bit of acid.

  “Again?” Char heard herself ask at dinner one night in late February, after Allie said she was planning to spend time with Kate, Wes, and Justin that evening.

  Allie, who had been midway to taking a bite, dropped her fork, letting it clatter on her plate. “What does that mean? I’ve seen Sydney almost every day for the past five years and you’ve never said ‘Again?’ like that.”

  Char considered her response. What reason could she give for not wanting Allie to spend so much time with these kids? If there was ever a time when she could have confessed to forming an opinion about the boys as a result of her eavesdropping, it wasn’t now, when there was already some tension between her and Allie. Mentioning the boys’ lack of manners, or the fact that they drove her around in an ashtray on wheels, would sound like something a grandmother would say. “I have a bad feeling about them” would never fly, either.

  So instead, she used the only concrete argument she could think of: Allie’s grades had slipped since she started hanging out with Kate and the boys. Winter conditioning had begun for soccer, and although Allie had been evasive about what she was doing in the ninety minutes between the end of class and the start of practice, it was clear from her report card she was not heading straight for the library with Sydney like she used to do. That alone would have been enough reason for Bradley to start saying no to Allie’s spending more time with her new companions.

  Hiding behind her late husband’s high expectations for his daughter, Char murmured something about “GPA” and “college admissions.” But her heart wasn’t in it, and she and Allie both knew it. Bradley had cared about his daughter getting every last point she could, but it had never been Char’s thing.

  “Seriously?” Allie said. “I drop from the top of the honor roll to the middle after my dad dies, and you want to blame it on the very people who’ve been keeping me together all this time?”

  Char was confused. She had no idea that Kate, Wes, and Justin had been providing moral support. “They’ve been keeping you together?” she asked. “How?”

  Allie pushed her chair back and stood. “Nice.”

  “Allie, wait,” Char called as the girl stomped to the stairs. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was surprised, that’s all. Come back and finish dinner, and let’s try that conversation again.”

  “Not hungry,” Allie said.

  Char waited for the girl to turn and thunder up the stairs, but Allie stopped and turned. “It just so happens,” she said, “that of all my friends, these three are the only ones who treat me like I’m a normal person, not a poor, pathetic girl who just lost her dad. No one else, including Sydney, can have a regular conversa
tion with me, not even for two minutes, without patting my arm or giving me a hug and asking how I am.

  “We’ll be talking about math or English homework or whatever and their faces will totally cloud over, like, wait, it’s been ninety seconds, time to check in, see how Allie’s really doing. I feel like I’m this chore of theirs. ‘Time to check on Allie. Better say something encouraging to Allie.’

  “Sometimes I’ll see them coming down the hall toward me and they’ll be talking and laughing and smiling, and then they spot me and immediately they start looking like they feel guilty having fun around me. And I don’t want that. It makes me feel so much worse, not better.

  “Kate and Justin and Wes don’t treat me like that, like I’m some special case. And it’s not because they don’t care that Dad died. They do care. They told me they were really sorry about it. Once. And then they got back to normal. Talking about whatever, laughing, making fun of me. If I want to talk about it, they’ll listen. But if I don’t mention it, they don’t either. It’s so . . . easy with them.”

  Char stepped toward Allie, a hand reaching out. “I didn’t realize they’d been so helpful to you.”

  Allie turned back to the stairs. “Well, now you do.”

  Then came the thunder on the steps, followed by a loud thud as Allie slammed her door.

  • • •

  The following evening, Allie didn’t spread her homework out over the kitchen counter after dinner the way she had always done. Instead, she hoisted her backpack to her shoulder and headed for the stairs and her room. Char called to her from the family room couch, where she was sitting with a cup of tea and a book. “Aren’t you going to keep me company?” she asked.

  “Better not,” Allie said. “Too much distraction. My grades are slipping, after all.”

  The night after that, Allie didn’t wait until after dinner to retreat to her room, but ran straight upstairs the moment her friend Maggie dropped her off after soccer conditioning.

  “Hey,” Char called. “You want to make a salad while I finish setting the table?”

  “Huge test tomorrow,” Allie said. “Better not.”

  Later, she stayed at the table only long enough to gobble up her dinner and give one-word answers to Char’s questions before excusing herself to get back to her studying. The night after that, it was “tons of math homework” that kept her in her room, except for the ten minutes she took to eat.

  Every night thereafter, a rotating list of assignments, tests, and papers kept Allie from spending more than the briefest of moments downstairs. She still tutored Morgan on Mondays, and Char still picked her up after. But Allie said less and less on the drive home each week, and after a while, Char thought it best to stop asking. For most of each evening, and entire days on the weekends, Allie stayed behind her closed bedroom door, possibly studying, possibly talking to friends or texting, but most definitely not spending one more minute than she had to with Char.

  Fifteen

  Soon, it was the end of March, and there was only one week left before Allie’s spring break. She would spend it, as usual, in California with her mother. Char hoped that the sun and heat would bake a little sense into the girl, and that when she came home, she would promptly dump Kate and the boys and resume spending all of her free time with Sydney. The tension in the house would dissipate, and Char and Allie could get back to the serious business of figuring out, together, how to navigate life in Mount Pleasant, and the rest of the world, without Bradley.

  On the last Monday afternoon of the month, Char drove to pick up Allie from tutoring. When she walked into the community center, she saw Sarah and Stevie Crew sitting in the waiting area outside the tutoring room. Stevie jumped up to greet Char at the front door.

  “Hey there, mister!” Char said, raising her hand for their customary high five.

  Stevie slapped Char hard and allowed her a moment to make her dramatic inspection for broken metacarpals before clasping his little palm around her fingers and pulling her to his mother.

  “Stevie, for goodness’ sake,” Sarah said, “let the woman walk on her own.”

  The boy released Char’s hand and ran three steps before sliding to his knees on the dirty floor. Morgan’s backpack was sitting near Sarah’s chair, and Stevie fished through it, tossing his sister’s lunchbox, mittens, and books as he went. Finally, he produced a stack of folded pieces of construction paper, which he held out to Char.

  For weeks, Morgan had been making cards for Char and Allie. Some were “simpithy” cards, some “frendshipe” cards, some were simply filled with drawings. From time to time, Stevie added one or two to the weekly delivery, clearly under Morgan’s direction—his signature, a backwards S, was printed carefully onto a line his sister had drawn for him in pencil, beside a proper S drawn in the same pencil.

  “I think Morgan will want to give the ones she made,” Sarah said, as she placed the mittens, lunchbox, and books back into her daughter’s backpack. She held her son by the shoulder as she brushed off the knees of his pants. “Come here,” she said, crooking a finger to beckon him closer. Still clutching the cards in his hand, he extended his arm back, moving them out of his mother’s reach.

  “Oh, you can keep those,” she said. “It’s your knees I was after. And now I want to see that chin. What were you eating?” He jutted it toward her and she licked a finger and rubbed it under his lower lip to remove a dark smudge. “There!” she said, patting his chest. “Perfect!” He jumped backward, away from her, waving the cards in his hand.

  “I hope they’re not dragging it out for you,” Sarah said as Char took a seat beside her.

  In addition to the weekly cards, Morgan and her mother had produced two more deliveries of lasagna, each time with hearts carefully cut into the noodles.

  “Morgan was talking about it again last night at dinner,” Sarah said. “How sad she was for Allie. And you. And she insisted.” She gestured toward Stevie, who was still hopping around the waiting area with the cards. “So then, of course, he had to get into it, too. Always wants to do whatever she’s doing.”

  “She’s incredibly thoughtful,” Char said. “Most kids that age would have moved on to something else. It’s amazing she’s still thinking about it.”

  “Oh”—Sarah laughed—“Morgan doesn’t let go of anything.”

  The doors to the tutoring room burst open then and Morgan flew out, Allie walking behind. Sarah stood and opened her arms, but Morgan called, “CC!” and ran past her mother, falling against Char’s lap and throwing her arms around her waist.

  “Hey, Morgan,” Char said. She glanced over the girl’s head to Sarah, to give an apologetic look for inadvertently stealing the hug, but Sarah had stepped toward the windows at the front of the building, her back to Char and the children. One of Sarah’s arms was bent, and it looked like she was holding a hand to her forehead or her eyes.

  “We made you something,” Morgan said, and Char took her eyes off the mother and focused on the daughter. “It’s a surprise.”

  Morgan turned to reach for her backpack and saw her brother holding the cards in midair, caught. Char braced for an argument, but Morgan laughed, patted him on the head, and said, “Well, it was supposed to be a surprise.” Stevie offered the cards to his sister but she pointed to Char. “Go ahead. You can give them to her.”

  “You’re such a nice sister, Morgan,” Allie said, as Sarah rejoined the group.

  Morgan shrugged. “He helped make them.”

  Stevie beamed, while Sarah made a tsking noise and said to her daughter, in an artificially light tone that failed to conceal her displeasure, “Yes, he helped make them. At nine o’clock at night, when he should have been sleeping. Not following his big sister down to the basement for a secret arts-and-crafts session. I swear, that boy would follow you anywhere—”

  She caught herself and replaced her frown with a smile. “Of course, it
was for a good cause.”

  “They’re wonderful,” Char said, leafing through the cards from Stevie, a four-year-old’s renderings of people holding hands and smiling. “Be happy,” Morgan had printed for him underneath. The picture took up only the top half of the page. The bottom half was filled with the wobbly backward S.

  Next, Char turned to Morgan’s cards, each carefully decorated on the outside, with a poem on the inside. One of the poems was about loss, the other about memories. She had printed them neatly onto white paper and then glued that to the inside of the construction paper cards, using pencil drawings to form a frame around each poem.

  “Poems this time!” Char said. “Did you make them up yourself?”

  Morgan nodded. “It took me half the night!”

  “Wow, Morgan,” Allie said. “Those are gorgeous.”

  “They truly are,” Char said to Morgan. “They certainly look like they took half the night. What a thoughtful thing to do. Thank you.” She stood and reached for her purse. Handing the car keys to Allie, she said, “You’re driving home, right?”

  “Sure,” Allie said, not taking the keys, “but I’m going to run to the bathroom before we leave.”

  “Me, too,” Morgan said.

  “I!” Stevie said, and Morgan held a hand out to her brother.

  “Don’t be long,” Sarah called after them. “I need to get dinner started.”

  “These really are impressive poems,” Char said when the kids had gone. She held one of the cards open toward Sarah.

  Sarah buttoned her coat, brushing invisible lint from her lapels. She didn’t look at the card, and Char withdrew her hand.