Chapter Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
“I think you were right about Van.” The bright morning light streaming through Yumi’s porch windows makes my head throb.
“How so?” she asks.
“I had the weirdest conversation with Kenya last night.” I press my fingertips against my temples, trying to ease the persistent ache I woke up with.
“She said she had gotten messages from…” The woman’s name slips away like water through a sieve.
A flash of panic hits me—these memory lapses are becoming terrifyingly common.
“Holly?” Yumi prods gently, her eyes crinkled with concern.
“Yes. Holly.” I feel relief mingled with frustration.
“I just couldn’t remember. That damn concussion.
” I take a sip of my iced tea, sick of hearing myself complain about my head injury.
“Anyway, the more I think about it, the weirder it feels. Kenya forgot she got several messages?” I meet Yumi’s gaze directly. “I don’t think so.”
“You think she’s lying? To protect Van?” Yumi asks.
I shrug. “Is there any chance that Noah was there too? That’s the only thing I can think of. You know how Noah used to follow Van around when they were in middle school. Remember?”
“I guess.”
“He made him jump in the Little Falls creek after it rained, when it was full of sewage, remember?” I am desperate for her to nod in agreement, to confirm my memories. “Kenya was so mad. Do you think Noah might have been there?”
“Sorry, but I don’t.” Yumi takes her chunky glasses off to clean them, rendering her face soft and vulnerable. Her confidence unnerves me. I don’t respond right away, just listen to the chatter of the sparrows in the trees, trying to calm the turmoil inside of me. I don’t want to alienate Yumi.
“You seem pretty sure.”
“I know what I saw. Van was with a girl.” She puts her glasses back on and gestures toward the wide expanse of back lawns that are visible from the porch. “Anyway, Noah’s a good kid. You don’t want to drag him into anything.”
“I’m not dragging him into anything. I just think Kenya’s not being honest with me.”
“Maybe she’s not. But I would leave Noah out of it. Poor kid, I think it must have been hard to live up to Kenya and Shawn’s expectations.”
“You’d know better than I do.” I sound more bitter than I mean to. Yumi recently found a gig as a college counselor and I know she worked with Noah. I also know the job has been a godsend, good pay, insurance, and it allows her to work from home over Zoom.
“I do. You’re right. And believe me when I tell you, he hasn’t had the easiest time of it.”
“He’s doing all right,” I counter. “He’s off to Wharton next year.
I just hope he can handle the pressure once he gets there.
” I don’t mention that I have the same gnawing worry about Rachel at Georgetown.
Will she crumble under the academic pressure?
At least she’ll be close if everything falls apart.
“It was so much easier when we went to college. Before all this nonsense. I mean, no offense, I just think it was so much simpler.”
“Oh, I agree,” Yumi says. “Believe me. The kids I see, they’re great. But the parents? All they care about is rankings. Not the best fit for their kid, not where their child will flourish or grow. But rankings. Prestige.”
“Zach was easy. Self-motivated. He’s the one who wanted to do well.
We had to remind him there was more to life than grades.
But Rachel.” I shake my head at the memory of how she shut me out during the application process.
She told me I was smothering her. She only wanted to talk to Miguel about college.
“Any sense of pushing or pressure from me would make her shut down. I had to back way off. That’s why, and don’t repeat this, we were kind of shocked she got into Georgetown. ”
“When I was in high school,” Yumi says, “literally half the kids went to either state school or community college. I could probably count on one hand the kids from my school who went to private colleges.”
“I actually got into Amherst,” I say. “It was my dream school.” The memory still stings a little, even after all these years.
I could really use a degree from a brand-name college during my current job search.
I’ve seen the way doors open for Miguel with his Princeton degree, watched people’s eyes light up with newfound respect when they learn he attended an Ivy.
It’s why I wanted my kids to go to the highest-ranked schools they could.
“But we couldn’t afford it, so I went to SUNY-Binghamton, which was considered the best SUNY, whatever that means.
I was bitter for a few weeks that I couldn’t go to Amherst.”
“You turned out fine. I turned out fine,” Yumi says.
The words ring hollow. “We both know the world has changed a lot. A college degree isn’t as rare as it once was. So, it’s worth less.”
“True. But the caliber of the student matters. Not the brand name of the school.”
What she doesn’t say is that during Ryan’s last two years of high school, Yumi seemed to spend every ounce of energy on getting him into one of those brand-name schools.
It’s really no surprise she became a college admissions counselor.
I never held it against her. She was on her own after the divorce, newly diagnosed with a serious illness.
She only had Ryan. I didn’t begrudge her pouring every resource she had into helping him launch, especially after his troubles with anxiety.
But I didn’t want to be lectured about turning out fine.
No one in this neighborhood has ever been satisfied with fine.
“I could see Kenya being afraid I’d find out that Noah had stolen the bracelet,” I say, dragging my thoughts back to Kenya. “Or being with Van when it was stolen. Afraid I might judge her. I’ve worried about people judging me for Rachel’s behavior. But if you’re sure he wasn’t involved…”
Yumi shifts in her seat, the wicker creaking beneath her. “Can I ask, why do you care so much?”
“You sound like Miguel,” I snap, the words sharper than I intended.
“I’m just asking,” Yumi says, holding up her hands in surrender.
“I don’t know why.” That’s not entirely true. Deep down, I know exactly why. “I guess I feel like somehow it’s connected to what happened to me on Saturday night. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.” The memory of waking up disoriented, my mind a terrifying blank, sends a shudder through me.
“What could that bracelet have to do with you blacking out?”
“I was drugged, Yumi.”
She nods slowly, her expression carefully neutral. “All right. You think Kenya was involved? And that Noah stole that bracelet? Caren, I love you, but I’m hearing you say some pretty strange things. I’m worried about you.”
Her words hurt. My vision blurs, and to my horror, hot tears spill down my cheeks. My body betrays me, emotions flooding through the carefully constructed dam I’ve built.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry,” Yumi says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
“No, it’s not you, it’s me,” I gasp, grabbing a paper napkin and dabbing at my eyes.
“Apparently this is a side effect of concussions. Emotional dysregulation.” I take a shaky breath.
“Lately I’ve been feeling like I’m about to burst into tears at any moment.
” The admission leaves me feeling exposed.
Before Yumi can respond, a figure appears at the porch gate. A young man with a trim russet beard holds up a white bag by its handles. I squint at him, trying to remember where I’ve seen him before.
“Hey, Yumi.” He hoists a large canvas tote, overflowing with the ferny tops of carrots. “Got your purple carrots.”
“Oh, yay! C’mon in, Finn. Do you know Caren?”
And then I remember. The man who found me in the mud. I strain my neck to see him, eager to reconnect. “Hi, Finn.”
“Of course, Caren. Hi,” he says, his gaze lingering on my face. “How are you?”
“Better than when you last saw me, that’s for sure,” I say, my voice unnaturally bright. Can he see I’ve been crying? Self-consciousness burns through me. I turn away and look at Yumi. “Finn’s the one who found me on Sunday morning.” I look back at him. “You live in the neighborhood? At Paula’s?”
“Yes. I rent her basement apartment. I work nearby, at Little Falls Library.” Finn places the tote on the table and takes a seat in the wicker chair opposite me.
“Hoping to get my master’s in library science.
” He pulls out a package wrapped in tinfoil from the bag.
“This is from Paula. Lemon blueberry pound cake. She made me promise to tell you it’s gluten free and dairy free. ”
“My favorite! Lemon blueberry,” Yumi says, brightening. “Have some iced tea. You look hot.”
“It is hot out there. It feels like it’s ninety already. But it’s cooler up here. It’s like you’re in the trees.”
“Thank you. I designed it like that,” Yumi says, pride evident in her voice. “I planted that birch ten years ago, and that serviceberry right after the divorce. I wanted that tree house vibe. And now I spend most of my days out here.”
“Spying on the neighbors?” Finn asks.
Yumi laughs as she peels back the foil covering the pound cake. “I’m not going to lie. People do some pretty funny things when they think no one is looking. I’m not naming names, but a certain middle-aged man likes to pee in the azaleas when he comes home drunk on the weekends.”
“No! Who?” I ask.
“Can’t tell,” Yumi says. “And there’s a certain older woman on Earlston who smokes like a chimney. Like actual old-school chain-smoker. She hides the ciggies in a flowerpot.”
Yumi turns her iced-tea spoon upside down and, using it as a knife, cuts a few slices off the loaf. “Might be a little messy, but who cares, right? Paula’s so sweet.”
“She is a character,” Finn says. “She roped me into playing mah-jongg yesterday.”
“Oh? Who was there?” Yumi asks, suddenly animated. “I used to go to those games, but now I just play online. It’s not the same. You’d get so much neighborhood gossip in person at mah-jongg.”
“So you don’t miss the people, just the gossip?” I tease.