Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
“You been staying off screens?” Kenya places a wicker basket of berries, chocolates, and nuts wrapped in cellophane on my kitchen counter. “This is for snacking. I got your favorites, chocolate-covered orange slices and honey-roasted pistachios.”
“You’re sweet,” I say. Kenya is sweet. Sometimes I forget that behind her hard-charging facade is a fiercely loyal friend. She so seldom lets her vulnerable side show.
“When Noah had a concussion, he was not allowed on any screens.”
I frown. “I don’t remember Noah having a concussion.” I texted Kenya as soon as I saw the email about the bracelet, and she showed up twenty minutes later, basket in tow. It must have been waiting by her front door, unless she kept a closet full of them for cases just like this.
“Two years ago, on our trip to Martha’s Vineyard?” She looks at me, miffed. “He slipped on the dock. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Kenya. I’m having trouble remembering where I slept last night, much less what happened to other people two years ago.
” It’s a feeble attempt at humor, and Kenya looks appalled.
She may be a high-powered headhunter, but her number one client is Noah.
He’s an only child and a good kid. He, Rachel, and Elo?se made a threesome in kindergarten at Eastbrook Elementary School and stayed a little trio, all the way until middle school when Noah suddenly realized he didn’t want to hang out with girls.
By then Kenya and I had been class parents together for four of the six elementary-school years.
Noah’s always been an easygoing kid, happy to be bossed around by Rachel and Elo?se, and was solidly middle of the pack in terms of looks, brains, and athletic ability.
Which would be fine in lots of places in America, but in the high-stakes realm of Bethesda, kids who haven’t founded their own cancer-research nonprofit by the time they enter high school might as well make peace with sleeping under a bridge in a cardboard box.
“He’s okay now, right?” I ask.
She nods tersely. “It takes a while to recover. He couldn’t play soccer that fall. I’m surprised you don’t remember. We were worried it would tank his chances at recruitment.”
“Well, I had a lot going on fall of junior year.” Transferring Rachel from public to private, trying to get her grades back up.
“Oh right.” She makes a face. “Rachel. That makes sense.”
We let that lie there for a minute, although I feel like Kenya is tempted to compete with me even about this—which of our kids had a rougher junior year.
She cranes her neck toward the dining room table. “You’ve done a lot.”
“I just need to get the rest of these photographed and priced.” I get up and walk into the dining room, and Kenya follows.
She stops in front of my open laptop. “You’re not supposed to be on screens, Caren. That includes taking photos and uploading them to Facebook.”
I force a smile. All of a sudden I am reminded of a Boy Scouts meeting years ago when Kenya, the troop leader, made one of the other mothers cry for forgetting to bring the baby carrots on a hike.
“I thought maybe I could get a neighborhood kid to do it,” I say.
She chuckles. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
She looks at me like I’m nuts. “You can’t just learn how to do this in an afternoon. It’s taken us years to perfect our process.” She sighs dramatically. “I’ll just do it all.”
I bristle. I’m not useless. “I got this. I’ll let you know if I need help.”
Kenya cocks her head and looks at me with pity. “Caren, what happened the other night? Shawn and I are very concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
“He saw you struggling on the street—”
“I wasn’t struggling. I was taking a breather.”
“People are saying things.” She shrugs. “I mean, people are wondering. Yumi told me she’s had to delete some inappropriate comments on the Facebook page.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“She probably doesn’t want to upset you. None of us do. We love you. Everyone loves you. But the Frosts, you know them? Kevin Frost and Shawn play racquetball together. He said he saw you walking home after the Allards’ party and you almost fell. He said you were pretty drunk.”
“I stumbled, but not because I was drunk.” The couple that was parking comes to mind, the pink-faced man in his equally pink polo helping me when I misstepped. “It’s because I was wearing really high heels. And I didn’t have my glasses.”
“You only had one shot, right?”
“Yes, I only had one shot.” I think of the ER and the tox screen that will be coming back in a few weeks. “It has occurred to me that maybe there was something in it. You know, maybe someone put something in my shot.”
“What?” She guffaws. “I mean, there was alcohol in it.”
“I’m saying that maybe it was spiked with something else.” My heart is picking up speed. “What’s that date rape drug called? Rohypnol or something?”
Kenya bites down on her lip a moment, eyes wide as if it’s taking everything in her power not to burst out laughing. Finally, she takes a deep breath and gives me a toothy smile. “So, you think someone spiked your citronelle shot.”
I ignore her condescending tone. “I don’t know. Maybe it was my wine they spiked.” Now that I hear the words out loud, it resonates with me. It fits. Why I felt so loopy. “I feel like it explains a lot. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was meant for someone else.”
“I’m just … I’m sorry, I’m trying to understand what you are saying.
” She cocks her head to one side and screws up her face in the pantomime of a puzzled woman.
“You think one of our neighbors spiked a shot at the Allards’?
Which you took, but it may or may not have been for you? Am I getting that right?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Oh, Caren, sweetie.” She takes a step closer and rubs my arm.
“Oh, honey. I know exactly what’s going on.
I feel the same way about Noah leaving. Like my whole world is disintegrating.
I literally just signed Shawn and me up for ballroom dancing classes.
Can you believe it? Over at Glen Echo. And while I was on their website, I also signed up for a beginning watercolor class.
I mean, what are we going to do with ourselves now that our kids are gone?
I’ve been, like, sobbing at random times. ”
“That’s not what this is.” I pull away from her caresses, which are creeping me out.
“Isn’t it, though? You’re not working right now, and that can be brutal on your self-esteem.
And with Rachel leaving, no wonder you’re floundering.
You will rediscover yourself. I promise.
” She brings a hand to her chest, and I almost expect her to say, Cross my heart.
“There’s a Caren 2.0 in there somewhere. Don’t be embarrassed to—”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I interrupt.
“I’ve been drinking more too,” she continues in a quiet voice, as if I said nothing. “It’s normal to have a little bit of a meltdown at this stage in life. But it’s not healthy, you know, to indulge in these crazy conspiracy theories.”
“Okay, that’s enough. If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re not.”
“Oh, but I am! Don’t be mad! Combining the empty-nest stuff with perimenopause, it’s like we’re all losing our collective minds!”
I take a step back and bump into the sideboard.
My grandmother’s china, which I only use on Thanksgiving, rattles inside.
I do feel like I’m losing my mind. But not for the reasons Kenya is listing.
Yes, facing what life is like without my kids is tough.
But I’m not hallucinating. “Let’s just deal with the email I got, all right? We need to do something.”
“Of course, that’s why I’m here. To help. Who is this woman?”
“You know her. Holly Stone. She lives on Baltimore and she’s always jogging, pushing her kid who’s too big to be in a stroller, like, four times a day?”
Kenya makes a face. “Holly Stone. Oh yeah. I’ve had a few run-ins with her.”
“Have you?”
“She thinks she got short shrift on the pool waiting list.” Kenya waves her hand. “It’s dumb. Go on.”
“I got a crazy message from her about the yard sale. She said that something on the website was stolen.”
Kenya shrugs. “So? That’s not the first time, right?”
“Well, no. That’s true.”
“People drop all kinds of things off during the donation period. It’s total chaos. She’s not the first person to spot something on the website that was stolen. Remember last year we had that scooter that had been taken from somebody’s front yard?”
“I remember.”
“The rules are, if she can show proof of ownership, we’ll return it. That’s the policy. It’s on the FAQ page. Did you tell her that?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Why not? What’s the issue?”
Kenya’s questions come rat-a-tat. It’s obvious what makes her such a successful headhunter. Organized, relentless, indefatigable. But I’m wiped out from Kenya’s high-octane energy.
“Caren, what’s going on?”
“I found the bracelet in Rachel’s room,” I blurt out, my defenses depleted. “Or I should say I found it in a big bag of clothes she was going to donate to Goodwill. I looked through it to see if there was anything we could sell at the yard sale, and I found a few things, including the bracelet.”
“Okay. I don’t follow.”
“The bracelet is stolen, Kenya. So how did Rachel get it? I’m scared to even think.”
“You can’t think she stole it.”
“No, I don’t think that.” What do I think?
That the fall of junior year was a disaster for Rachel.
She started spending all her time with Elo?se and her clique.
Sometimes she would break curfew or come home drunk.
There were fights between us, slammed doors, horrible words screamed in the heat of the moment.
And then, right after homecoming, Rachel had a falling-out with Elo?se. She never told me what it was all about, but she changed. She stopped turning in assignments, became sullen and withdrawn, hiding in her room under her covers every day after school.