When Time Is a River Read online

  The tightness in Brandy’s muscles relaxed. The big friends were imaginary. But make-believe friends can’t give away real necklaces. Emily had probably found the necklace in the park. Brandy clipped a loose strand of Emily’s hair into her purple, butterfly barrette. But even if she did find the necklace, she couldn’t have hooked the clasp. “Who helped you put it on?”

  “Jodie,” Emily said, grabbing Pooh by the leg then clutching him against her chest. Jodie was a teacher’s aide at Emily’s preschool.

  Brandy knelt on the floor beside the bed and patted the back of her neck. “Climb aboard.”

  With Emily riding her shoulders, Brandy charged across the hallway, down the three steps that sunk into their living room with its high-beamed and angled ceiling. At the far end of the room, a river-rock fireplace rose. Brandy could still see the faint outline left by her mother’s portrait. Kathleen had never opposed it hanging over the mantel. But as soon as Christine moved in, she replaced it with her high school graduation shot—a portrait too small to fill the empty space.

  In the bookcases on either side of the fireplace, Christine had inserted her stupid little collection of Precious Moments figurines where Kathleen had once stored the leather-bound plays of Shakespeare, Eugene O’Neill, Arthur Miller, and Tennessee Williams. Kathleen, who’d majored in theater arts at Sarah Lawrence, had kept an entire shelf of acting books that Brandy never tired of browsing. It had been Kathleen who’d convinced Brandy’s father to enroll her in Tom Thumb Players where she discovered the way acting could erase scars. Every time Brandy stepped into a part, even a small one, she rediscovered that truth. Under the makeup and multicolored spotlights, transformed into someone else, Brandy’s scars disappeared.

  Now, thanks to Christine, Brandy lived every day with the ghosts of both her mother and Kathleen.

  Brandy bounced up the other set of steps, through the dining area and into the kitchen. “My pilot has been cleared for takeoff. Any last-minute instructions?”

  Her twenty-two-year-old stepmother stood in front of the laundry closet, looking both bored and resentful. Christine wore a red-and-white-checked shirt that hung just above the waistband of her denim capris. A rubber band secured her shoulder-length hair, the deep autumn red of maple leaves. She’d been perspiring from the heat of the dryer and her usually flawless makeup had disappeared, exposing the hated freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  Brandy smiled.

  Christine snapped a pair of Brandy’s father’s slacks, as if hoping the wrinkles would disappear without an iron. Her psychology textbook lay open on top of the dryer. “Could you give Emily a bath for me tonight? I’m so tired. And I have to study for my final.”

  “Sorry,” Brandy said. “The play opens in two weeks—I need to practice.”

  Christine wiped her hands on her shirttail, then inspected a chipped nail. “Damn,” she said. “It’s only Friday.” She had a weekly manicure on Tuesday mornings, one of the days Emily went to preschool, and Brandy knew this broken nail would drive her stepmother nuts.

  “Can’t Mr. Wonderful bathe her tonight?”

  “Your father is picking up some visiting poet at the airport. I guess I can study after she goes to bed.”

  Brandy lifted Emily from her shoulders and set her on the floor in front of the washing machine. She wanted to remind Christine that Emily was her kid, not Brandy’s. But her dad had set down the rules like Moses chiseling out the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt be nice to thy stepmother.

  “This role means a lot to me,” Brandy said.

  When their eyes met again, Christine’s were teary. “All my friends are graduating, going to parties and celebrating.” She absently folded one of Emily’s T-shirts. “And I’m an old married woman taking night classes so I can graduate by the time I’m forty. Not to mention trying to raise a kid. You had a nanny. I don’t understand why your father won’t…” She waved her hand in the air, completing the sentence with a flutter of fingers.

  Brandy stared at the toes of her boots. She and Christine never had real or meaningful conversations. What was going on here? “None of that is my fault,” Brandy said. “Didn’t you and your mother have the—” She paused and made quote marks in the air, “Contraception talk?”

  Christine stopped folding clothes and looked hard at Brandy. “I never said it was your fault. Don’t you think I know you hate me being your stepmother?”

  “One of the many embarrassments of having a dad who chases—” Afraid she’d gone too far and broken her father’s commandment, Brandy stopped.

  Christine laughed. “I wore the running shoes. Your father never even heard the starter gun go off.” Her laughter died. “Half the freshman girls were in love with Professor Michaelson—the tragic figure who’d lost his beautiful, young wife and never remarried.”

  Brandy took a step back. “Not Dad. No way,” she said, finding it hard to imagine freshmen girls, only a year older than her, attracted to her father.

  “At first it was a harmless flirtation—a kind of competition to get noticed. Or some arrogant belief I could give him his life with your mother back.” She smiled, her face softening, but said nothing more.

  In the silence, Brandy heard the regret.

  “I can tell you one thing for sure,” Christine finally said. “Thinking you want a baby and being a mother are two different things.”

  Brandy stared at her, stunned. What was happening? Her stepmother had never shared anything this honest before.

  Christine picked up Emily and headed for the bathroom. As she turned down the hallway, Emily kicked at her mother and cried out. “Me want Band-Aid.”

  Chapter Three

  Brandy stood in front of her wicker-framed mirror, raised her shoulders, and let them drop. Three times she took a deep breath then slowly released it to center herself. Closing her eyes, she tested her memory of Isabella’s lines. “I will send prayers into the night sky with your name on them, Isaac,” she whispered, then opened her eyes and tried again, watching the expression on her face in the mirror—trying to duplicate the look of both disappointment and longing she’d seen on Christine’s face.

  Visualizing the hospital bassinet, Brandy imagined herself as Isabella saying goodbye to her dying baby. Drawing emotion from the depth of her love for Emily, Brandy’s voice filled with the unimaginable pain of such a terrible loss. She thought about the character Jenny—the birth mother who gave baby Isaac up for adoption. Jenny was young and must have felt as trapped as Christine did by the pregnancy. What if her stepmother had given Emily away? Or what if her baby sister had been born with a death sentence hanging over her head? Brandy choked up. Her tears spilled over.

  When she sensed another presence in her room, she turned around.

  Christine stood just inside the doorway. When she noticed Brandy’s tears, a look of sympathy spread over her way-too-perfect face.

  Brandy wiped her cheeks on her sleeve. “I’m just playing a part. I’m rehearsing. A good actress can cry anytime she wants.”

  Christine cocked her head as if she weren’t convinced.

  “What’s up?” Brandy asked. “Did you win the frickin’ lottery?”

  “No,” Christine said. “But apparently Emily did.” Her stepmother lifted her right hand. The garnet and diamond pendant swung on her index finger like a hypnotist’s medallion. “Do you know anything about it?”

  Emily ran down the hallway and plunged her naked body into Christine, pounding on the front of her mother’s thighs with balled fists. “Mine. Give it me, Mommy.”

  Christine tossed the necklace to Brandy.

  Brandy caught it. “Sure,” she said. “It’s Emily’s new necklace.”

  “Don’t you think diamonds are livin’ a little large for a two-and-a-half-year-old?”

  “I doubt they’re real,” Brandy said.

  Emily kicked Christine in the shin.

  Christine grabbed her by the arm. “Damn it, I’m going to count to five.” Her voice wobbled as if s
truggling for control. “And if you don’t—” Before she’d finished her threat, Emily wrenched away and took off running.

  Christine chased after her.

  With a mixture of amusement and concern, Brandy watched as Christine picked up the writhing toddler.

  “No,” Emily screamed, kicking at her mother’s stomach. “You not boss of me.”

  Brandy muffled a laugh as a red-faced Christine dropped her daughter onto the floor, but kept holding her by the arm. “We’ll see about that.” She whacked Emily’s behind.

  Emily wailed.

  Brandy’s amusement turned to fear as a handprint reddened on Emily’s backside.

  “Where did you get the necklace?” Christine asked again.

  When Emily didn’t respond, Christine whacked her again. “Dammit, Emily. Tell me who gave you the necklace.”

  Emily was crying far too hard to respond, but Christine smacked her again.

  Leaping forward, Brandy grabbed Christine’s wrist. “Auditioning for mother of the year?”

  Christine looked stricken.

  Brandy let go of Christine’s wrist and stepped away.

  Returning her attention to Emily, Christine said, “Sometimes you make me so mad, I could just—” She clamped one hand over her mouth as if to stop herself from saying something she’d regret.

  The toddler slipped away from her mother’s grasp, threw herself on her back and kicked the wall with her bare feet, her wails loud enough to be heard on the next block.

  Christine jerked Emily up, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her a little. “That necklace belongs to someone who wants it back. Tell Mommy where you got it. Right now.”

  Emily froze. Only her eyes moved.

  Again, Brandy thought about how enraged her stepmother had become when Emily broke the tiara. “Leave her alone,” Brandy said. “I gave it to her.”

  A look passed over Christine’s face that said she didn’t quite believe what she’d heard. She released Emily. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “A few bucks at a garage sale. Keep the little monkey out of my junk for a change.” The lies came out of her mouth before she’d had time to think them through. What if a really bad person had given Emily the necklace? But how likely was that? Her preschool was a safe place, with a fenced and locked play yard. At Lithia Park, she almost never let Emily out of sight for more than a minute or two. She must have found it by the duck pond. The Shakespeare Festival had opened and the park was swimming with tourists.

  With her thumb in her mouth, Emily huddled with her Pooh bear in the corner of Brandy’s room.

  Christine’s face was so red it looked as if she’d just run a marathon. “Look,” she said. “Your father told me about your conversation in the car and I agree with you. It’s not right. He should tell you about your mother.”

  Brandy was too stunned to speak.

  “I really want us to be friends.” Christine moved toward Brandy, arms outstretched, ready to hug.

  Instinctively, Brandy stepped back. Was Christine crazy?

  Christine didn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Emily,” she said, her voice calm now. “You’re stinky and you need a bath.”

  Staring at the red raised handprints on Emily’s backside, Brandy thought about Jenny in the play and the decision she’d made to give baby Isaac away. Maybe Christine had made the more difficult choice. Maybe her stepmother wasn’t such a selfish bitch after all.

  “How about I give Em a bubble bath?” Brandy said.

  Emily clapped.

  * * *

  I changed into my best suit, a crisp white shirt I left open at the neck and the black shoes I’d carefully polished. I wanted to look professional, like someone trustworthy—a person of value. I checked the full-length mirror and nodded my approval.

  Except for the rain that tapped its transparent fingers on the roof, my car was as silent as a shadow. As I backed out of my gravel drive and onto the country road, I tightened my grip on the wheel. I kept my gaze fastened to the wet road ahead. I made a quick stop at a children’s clothing store in Talent and bought a frilly dress, ruffled panties, and patent leather shoes for Emily.

  Just moments later, the sky rumbled with thunder. The treetops shimmered in an echoing crack of light that split the gray sky like a jagged seam. Even the clouds were singing a dangerous song.

  In the parking lot, I turned off the ignition. I sat for a moment, hoping the rain would stop. Finally, I opened my black umbrella and ran across the rain-drenched asphalt. I stood under the portico, rang the front bell and waited. Conversations with men in dark suits were the moments I dreaded most.

  A thin, small-featured man, a little shorter than I am, opened the door. He had warm brown eyes and wore a navy blue suit, his sand-colored hair fine and downy as a baby’s. He looked as if he’d been hand-picked for his job, non-threatening—the kind of man a distraught and grieving family would trust with their loved one.

  My hands shook. As I stepped into the foyer, I was nearly overcome by the odd mingling of smells. Sadness and chrysanthemums. Embalming fluid and regrets.

  He took my umbrella and dropped it into the brass container near the sign-in podium. “Welcome to Hillside Mortuary,” he said, his voice as deep and soft as his eyes. “My name is Walter Hammond. You don’t need to be nervous. We’re here to help.”

  “I’ve come for a small casket.” A crow’s wing fluttered in my voice. I cleared my throat to still it and took a deep breath. “One of those small white ones with gold-leaf trim.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, leading me into a back office with a desk and two tufted Queen Anne chairs, red as blood, placed in front of it. As he talked, I wondered about the dead people, wondered if the walls were stained with the prints of their shadows. I wondered if he was the man who clipped their fingernails, combed their hair, and painted their faces, but knew I mustn’t ask.

  Behind a set of closed doors, the organ music, Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, lapped against the walls like a gentle wave.

  He helped me into one of the chairs. “The loss of a child is always the most difficult. But you’ve come to the right place. We can make all the arrangements for you.”

  I sat still, knowing I must speak before the music washed away my words. “That won’t be necessary,” I said, precisely the way I’d practiced. “I’d like to take the casket with me today.”

  His eyes creased to slits. “Have you…uh…chosen a final resting place?”

  “Yes. In the woods behind my home.”

  He looked away. “That’s not only...” The man paused as if searching for the right words. “I’m sure that would be a lovely resting place, and I can understand your desire to have your loved one close to you. Unfortunately, there are legal issues involved. I’d be happy to make all the arrangements for you. We have some lovely shaded, hillside sites.”

  I panicked. I hadn’t anticipated this.

  No matter how hard I tried to maintain order, no matter how vigilantly I guarded against mistakes, there was always some blemish—some imperfection lurking out of sight. Waiting to catch me off guard.

  I heard the voice in my head. Remember what we practiced.

  I struggled to silence it.

  The man eyed me, a trace of suspicion in his gaze. I wondered if he, too, had heard the voice.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his words as smooth as a child’s hand. “Grief does terrible things to us. Just take your time.”

  When I finally spoke, my tone sounded too flat. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. The casket is for my poodle. She’s a standard one, about as big as a three-year-old child.”

  I imagined Emily then, all dressed up and sleeping peacefully in her satin-lined bed.

  He glanced at me with an uneasy smile, then blinked. “There’s a lovely pet cemetery just outside Medford. I can have the coffin delivered to them. They can make all the arrangements.”

  He thought I hadn’t done my research. But I’d show him. “I know it�
��s not illegal for you to sell me a casket. I can pay in cash. How much do you need?” I opened my wallet and took out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.

  His eyes sparkled as he looked at them. “We have cloth-covered children’s caskets that start at three hundred. One of them would be perfect for your beloved poodle. Let me show you what I have in stock,” he said, then led me down a stairway to the basement showroom.

  I smiled to myself. “That would be perfect,” I said. Even I knew cloth burned much faster than wood.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, Brandy bounced out of bed, happy to the center of her bones. Stone Rodgers, the guy in drama club she’d most like to call her boyfriend, was meeting her in Lithia Park. The place would be crazy crowded today. If anything like last year, The Teddy Bear’s Picnic—this year’s theme for the annual Children’s Health Fair—would bring in hundreds of kids and their parents. It started at 10a.m. and ran until 4p.m. Maybe she and Stone could find a quiet spot in the Japanese Garden.

  It wasn’t exactly a date. She’d never had a real date before, but this meeting with Stone was the closest she’d ever come to having one. Stone had the male lead in the senior class play; baby Isaac’s adoptive father. They planned to act out the first two scenes for Kathleen. And Stone was bringing a picnic lunch.

  When Mr. Pritchard announced he’d cast Brandy as Isabella, Stone had taken her hand. He looked at her with those ocean-green eyes. She wanted to dive into them and swim around for awhile. Stone’s eyes held laughter inside them, even when he was dead serious. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, then held it between the two of his like he’d never let go. Her. Brandy Scarface Michaelson. She couldn’t imagine that the best actor in the school wanted to spend time with her. Before she noticed it happening, her eyes had filled with tears—strange the way a person could hold your hand and open your heart at the same time.

  She had her morning all planned out. She’d grab some breakfast, take a long bubble bath, wash her hair and carefully apply makeup over her scars. Sorenson had been right. In less than two weeks, her skin tone had grown more even, and now that the swelling had disappeared, her left eye no longer drooped. Her new white jeans were already pressed and she’d polished her cordovan dress boots. Maybe she’d wear the teal cowboy hat. Her friend, Carla, said it made Brandy’s eyes look even bluer.