Westerly

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Maeve tossed a rubber duck into the blow-up pool, and Nola Wren pounced on it, splashing water onto the grass.

The crunch of tires on fresh peastone made her look up.

Her father’s truck pulled in next to Maeve’s car.

They’d said they were taking a weekend off from grandparenting.

She did an inventory, tried to follow everyone’s advice and not jump to tragedy.

When Molly first left, Maeve was genuinely afraid for her sister, convinced she’d had some sort of breakdown, that she might harm herself.

“Stop imagining the worst possible scenario. Life is much more mundane,” Wendy said.

“Think dull thoughts.” But the weekend stretched into weeks and then months, and then it was winter and it was enough to worry about keeping the driveway plowed and the cars running and getting the kids to school and the baby over to her parents’ place.

That first winter had been a game of musical chairs—who slept where, who picked up whom.

Maeve worried someone would accidentally leave Nola Wren in a car, pictured her freezing in the darkness while the rest of them sat by a fire, certain she was in the other house.

More than once, Maeve had called her parents when Nola Wren was there to make sure she was safe.

“That child is the most accounted for, most cared for child on earth, Maeve. You worry too much,” her mother said.

Even two years later, Maeve’s disgust at Molly’s behavior reared.

Dylan and Opal were growing like weeds, both strong and capable, but she worried about them every day, worried when they were with Sam, worried when they were on their own.

She couldn’t imagine how Molly could be so selfish.

The only grace Maeve could give Molly was by reminding herself that her sister didn’t even know her own child, couldn’t know how perfect she was, how a child can complete a circle you didn’t even know was missing a piece.

Nola Wren had become that for Maeve and Wendy.

Her mom got out of the truck, made a beeline for Nola Wren, who rolled herself around in the water.

“Look at you swimming!” Faye said.

“What’s wrong, Mom? Why are you here?”

“Nola Wren, take Grandma in, and let’s have some lemonade,” Faye said, holding her arms out for the little girl.

“You’re gonna get soaked, Mom. Let me get her.” Maeve grabbed a towel and hoisted Nola Wren onto her hip. William came to her side, kissed the child who squirmed into his waiting arms like a dripping fish.

“There’s Grandpa’s girl!” He pushed her skyward, and she giggled, then collapsed onto his shoulder. He looked around. “No Wendy?”

“She’s at the grocery. What’s going on? You two are making me nervous,” Maeve said.

She expected her mother to tell her to relax in that way of hers, as if she didn’t spend time on pins and needles, as if she didn’t tense up and disappear into her own thoughts.

Instead, her face softened, and Maeve instantly thought cancer.

“Let’s go inside and talk,” Faye said.

On the screen porch, Maeve sat dumbfounded by the news.

“All of a sudden, and we’re supposed to, what?

” She stared at Nola Wren playing nearby in her plastic garden, crawling through the hole, opening and closing the gate, checking for mail in the red box.

Maeve whispered, “Give her back? This is ludicrous. No. This is a goddamned nightmare!”

Of course, she knew that Molly was Nola Wren’s mother, but Molly had also abandoned her.

And Maeve and Wendy had talked. Maeve could adopt Nola Wren legally, forget this casual guardian business.

They were raising her. Why not make it official?

It had been a gift for her and Wendy, a child they could raise together who would be theirs.

“She can’t waltz back into our lives. It isn’t right. ”

“Nola Wren is two. She’ll adjust. Kids are resilient,” Faye said through tight teeth.

“You don’t actually believe that, Mom. I can see it in your eyes,” Maeve said.

“You’re scared. You don’t trust that Molly has changed any more than I do.

And what about me and Wendy? We have poured ourselves into that little girl.

We’re the ones who love her. Oh, I want to scream, I’m so frustrated.

” Maeve flared her hands as if she could make sparks fly from them.

“One: She’s snotty. Two: Ir-re-sponsible.

Three: Unemployed, I’m guessing. Four: Homeless. ”

Faye interrupted. “Maeve, she’s not homeless. She’ll stay with us until she’s back on her feet. You girls always have a home with us. Always. Strike that from your list.”

“So, does that mean she’s taking—” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Five!” she shouted, jutting out her chin.

“And I’m sorry, but look at that whole nanny thing.

No way she told us the whole story there.

Five: To that point. She makes bad, bad decisions, Mom.

Six: We all told her to tell Leo. Every one of us.

Call Leo. If she had called”—her voice dropped back down to a whisper—“Nola Wren’s father, maybe none of this would have happened, and we wouldn’t be in this situation. Wendy is going to absolutely flip out.”

“Maeve,” William said. “Stop with the lists. You’re not being fair. We have to accept things as they come, and your sister is coming home. Lord knows, no one made lists about you or Wendy.”

Maeve shot her mother daggers at that one. She was pretty sure that Faye had made lists.

“We are more than a list of our flaws. We have to focus on what’s right for our little girl here. That’s what matters now.”

“Dad, that’s all we’ve done for two years.”

As if on cue, Nola Wren, still in her strawberry swimsuit, climbed into William’s lap and leaned sleepily into his chest, her hand drifting up to stroke the ruddy stubble.

“How much time do we have?” Maeve asked, slumping into her chair.

“Before she gets here? She said she’d be here Friday night, if that’s what you mean.”

Maeve stood, pulled a dozing Nola Wren from William’s arms. “I need to get her out of this swimsuit and put her down for a nap. And for your information, I meant how much time do I have left to spend with this child who I have raised and loved. Molly will take her away from all of us. Maybe not Friday but soon. It’s only a matter of time now.

The clock’s ticking. You better get used to the idea. ”

After bath and story time, Maeve and Wendy tucked in Nola Wren, snuggled her tight with her favorite stuffed bear.

Maeve rubbed her back while Wendy sang a lullaby, her voice husky and off-key.

Maeve could not grasp how it was possible she could lose something so dear.

“I’m going to check the locks,” Maeve said.

Downstairs, Maeve peered through the glass panes on the new front door, half expecting to see her sister on the other side.

She unbolted and bolted the lock again, then went to the kitchen to do the same at the back door, though she knew there was no lock that could keep her family safe now.

Later, Maeve sat up in bed, a novel propped on her knees.

She couldn’t concentrate. And she felt like a jerk.

She wanted Molly to be happy, but why did her happiness have to come at Maeve’s expense?

Hadn’t she sacrificed enough to hold this family together?

To give Nola Wren the stability Molly couldn’t?

The kids were doing well, looking forward to school starting.

They had friends, stayed out of trouble for the most part.

At thirteen, Dylan was as laid back as his namesake Bob.

Like Sam, he was not easily fazed and, thankfully, not high strung like she was.

Opal was hotheaded and too smart for her own good.

Both kids were agile and confident, beautifully coordinated, outdoorsy, though neither was interested in basketball nor any organized sports, regardless of how hard she and Wendy tried to nudge them.

And now Nola Wren. Maeve’s lips moved as the fight she was having in her head with her sister seeped out.

Wendy came into the bedroom, slipped off her pajama bottoms, and slid in next to Maeve, wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. “Your book’s upside down.”

Maeve startled, checked the cover. It wasn’t.

She pushed Wendy playfully, set the book on her side table.

She tsked. How could this be happening? Nola Wren belonged to Maeve and Wendy.

They had raised her, made a home for her.

They were there when she took her first steps, when she said “Mom-ah” and “Mom-e.” They’d gotten her through ear infections, croup.

They’d bought the baby seats and the strollers while Molly was off doing whatever it was that she was doing.

She’d had more sympathy early on, when Wendy figured that Molly’s postpartum depression must have been severe, well beyond the “baby blues” that the moms’ groups at her OB-GYN practice discussed.

Surely she got over it, Maeve reasoned. Surely if she wanted to be Nola Wren’s mother, she would have found her way back.

“I was thinking about the kids,” Maeve said.

“I know. Me too.” Wendy scooted down, turned on her side toward Maeve, who scooted and matched her there. “I’m really sad,” Wendy said.

Maeve drew her into an embrace. “Me too, honey. Me too.”

After Wendy fell asleep, Maeve tiptoed out of their bedroom.

She rattled the gate at the top of the stairs to make sure it was secure, then peeked into the girls’ room.

The ocean-themed nightlight spun mermaids and dolphins and seashells along navy blue walls.

They’d flipped all the rooms around, moved Dylan out of the big room into the smaller one so that Opal could share with Nola Wren.

The kids fussed a little, fought a little.

But they were the ones who took apart the crib.

They were the ones who put the toddler bed together.

Dylan, reminding Maeve of her father, shrugged it all off.

“No big deal. There’s room for all of us.

” Sam had shocked them with a rare joke about the fact that they would indeed need to paint Dylan’s bedroom after all.

While she watched Nola Wren sleep—legs and arms splayed like a sea star, ruby lips tapping together, popping invisible bubbles—Maeve tried to imagine a life without her, the shoes she wouldn’t buy, the scrapes she wouldn’t kiss and make better.

She had already played out Nola Wren’s first day of kindergarten, how she and Wendy would walk into the school proudly, how they would each hold her hand and explain that Nola Wren had two moms. But this beautiful child actually had three moms, and only one could determine her fate.

And Maeve couldn’t be that mom, no matter how much she wanted to be.

The next day, after Sam returned from the camping trip with the kids, they sat around the big table at the farmhouse. Opal, eight years old now, picked up Nola Wren and held her on her lap. “No one is taking my sister away from me,” she said defiantly.

Faye let out of gust of air, pushed back from the table, and huffed into the kitchen.

“Mom,” Maeve said. “You can’t walk away. We have to talk this through.”

A voice from the kitchen. “Give me a second, Maeve.”

“Let your mother get squared away,” William said. “And, sweetie?” he said to Opal. “This is going to be a tough one. The last thing we need is another fight on our hands. You’re going to have to trust us that we’re all thinking about what’s best for Nola Wren.”

Faye returned, wiping her eyes.

“Mom? You okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

Maeve looked around the table. Sam and the kids were grungy from camping and reeked of wood smoke and insect repellent.

Dylan laid his arm on the table, rested his head there.

Sam put his hand along the back of Dylan’s chair.

Opal sat next to Dylan, holding Nola Wren, who dropped a spoon into William’s shirt pocket.

Faye had her hand on top of William’s. Wendy was next to Faye, turned slightly in her favor, her back toward Maeve but her chair scooted close.

Maeve’s instinct was to close the circle, make everyone hold hands or link arms to form a coven or tribe or wagon circle.

But they weren’t being raided. Molly was coming home, and that had to be a good thing.

They would make room for her, but where would she fit in?

Wendy nudged her. Maeve realized she’d been staring at them all, lost in thought.

“It’s going to be okay,” her mother said, reading her mind. The pain in her voice was so pronounced, everyone turned. “If Molly’s coming home, it’s because she’s trying to forgive herself. And we have to find it in ourselves to forgive her too. After that, we’ll have to see.”

“Are we done talking now?” Dylan droned, lifting the mood. “Seriously. I wanna go home and take a shower. I stink.”

“You do,” said Sam.

“You should talk.”

“Okay,” said Maeve. “So, we’re agreed.”

“Yeah, no one freak out when Aunt Molly gets here,” said Opal. Nola Wren squirted out of her arms and ran around to Wendy.

“We have to get her home. We done?”

They were. William would pick up Molly, bring her back to the farmhouse on Friday night.

There was no sense in trying to figure out what Molly’s next move would be when they didn’t understand where she’d been and what brought her home.

Molly coming back was about Nola Wren, sure, Maeve told them, but it would affect everyone, regardless of whether she planned to stay. Until something changed, nothing would.