Take It To The Grave Bundle 2: Take It to the Grave parts 4-6
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When I take another step toward them, Alice comes into view. She’s clutching a pair of lethal-looking pruning shears, waving them in my sister’s direction in a way that makes me nervous. Where on earth did she find those? I make a mental note to warn Joel, our gardener, to be more careful while Mother’s staying with us. Alice is not to be trusted with sharp objects.
Lurching toward my sister, Mother throws her arms around her. “You have no idea how much nurses helped me when your daddy was sick. Sometimes I felt like they were the only ones who cared.” She wipes tears from her eyes as she beams at Maisey. “And to think you’re one of them now.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mother shrieks with laughter, stumbling a little. She grabs my sister’s shoulder with her free hand, and Maisey holds on to her arms, steadying her. “My baby doll,” Alice says. “You always were my baby.”
Yeah, right. Until Frankie came along. Then it was like neither one of us existed.
How can Maisey stand it? I’d had enough of our mother’s drunken antics by the end of the first day of this “reunion,” but my sister continues to humor her, repeatedly trying to connect with her. Why does she bother? Maybe Mom was right all along—maybe I was adopted. Maisey and I don’t share the same connection with Alice, that’s for sure.
Perhaps my sister has forgotten the many days our mother passed out on the sofa, leaving us at Peter’s mercy. Alice watched as he forced my sister to eat those rotten eggs, that moldy cheese, and never did a thing to stop him. She obviously didn’t care that her husband was making Maisey sick.
How can my sister forgive her for that? Screw Peter—Alice is the reason we didn’t have a childhood after we lost Dad. It would have been sad without him, but we would have made it through together. We would have been fine. We were fine...until she brought Peter into our lives.
Is my sister a better person, or just more gullible? Maybe she’s able to be more forgiving because she’s not a mother herself. Since I’ve had Elliot, my rage toward Alice has grown. How could she have done that to us? How could she have allowed us to be treated that way? And how could she have let Peter take custody of us while she was in prison? She should have told the judge how abusive he was. She should have told someone.
“Sarah?” Maisey has a funny expression on her face, and no wonder, since I’ve been lurking there, not saying anything. “Were you looking for me?”
“Come join us.” Mother lets go of my sister to wave me over. Maisey steadies her once again, holding her around the waist. “I was just telling your sister again how proud I am. A Nurse Without Borders—isn’t it great?”
I swallow hard. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Meeting my sister’s eyes, I say it as sincerely as I can. Even though I feel odd about her cozying up to Caleb, that doesn’t minimize how proud I am of her. Mother’s right—Maisey’s already done more to better the world than the whole sorry lot of us combined.
“And you. You’re a great mother, Sarah.” Mom flashes her teeth at me in a drunken grin. “I’m very proud of you, too. My girls, my beautiful girls.”
She moves to include me in the embrace but I step away, wary of the pruning shears, which she has apparently forgotten. Then I notice Mom’s hands. They’re smeared with dirt, and there is blood trickling down her arms. Her pink sundress has two bright smudges of green on the skirt, as if she’s been kneeling on the grass. There are a few strands tangled in her hair, along with something that appears to be twigs.
“Mom, what on earth have you been doing?”
Jumping around like an overgrown toddler, she thrusts the shears in the air. “I’ve been taking care of your rosebushes.”
“Oh, no...” I push past them to inspect the garden, cursing Alice under my breath. Why does she have to destroy everything?
Eleanor insists on growing some of her prize tea roses here, claiming the light is better on our side. While some of the plant’s leaves are a bit mangled, none of the delicate yellow blooms have been touched—yet. How fortunate I’d decided to look for Maisey. If I hadn’t, it might have been too late to save the garden.
Pressing my hand against my chest, I will my racing heart to calm down, silently counting to ten. But Alice is determined to continue her reign of terror. When she sees I’m not going to stop her, she heads directly toward the rose Eleanor plans to enter in an upcoming garden competition.
That’s it. She’s been coddled long enough.
Intercepting her, I jerk the shears away from Alice with a little more force than necessary. As Mother loses her balance, Maisey rushes to grasp her by the elbow. She scowls at me.
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting, Sarah? What’s the big deal? She’s trying to help, and besides, they’re just flowers.”
Yeah, like Ferraris are just cars. As my sister continues to look at me like I’m crazy, I feel my face getting hot. While I have every right to prevent our drunken mother from destroying my garden, the Sarah she remembers never would have put flowers before family.
What she must think of me.
We spend more on these roses in a week than her entire village in Thailand will see in a lifetime. Recalling how chummy she’d been with Caleb on the beach, I wonder if they’d been talking about Warwick and me, making fun of how elitist we are. Well, screw Maisey and her high-minded ideals, and screw Caleb, too. Not everyone is meant to be a nurse or a soldier. Maybe Eleanor’s prize-winning roses aren’t important to them, but they’re important to her, and they’re important to Warwick.
“I’m sorry.” My mother’s lower lip trembles. It’s all I can do to keep from wincing when I see how bloodshot her eyes are. Around her nose, burst capillaries mar her otherwise lovely complexion. “I didn’t mean to hurt your roses. I was only trying to help.”
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be patient. “I appreciate that, Mom, but Joel takes care of the gardening for us. That’s his job. You’re our guest. We want you to relax and have a good time.”
Eleanor isn’t even comfortable with Joel touching her roses, so we leave them to her. With the preparations for the party and the christening consuming her time these days, she let her precious plants get the tiniest bit overgrown. How my mother noticed this is beyond me.
“I was tryin’ to help,” Mom says again, as if I’ve argued with her. Maisey wedges herself between us, as if to protect Alice. The sight of my baby sister looking so fierce makes me want to laugh.
What does she think I’m going to do, attack our mother? Not that I haven’t been tempted. I glance at the gold wristwatch Warwick gave me for my birthday. How am I going to survive this day?
“Look at the time. I guess I should go check on Elliot. He’ll be waking up from his nap any minute, if he hasn’t already. See you later.”
The forced cheer in my voice makes me want to cringe. Where and when did I acquire this singsong way of speaking? Genny’s and Tessie’s influence must have rubbed off.
Maisey is still glaring at me, and Alice stares at her shoes, a chastened little girl, unable to meet my eyes.
“Okay,” my sister says, squinting at me like I’m someone she doesn’t recognize.
That uncomfortable sensation of being a Stepford wife returns. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.
But what does Maisey know about the pressures I’m under? She probably sees all this luxury and assumes my life is easy. She doesn’t get how difficult it is to keep Warwick and his mother happy.
As I leave, my sister puts her arm around our mother, but Alice pushes her away, staggering deeper into the garden. Maisey’s face falls, and she gives her fingers a vicious twist. Once again, I wonder what’s wrong with her.
Why does she keep trying? Can’t she see Alice is a lost cause?
I leave them be. It’s nothing I’ll ever be able to resolve.
The house is quiet and blissfully cool when I return. After checking to ensure no one is around, I let myself into Warwick’s office. It’s an exaggerated expression of his masculinity, all dark wood and oversize chairs. His desk is bigger than most people’s beds, even though I’ve yet to see him do any work here. For all his talk, work has never been Warwick’s thing.
My husband’s bar is concealed in an oversize globe. Despite the hour, I fix myself a vodka tonic. How Mother would love access to this room. In preparation for Alice’s visit, any alcohol in the house had been put under lock and key. Bridget had thought I was overreacting until she met my mother. We give Alice just enough to keep her from going into withdrawal, but there’s more to it than that. My mother would cause a scene if we didn’t let her have a cocktail with everyone else, or wine with dinner. I imagine Eleanor’s reaction if she ever witnessed one of Alice’s full-blown temper tantrums. I’d rather die.
The ice-cold bite of the tonic water is refreshing. It’s not long before the smooth warmth of the vodka makes me feel better, stronger. I pour myself another before locking Warwick’s office and checking on Elliot. He’s fast asleep, his fingers curled into a teeny fist.
Lucky baby. I wish I could sleep through this day. Wake me when it’s over.
With my son napping, I’m at loose ends. It’s tempting to accidentally wake him, but that would be cruel. Might as well make good use of the time by putting some effort into finding the perfect outfit. I want Warwick to be proud of me again, to appreciate what a gorgeous wife he has.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Caleb invades my mind. I remember the way he looked at me yesterday, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I wish you would come with me, Sarah...”
No, not Caleb. Don’t think about Caleb. Caleb is dangerous. Think about Warwick. You’re married to Warwick. Caleb rejected you, remember? He had his chance and he blew it. It’s too late to go back now.
It’s impossible to please both, in any case. Warwick prefers it when I’m fully made up, with heavy shadow and red lips. Caleb was always into natural beauty, fresh-faced Nivea girls (like Maisey?) with clean, shining hair pulled into ponytails. He’s the reason I didn’t wear a stitch of makeup as a teenager. After that I’d piled it on in a pathetic attempt to get back at him, even though he wasn’t around to notice or care.
Compromising, I apply another layer of mascara and some eyeliner and leave it at that. Slipping one of the 1950s-style dresses my husband loves over my head, I’m pleased to discover it’s no longer a battle. The fabric slides over my hips without a whimper of protest. It hasn’t fit this well since I learned I was pregnant with Elliot.
Turning to the side, I smooth the dress as I check my figure. My stomach howls, sounding mournful, but I ignore it. I may be starving most of the time, but it’s worth it. I’m finally starting to resemble myself again, no toilet paper or popcorn required.
As I drain the second vodka tonic, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The booze, the gaunt, strained expression, the haunted eyes surrounded by thick makeup. The resemblance is terrifyingly clear.
My God, I’m turning into Alice.
The thought makes me shiver.
Maisey
Caleb and I were walking along the beach, arm in arm again. We’d made a habit of this, going for a walk along the sand every chance we got. This special time, with just the two of us, no Sarah, no Alice, no in-laws and no Lucy, who could be quite exhausting. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in another’s company in years, and I could already feel us growing closer. I curled my toes in the sand. This time I was going barefoot. It was freeing.
And yet, that memory of Frankie, of me racing to pull him out of the pool, haunted me. My mother had gone to prison for Frankie’s death. I’d tried to make an effort with her, and after spending a little more time with her, the guilt was eating at me like acid on grime. Even though Peter was gone, she still drank. Because of Frankie? Because of...me?
I kept trying to avoid it, but Lucy was being a bitch. Now that I’d uncovered it, she wanted me to face what I’d done. Constantly, that memory woke me, intruded on my daydreams. I could barely look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t go near my nephew. How could I go anywhere near another child? After the horrific crime I’d committed? I was disgusted with myself. I hated myself. Lucy was the one who was holding me together, but even she was struggling. If it weren’t for these little reprieves with Caleb, where I could fool myself into thinking everything was fine, everything was normal, that I wasn’t the most evil of human beings, I think I’d go crazy.
I turned my attention to the distraction that was Caleb.
“I still think pasta is better,” he said, and I grinned.
“Nope, noodles, baby. Especially in a spicy peanut sau—” I stopped talking, focused on the single white arm waving feebly just beyond the surf. A young man was out there—a teen, from the looks of it. He was clinging to a surfboard, but his wave was half hearted, as though he was exhausted.
I eyed the water. He was caught in a riptide, I could tell, the waves converging in a triangle closer to the beach, but the whitewash showed the undertow.
I took a step, then froze. I looked back at the house, then out at the surfer who was clinging weakly to his board. I had started this walk as an escape, but we were still within sight of the house, where my sister was, the person who had helped me cover up my part in Frankie’s death. Where Alice was, the woman who had gone to prison for the negligence that had resulted in the drowning death of a child in her care. My baby half brother. Floating facedown in the pool. My family was so near, as was the weight of the past. The sand I stood in was like concrete clinging to my ankles. I swallowed noisily, and cold sweat broke out on my brow.
The boy waved again, but he lost his grip on the surfboard and slid beneath the waves.
You should do something, Lucy prodded. You were a lifeguard. You know what to do.
I can’t. I can’t go in the water. Ever since the day of the picnic, water frightened me. I kept seeing Frankie, pale and lifeless, floating.
This is a chance to redeem yourself.
Do I deserve that? God, Lucy, I’m so scared.
Shh. It’s okay. I’m here for you.
The boy surfaced. Waved. Subsided below the water. Caleb looked at me briefly, then reacted. He whipped his shirt up over his head and kicked his loafers off as he raced across the sand, his uneven stride more noticeable in a run. He was in prime condition, well-muscled and fit, despite his injury. He ran into the sea, lifting his knees high above the waves, his arms arcing out for balance but looking more like angel’s wings as he tried to wade through the crashing foam, before diving under the crest of an oncoming wave.
I watched, my hand to my mouth, as Caleb struggled against the swell. I wanted to go in there, I wanted to dive, to swim—I knew how to do that, but I couldn’t move. Frankie. My mind went through various scenarios, picturing actions I could take, consequences, at lightning speed. Caleb had entered the surf at the wrong spot, I could tell, and was now struggling against the current to reach the surfboard. I bit my lip, feeling absolutely useless. How long had it been?
My heart pounded in my chest, and I shifted my weight from leg to leg, the rocking a surrogate action for the rescue. I looked past the crashing waves, only to see Frankie, so thin, so pale, so eerily still, floating in the water. I blinked a couple of times. No, there was Caleb, his strokes a little sluggish, and then he stopped, treaded water for the briefest of moments as he took a breath, and dived.
Frankie was in the water, facedown, like a zombie in aquatic slumber. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face, and I took a shaky step forward. No. I sobbed, my hands covering my mouth as I tried to relegate memory to the past, and vision to the present. Where was Caleb? Why couldn’t I see his head above water? Please, don’t be like Frankie.
There was a body, facedown. Small and lifeless. I threaded my hands in my hair, gritting my teeth as I tried to stop slipping back in time.
Lucy, please, help me.
I can’t. You’re doing this, not me.
I heard this sound, like a feral cat caught in a drainpipe, and pulled at my hair. The sharp sting of follicles ripping from my scalp brought my focus back, and I realized that feral cat, those raw, keening whimpers, was me.
Waves. Pool. Waves. Caleb. No, Frankie. Panic, cold, chaotic, set me shivering. Trembling. Please, where was Caleb? Again, Frankie’s lifeless body, floating in the water, clouded my vision. Lucy stepped in with the force of a hurricane, pulling me away into a sea of black. I stayed in the darkness, for how long I don’t know. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Why did I feel so panicked? I let the darkness envelope me, cradle me. The darkness was my friend. Just like Lucy. It kept me safe.
Maisey! You can come back now! Lucy’s voice called me, whipping away the dark curtain.
I blinked. Caleb and the kid were standing in the surf. Well, Caleb was standing. The kid had collapsed to his knees once he was out of the foam, coughing as he cleared an enormous amount of water from his lungs, returning the fluid to the sea. Caleb thudded him on the back, then straightened, hands on hips, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. His chest was heaving, his features drawn, but his relief was evident. Caleb was safe. Just like that. My heart started to slow in its frantic beating. I trotted over to them. The kid wiped his hair off his face, and I saw he was about fifteen, maybe sixteen. Much older than Frankie.
“Dude, you saved my life,” the surfer rasped. “Thanks.”
He looked like he was about to cry. I rubbed his arms and looked him in the eye. “You’re okay, buddy. You’re going to be fine.” The wild look in his eyes calmed, and he swallowed, as though consciously trying to calm himself. His eyes glimmered, and he blinked back the tears.
“Thanks,” he repeated. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”
“Do you need a ride home?” I asked. “Do you want me to call someone? Your mom?”
The kid cringed. “God, no. She’ll kill me when she hears about this.”
“She’ll be happy you’re alive,” I corrected. He nodded.
“Then she’ll kill me. Nah, I’m good. I don’t live far from here.” He turned to Caleb. “Thanks again, mister.”
Caleb waved a hand, then shrugged. “All good.”
The kid dragged at the surfboard that was still dancing in the shallows, then used it to help him to his feet. He smiled, a mixture of uncertainty, embarrassment and gratitude, before he gave Caleb the thumbs-up. “Thanks.” We watched as the kid walked along the beach with knees apart, as though trying to make sure they didn’t give way on him. He angled gradually toward another path between the dunes. He kept looking over his shoulder, at the surf, at Caleb—at the lifeguard who had stood by and done nothing, too petrified to move.
How long had I blacked out for this time?
My lips pressed together, curling in as I realized Caleb was fine, the kid was fine and the kid most definitely wasn’t Frankie. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and I could hear the catch, feel the wobble in my chin. I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to steady myself.
I can’t believe I’d frozen. I’d never done that before. I used to be a lifeguard, for fuck’s sake. What the hell was wrong with me? How could I do that? Or rather, how could I do nothing? My cheeks cooled, as though all the blood rushed down to where my feet were rooted in the sand. I had never not saved a life. Not after Frankie. Frankie. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, didn’t know how I could stand by while someone drowned. My stomach clenched.
I was all about saving lives. It’s what I’d lived and breathed for the last few years. How could I balk? What was wrong with me? I looked back at the house. What was this christening, this time with my damaged family, doing to me? It was ruining me.
“Maisey, are you okay?” Caleb asked, eyeing me as he reached down to pick up his shirt. He used it as an improvised towel, dabbing at his chest.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, nodding. I stared at him for a moment, then looked away. I wasn’t focused on the half-naked man in front of me. He was no longer the trim teenager who used to throw me into the pool. No, the Caleb I’d known had grown into a man I found it difficult to recognize, outside of the civilized veneer of clothing. He was so different, and yet all I’d been able to think about, all I’d seen, was Frankie.
Caleb held out his arm toward the house, and I slowly fell into step alongside him, the serenity of our walk long gone. I stared down at my bare feet.
That boy had looked like he’d been in the water for a little while—long enough to try and swim back and exhaust himself in the process. I kept picturing the day Frankie had died, so many times now. I was haunted by it. Plagued by visions of Frankie, of that whole afternoon, of that vulnerable little body, so still.
Doesn’t add up, does it? Lucy’s voice was quiet in my head, which was strange for her.
What do you mean?
God, think about it, Maisey. For once, instead of hiding from it, think about it!
It had been so fast. I replayed that drink at the sink. I was so stunned at the time, so shocked that all it took to snuff out a life was just a few moments of looking the other way. My brow furrowed. Maybe because Frankie was so colicky, so fractious, so frail and sickly, the water had taken him quickly.
Seriously? You’re a nurse, for fuck’s sake. It was rare for Lucy to swear.
He’d been too weak to struggle, to fight, too young to save himself, I argued. Time must have flown, the seconds whizzing by as I’d filled my glass and raised it to my lips, forcing the liquid down my throat. It had obviously been long enough.
But that boy... Lucy commented. He’d been weak, exhausted. He’d disappeared under the waves for maybe a little longer than Frankie had been alone in the pool.
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