Little Lovely Things, page 2
Andrea accepted the offering, but not without terms. She stared out the window as she tore at the package, giving her mother the back of her head. Within one bite, crumbs and gooey Pop-Tart guts dotted the front of the precious blue chambray dress.
“Oh, Andrea!”
Once on the expressway, Claire felt a bit better as they passed through the outer rim of the western suburbs. Wild Queen Anne’s lace nodded at the edge of the road like a gathering of small cumulonimbus clouds. Knowledge of the natural world was important. She’d already begun pressing wildflowers and leaves into a scrapbook for the girls to study more closely when they were older. But that, like so much else, was back-burnered for now.
“Look, hons. Look out the window. Believe it or not, those pretty flowers are a type of wild carrot.” She started up a childhood song, the girls’ favorite. “Count the clouds, one, two, three…” But Claire remained a lone voice. “See the birdie in the tree!” She had never known them not to engage in their favorite ditty. “If he has a broken wing, he will never sing, sing, sing.”
“Jumpers would eat them,” Andrea announced over Claire. “Those carrot flowers.”
Claire met her daughter’s gaze in the mirror. She couldn’t read Andrea’s expression, other than a mixture of mirth and sarcasm beyond her years in her tight, little face. And then Andrea lifted the hem of her dress and all was hidden beneath a veil of blue.
Something like cold electricity shot through Claire and she gripped the steering wheel. The dream. It now returned to her with perfect clarity. The girls surrounded by white, playing on a frozen pond, dressed only in summer clothes. Frantic at the thinning surface, Claire called to them, but each crack running from their feet was a delight, another reason to press farther from shore. She watched her daughters grow smaller, tiny as seeds in the distance until finally they were swallowed into the silence of ice. And in that frozen landscape, both girls were outfitted exactly how they were now: Lily in her yellow overalls and Andrea in the charm dress.
Claire’s hands, slick with sweat and shaking, almost slipped from the wheel. The next exit, she recalled, would be a cloverleaf. A slow banking loop and they could be heading back to Upton Grove. She shook her head. No, she needed to remain resolute. The driving force that had carried her this far in life would get her through this day. They were more than halfway to the hospital already. She’d get that nice attending—his name slipped away from her—to help her out, take a quick look at that rash on her stomach. Everything would be fine. She shifted to the middle lane and blew past the turnaround that would take them back home.
Not two miles past the exit, Claire’s view of the road began to waver and seemed to pour beneath the car like an ugly asphalt river. An earwig of paranoia inched through her brain. What if the Benadryl was masking something worse than what she’d original surmised? A series of chemical reactions, potentially life-threatening, could be cascading through her blood. Was it really just the vaccine doing all this, or had she been standing on the cusp of a precipice and just slipped? This balancing act—mother, wife, doctor-in-training—seemed extreme enough to be against some law of nature.
Claire started singing again, her voice shaking. “Count the clouds…” But a quick glance into the back seat showed her she’d lost her audience, as both girls were now asleep. Andrea was bent forward at an acute angle in her booster, and Lily was slumped sideways, head tilted, her upper body forming a perfect S-curve.
Claire squinted through watery eyes as the Chicago skyline came into view through the windshield, then blurred into a smudged charcoal drawing. She blinked hard to clear her swimmy vision. Her heart galloped. There was no longer a choice; she needed to get off the highway. She slipped the Taurus into a line of cars merging down the next exit ramp. Following the traffic, they passed graffitied walls and shops with barred windows. A cop pointed right, then left, then right again—confusing as hell. Claire went right instead of left, or vice versa. Some guy in the other lane honked and flipped her off. Feverish blood rushed through her veins and she jerked the steering wheel hard.
Damn, damn, damn.
Luckily, neither girl reacted. Yet the nausea returned, this time with greater ferocity. Claire’s breathing quickened and constellations flickered in her eyes. She needed to stop, collect her bearings. Approaching an intersection, she spotted a recognizable beacon in the wilderness of the rundown area: a bright-yellow-and-red Shell sign.
Pull over here. Catch your breath.
She feared she might pass out. This was drawn from experience, having suffered the same symptoms during her pregnancies, with Andrea giving her the worst of it. Crossing traffic lanes, Claire tried to divert her feverish mind with trees: gymnosperms first, then pines, firs, ginkgoes. Then, running short on those, deciduous trees, then plants in general, even cactuses. Cactuses? She’d never even been west of Iowa, and Iowa made her think of corn, which reminded her of the sensation of food in her mouth, corn in particular, round and globular. She gagged.
The Shell station thrummed with energy. People were at the pumps filling their tanks or grabbing coffee from the store. A bus emptied passengers nearby. Following the sign that pointed to the restrooms, Claire accelerated past the squat building, narrowly avoiding hitting something. Could’ve been a dog, it was so quick—almost a flash, only without light. Or a trick of her overextended brain. Still, she honked before jerking to a stop in the concrete-walled alley behind the building.
Next to the bathroom, Claire slapped the car into Park and rested against the arc of the steering wheel. The girls breathed heavily over the wheeze of the vents. Claire wished her unsick self were here. Or Glen. Or someone. She only knew she couldn’t risk shutting off the car, having her girls boil in the heat, like a distracted mother at a shopping mall in the newspaper only a week ago. As she slid from the running Taurus, a light burst of wind, hot as a blow-dryer, ruffled her shirt. She gave the bathroom door, held open by a pneumatic arm, a test shove. It would clearly take a purposeful push to move from its moorings.
Claire glanced back to register her sleeping girls. Lily, behind the driver’s side, her head connected with the window, glowed in a slice of sunlight. She had to stretch to see Andrea hidden from immediate view, still bent in half, the back of her head evident over her knees, sleeping nonetheless. They were at peace, protected from the vicious heat with the car running, the cool air circulating.
* * *
The gas station bathroom was a cell. A dark, filthy cell with deep, shadowy wells around the toilet. Leaning into the sink, Claire touched the faucet gingerly with the back of her hand. A forceful stream splashed against the porcelain, drowning out the labored growl of her Taurus outside the open doorway. She could feel her two girls, her babies, fast asleep in the car, angled like wildflowers toward the sun—in the direction away from their mother.
Water. And then more water. Some on her cheeks, some in her mouth. Passing her wrists under the stream, Claire froze at a smattering of crimson slashes on her forearms—the rash was spreading. Her legs weakened.
Dropping to her knees, Claire flattened one hand on the greasy floor like a kickstand. She couldn’t pass out. Not now. She squeezed her eyes shut and inventoried the stuff she’d packed: Pop-Tarts, Goldfish for Lily, juice boxes. What about crayons? Did she remember to pack them? Andrea loved to color. Wasn’t there a stash in the glove box? Exactly where the air-conditioning was certain not to reach. An image popped into her head: the rainbow-hued cylinders, wobbling into molten pools in the heat. The thought of their waxy odor sent a spasm through her stomach. She leaned over the toilet and vomited.
With her head suspended above the filthy bowl, a small quake traveled from the floor through her body. It took a moment for Claire to understand that it signaled the door had somehow shut, shivering tightly into its jamb.
That she was now in total darkness.
She tried to rise. But she could barely lift her head. Her only awareness was a surge of post-vomit relief like a tepid bath. She was not yet alarmed—her fevered brain had stopped working on overdrive the way it normally did. She imagined herself on her feet, wadding up toilet paper and wiping away the crap on her face.
And then another thought materialized in Claire’s mind: her girls on that frozen pond, disappearing into nothingness. As she stood helpless on the shore.
Claire cried out.
Then all went black.
Chapter 2
Moira
Moira Kelly trailed a step behind Eamon O’Neill as they worked their way along a trash-strewn alley toward the Shell station for their morning washup. Slap, slap, slap. Her loose sandals clattered along the hot pavement in a merciless staccato that bounced off the heated brick walls.
Eamon slowed and turned his head. His sharp-angled features appeared birdlike from the side, similar, Moira had to admit, to her own.
“Jesu, Moira, you sound like a herd of elephants.”
If only! She frowned at the comparison as she stopped to tighten her sandal straps. She and Eamon were both slim—not just because they were built that way, but because they were practically starving.
Eamon leaped onto a curb and crouched like he was surfing before moving on. While both were in their early twenties, Eamon’s springy step and cocky demeanor made him seem younger. This often worked in their favor since it was easy for people to underestimate him. Might even prove helpful with the dine-and-dash breakfast they had planned for the IHOP later.
“Hurry it, Moira. The station’s just ahead.”
What she’d give for a decent bathroom. This city was getting to her, and she’d love a good splash of water on her face—one that came from a clean sink.
Approaching the building from the rear, they entered a passageway between the restrooms and a concrete wall topped with razor wire. Moira noticed an unopened pack of Salem Lights on the ground. A welcome sign of good luck. She picked it up, leaned into the shadow of an overhang at the corner, and rummaged through her pockets for a light.
Eamon stood with his back to her, darkening the sun-whitened concrete with his name in pee.
“The toilet’s right there, Eamon.”
Moira inhaled the rich, lazy taste of menthol and laughed at his crooked attempt to draw an E. In pictures going back to their childhood, he was always the one with his hand on his crotch. And the not-so-funny ravenous look in his eyes.
Eamon zipped and turned. His chin was filling in with a pointy beard he’d been struggling to grow for almost a month. Dressed in a wifebeater and saggy black pants, he could be mistaken for a hoodlum except for his slight, almost girlish build. He was handsome, with eyelashes thick as fur and a pout that twisted Moira’s stomach. He knew more about how to negotiate the world than Moira ever could. She was, in fact, lost without him.
His ropy arms were sleeved in tattoos, and one in particular troubled her. A leering wolf with glowing red eyes in the triangle of his left upper arm—their family insignia. A chosen symbol of wild roguery, it represented their clan’s petty thievery and a taste for the drink, behavior that had plagued the larger group of traditional Irish Travellers’ good name far too long. So they’d been forced out, formed a clan of their own of only three connected families. The image now served as another reminder of all Moira had lost. She wished the tattoo gone, or at least covered by a proper T-shirt.
K’erp’ra—liars, impostors. That’s what she and Eamon had been labeled by her family in Shelta, the language of the Travellers. No longer recognized as one of their clan made them worse than gyukera—undesirable vagrants.
The first time Moira had come close to being kicked out of her family, she was pregnant and hid the identity of the father.
Her da took her back with reluctance after the miscarriage, but he had his suspicions. She miscarried the second time, too, but by then, her da knew for certain the father was Eamon. Moira’s final remembrance of her family was that of her twin sister Siobhan’s smug-ugly face as she and Eamon pulled away in the battered green Buick her da had provided as a shove-off gift.
Eamon stepped under the overhang and reached for Moira’s lit cigarette with a quaking hand.
She glared. “You pinched from your stash again, didn’t you?”
He’d promised when they first struck out for the city, not six weeks before, that he’d stay away from his own drugs. He’d deal, all right, but not indulge. Not in weed, not in coke, and not in the concoction he made all on his own. Twilight sleep, he called it. “Junkies can’t get enough of it,” he’d assured Moira. “Completely wipes their brains clean after a bad high. Expensive shite, believe me, like liquid gold. We’ll be rich.” By now, they were supposed to have droves of eager buyers—but so far, there had been no activity and they were flat broke. A taste from the stash was like stealing from themselves.
“Who cares if I’m trippin’ a bit?” His words fell from his mouth with a thin line of spittle. “I can handle a buzz.”
Moira frowned. She indulged in smoking pot once in a while but thought hardcore druggies the lowest form of life on the earth. They got what they deserved.
“Forgive me all things.” Eamon bowed with a flourish. “My sweet.”
Moira, as usual, softened at his puppy face and how funny it looked next to the inked lizard that ran up his neck. Reaching for another drag, Eamon weaved back onto his heels just as a station wagon, appearing from nowhere, wildly blew past them and curved around the corner.
He jumped and plastered himself against the wall. “Crazy fookin’ driver!”
A vortex of air pulled the line of smoke from Moira’s cigarette and every bit of her attention with it. A small blond head in the back behind the driver’s seat flew by at eye level, wispy, young, perfect.
The car swung into the small alley and jolted to a halt at the bathroom behind the station. Touching his finger to his lips, Eamon made big eyes at Moira. They both peeked around the corner as a woman stumbled from the car and into the bathroom. She was obviously drunk or stoned, maybe both. The engine remained running with the child in the back seat motionless, unattended.
“Didja see that?” Eamon whispered.
They slid along the cinder-block wall soundlessly, well-versed in each other’s movements. The guttural kecking of the woman vomiting caused Moira’s stomach to twitch with revulsion. She glanced again at the golden head against the car window. What was a druggie doing with such a beautiful child?
Eamon moved close to the bathroom and placed his hand on the door.
“What are you doing, Eamon?”
“Shh.” He rocked it back and forth, testing its hold.
“Eamon.”
“Go. Now.” He turned, whispering fiercely, “You head back to the garage.”
“What? Why?”
“Never you mind. Do as I say.”
Scanning the area, Moira slunk silently away from the gas station. It wasn’t until she was close to the garage before she bothered to consider what Eamon might be up to. He’d probably steal the car—he was an old hand at moving hot goods. Or maybe they’d keep the Taurus and sell the Buick instead. The room in the back of a station wagon would be nice. They could spoon comfortably at night. But a sudden concern clouded Moira’s thoughts. Even a knucklehead like Eamon wouldn’t leave a child in the alley alone, would he? Maybe he’d leave her in the bathroom before taking off. But then, as each step melted into the next, a slight, sweet fantasy began to take hold. Her and Eamon living a real life as a family. She could feel the lovely blond child in her arms, the clean smell of Ivory soap on her skin.
Moira waited outside the garage, against the wall next to a clump of thick-bladed grass, the type that can cut your skin if you’re not careful. A slick of leftover mayo on the cement reminded her that this was the same spot where they’d sat last night, eating sandwiches and poring over Eamon’s treasured map by the light of a flickering neon sign. Running his finger northeast along markings, he’d continued into the far corner of Illinois before shooting north, just over the border into Wisconsin. Small print indicated trouble spots—an unmarked road here, a dangerous river there. It was a path they hadn’t taken since they were kids.
“There.” He’d taken a bite of his deviled ham sandwich and leaned over Moira’s shoulder as she looked closer, following the details he’d outlined. “That’s where we’re headed tomorrow.”
They’d leave the city and hole up in the rough-hewn cabin once used as a family stopping point to foluigh, or hide for a time, like wintering mud toads. Assuring Moira it was abandoned, Eamon intended for them to regroup, plan their next steps.
He’d sat back with the sandwich gobbed in his mouth. He’d stolen every ingredient from the mini-mart—the cheap meat, the small jar of pickles, the Miracle Whip, and a whole loaf of Wonder Bread—laughing at how easy it was to distract the Pakistani fellow by purposefully knocking over a candy display. At the time, Moira had laughed too. Because in her mind, with his new beard, he looked just like the little demon on the can of meat spread. But now she was growing concerned. His impulsiveness was fraught with uncertainty, even scary at times. She’d called him a g’uk’ra once, when they were twelve. The word came out of her mouth and then a fist was in her face, no time in between. He’d floored her. When she got up, still dazzled with pain and surprise, he’d said, “Don’t care what ya call me, blanog—bitch. Just don’t like that tone.”
She’d forgiven him that. Like so many other things.
The heat-saturated cement made everything smell dirtier than it already was, including her clothes. She was cutting her own hair these days, and as she pulled it off her neck to cool herself, it curled wildly around her fingers, which hopped like angry spiders on her scalp. Damn tremors again. She’d been plagued with an unruly right hand since toddlerhood, since her mam left, and it popped up when she was nervous. She trapped it under her thigh but quickly jumped to her feet when the station wagon appeared in the street with Eamon behind the wheel.
