Chapter 27
Your hair looks different, T,” says Alice. “Did you dye it? It’s sort of glowy.” She touches it.
We’re doing a Day of Thanksgiving at the park where the homeschool group meets.
We’ve already shared our gratitude poems and now the kids are running around searching for the glass gems we’ve hidden.
(One of the moms brought a book about magical gems that inspire kindness in everyone who encounters them.)
“I love it down,” says Harini. “You never wear it down.”
“Oh,” I say, “well, it’s so boring, I just never— ”
“It’s not boring!” they protest at the same time.
I wave this off, laughing. “Okay, okay.” It’s nice to be back, but I’m having trouble standing still. I feel jittery, charged up, hyperalert. I’m not sure how long I can stay here, watching kids play with twigs.
I am strong again—last night’s fit of vulnerability and unwellness was cured by the sex that followed, during which I didn’t allow myself to think at all.
I went for a run at dawn, but I’ve been amped up all day, fidgeting through Ms. Nancy’s patient explanations of key signature at Ella’s violin lesson—which got annoyingly rescheduled for this morning—checking my phone compulsively.
I wonder if I should talk to Dee about a babysitter for Ella. I need some time off.
Or maybe Mom can do it.
No. There must be some camp I can sign her up for, when the schoolkids have their winter break.
She’ll never go. It’ll be too scary.
She’d adjust.
She didn’t adjust to school.
The therapist Dee sent her to said she would, maybe in a year. It felt, at the time, like the grinding down of a prickly soul until it’s only soul dust, too fine and soft to bother anyone.
But maybe it’s okay.
“Missed you the last couple weeks,” says Alice. “You’ve been so mysterious.”
I’m glad when Harini asks at the same time, “Are you doing some new vitamins or something? Carrot juice?”
“Not really,” I say as one of the other moms says, “I heard carrot juice is really good for hair and skin.”
There is a grating metallic screech and everyone turns to survey the parking lot, patchily visible through the leaves, where an enormous RV is attempting to insert itself into a regular-sized parking spot beside the port-a-potty.
“Oh God,” I whisper. He’s somehow managed to track us here.
I told him very strictly to stay home. I left him with the iPad, playing a connect-the-dots game with the sound effects turned way up.
He had been engrossed to the point of hypnosis.
But here he is, knocking the RV against the bright blue port-a-potty, which wobbles treacherously. Someone gasps.
“Titi, Titi!” Ella is also gasping, out of breath, tugging on my shirt.
“Can I eat some of the cake that Margaux baked?” I peel her fingers off me.
Did that breathy urgency in her little voice used to irritate me so much?
“It’s gluten-free! And egg-free, because Kunal and Shruti don’t eat eggs. And I think it might also be vegan.”
Alice leans in, lowers her voice. “That better be natural sugar up in that bitch. I’m talking some kind of a leaf ground up into sugar, or just a ground-up leaf.”
I laugh, trying to take my eyes off the RV, which has backed up and stopped, blocking half the parking lot. The graffiti artist succeeded on this side—it is sporting a distinctly phallic image in the same violent shade of green.
“Sure, Els,” I say, dismissing her. “Go for it.”
“I love celebrating thankfulness!” Ella declares, rapturous at the prospect of cake.
Her friend is running toward us in a red knit toadstool hat, muddy hands cupped around something.
What now? I am already gritting my teeth.
It’s hard to remember why anyone would choose to be around children all day.
“I caught a salamander!”
“Is it okay?” Ella asks, nervous and intrigued.
And here’s Al, coming cheerfully up the path, wearing the same outfit we met him in, with the additions of Mom’s fringed suede jacket and a pair of her metallic silver Uggs.
He pauses to sniff at a faded patch of goldenrod, bending very far over, then leaps back as though overwhelmed by its scent.
He coughs dramatically, small eyes widening. He gives his nose a pat.
“Do you know him?” Alice asks, following my gaze.
“Oh. Um. Yeah. He’s— ” Crap. “A cousin of my dad’s. Just met him. It’s weird.”
“Oh wow, your dad’s! That must be a whole story.” She squeezes my arm sympathetically. She knows I hardly have a dad at all.
“It is,” I say, and it’s refreshing to be honest for one second.
“Well, I want to hear . . .” she starts, and I pretend to be paying attention to one of the boys, who is saying, “Can the grown-ups hide the gems again? We found them too quickly.”
“Can you guys just go work on your fort now?” My friend Abeo asks hopefully. “The grown-ups need more talking time.”
“I’ll do it,” says Liz, who is always up for kid projects. I like her less in this moment. She has an air of self-important, cultivated patience. A mommy martyr.
“Where’s that cake?” says Alice. “I need that.”
Two of the ten-year-olds baked it together this morning, apparently.
“Hey, T,” Sarika says, “Did my friend ever reach out to you about doula stuff?”
Al is still twenty paces from me, and he is distracted by the kids running by. He waves with both hands to them, smiling broadly, and one of them waves back.
“Yes! I had to say no, I’m sorry! I’m full at the moment.
” Untrue. I am just busy being locked in a prolonged death match with an angel.
And now Al is here until I kill said angel.
And also maybe the aforementioned angel is currently murdering more of my half siblings.
But also a solid third of my brain seems permanently occupied with detailed replays of the sex I’ve had with him.
“Hello, Tempest Dunlap!” Al whisper-exclaims, reaching me at last. He looks at me innocently, as though he can’t remember my very strict rule about not leaving the house.
I can feel everyone else looking at me, too.
“Hi, Al,” I say. I start introducing him around. “This is my dad’s cousin.” I give him a stern look as I say it, hoping he can tell this means he shouldn’t contradict me. “He’s visiting us for a little while.”
“Hi, Al!” everyone says, polite and friendly.
“Hi, people,” Al says happily, bobbing into a short bow, and everyone laughs. “Are we all searching for small, shiny pieces of glass today?”
“The kids are,” I say.
“Hmm. Do I get many points if I find all the glass?”
Clearly, the games he’s been playing on the iPad have taught him the concept of points.
“No.” I send an apologetic look around the group, but a few of the women are already glancing sympathetically at him.
I suddenly see him through their eyes: a very earnest, gentle sort of childlike, neurodivergent man with a somewhat misguided interest in fashion.
I grit my teeth and attempt a kind smile.
Al breathes in. “What is that amazing smell?” he asks me, mouth slightly open in joyous anticipation.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“It could be the mulch pile we were working on,” suggests Harini. “We put some orange peels in it from our trail cleanup.”
“No, no,” Al disagrees. “It is much sweeter. I can taste it on my tongue.” He wiggles his tongue between his teeth. “What an awe-mongering smell and taste at the same time!”
I kind of like the term awe-mongering, against my will.
Ella comes toward us with cake on a paper plate. She slows down, startled but smiling, at the sight of Al.
“Yes!” he cries, overjoyed. “Ella! Wonderful child! You’ve found it!”
Ella looks uncertain and a little flattered. “I thought you were staying at home,” she says.
“I was.” He leans toward her cake, sniffing ecstatically. “But then I realized that the dancing dots were distracting me from my purpose. I could not allow that to be, as beautiful as they are. Will you permit me to eat that delicious food you are carrying?”
She steps back, instantly possessive, looking at me for help. “This one is for me. But maybe we can get you a slice, too?”
“Ella child! I would love to have my own slice of that!” He’s thrilled.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, tugging him aside. I feel the moms watching.
“I am protecting you, Tempest Dunlap.” He smiles at me. It’s not a very good smile—too much lip, not enough teeth. “What if the ang”—he clears his throat—“gel should find you here?”
“Come over here.” I step away from the group and he trots after me obediently, bending over a little too far as he goes to study the moldering mosaic of red and yellow and orange leaves on the forest path. “I told you,” I whisper tersely, “he can’t hurt me.”
“I’m sorry to tell you that you are wrong.” He does in fact look very sorry, a look which he then spoils by extracting earwax with a probing finger. He examines the fingertip, then looks up at me, small brown eyes clear and guileless. “He will destroy you in the end.”
“I . . .” I swallow, finding myself momentarily unable to continue. It’s worse, him saying it with that innocent bluntness. I clear my throat. “I can handle him.”
“I did follow you,” he says casually, or at least I assume offhandedness in the flat rasp of his tone.
“Wait, what?”
“At night. But not into the angel’s home.” He looks like he expects me to praise him for his restraint.
My mind whirls through the possibilities: How close was he when we were on the front step?
Where was he when we went into the house?
Maybe right there on the porch. I wish again that my DP came with some heightened senses, or maybe just a basic awareness of my surroundings.
Unfortunately, it sometimes seems to instead render me incapable of noticing anything other than Joel.