In the Shadow of Lakecrest(55)

“Good gracious.” Ma had never been one for cuddles and sweet talk; life had wrung her dry of sentiment. “So what if you’ve got a bossy mother-in-law and live in a house you don’t like? Half the women in America are in the same boat!”

“It’s more than that,” I said. “It’s Matthew. He has terrible dreams, where he sees himself killing Cecily. I don’t think he hurt her—I truly don’t—but still, it scares me. There’s something wrong with him, and I can’t fix it.”

“Since when has a woman ever been able to fix a man?”

I could tell by the way Ma stared at me, fierce and direct, that she was talking about my father. About herself. We’d never really talked about that night in our run-down tenement, about the knife she’d plunged into Binny O’Meara’s stomach. I’d never dared ask.

“Most women get worn down by beatings,” she continued. “They lose their fight. You and me, we’re different. Your father did his best to crush my spirit, but he couldn’t. He pushed and he pushed, and in the end . . . I cracked.”

Ma shrugged, as if she were admitting to a minor lapse that shouldn’t be held against her. “The judge sent me to the asylum rather than having me hanged for murder, because people lined up to testify about your father’s rages. Not one of them faulted me for what I did.

“Your Matthew, now . . . I’ll admit I hardly know him. But it’s plain as the nose on my face that he adores you, and your misery is making him miserable. He doesn’t hit you, does he?”

I remembered Matthew’s twisted face as he thrashed against me in bed. His wild eyes as he wrapped his fingers around my neck. I shook my head. The creature who hurt me wasn’t Matthew.

“Then what in the world’s got you so spooked?” Ma asked.

“The Lemonts have this motto, ‘It is done.’ It means they always get their way. Hannah looks at me sometimes like she’s biding her time until the baby comes, but after that, who knows? They have this cell in the basement, and she could lock me up, anytime, without anyone knowing. She’s got all sorts of doctors in her pocket who could declare me crazy and clear the way for a divorce.”

Ma blew out a breath. Her body looked as tough and resilient as ever, but her face had a resigned weariness that was new. She’d expected to be married by now, living off the Fosters’ money. But old Mrs. Foster was still alive, Mr. Foster kept up his excuses, and here Ma sat, without a ring on her chapped hands.

All I needed was reassurance. Understanding. Until I realized my mother had none to give.

“It’s the pregnancy that’s got you thinking so strange,” she said. “Once you’ve got that baby in your arms, you’ll see. All these worries will go away.”

Ma didn’t want to hear I was unhappy, because it went against everything she’d raised me to believe: a good-looking husband plus a pile of money equals a perfect life. Even if it wasn’t true, I’d damned well better act like it was. The feelings I’d poured out scattered and evaporated. There would be no more confessions, not to her.

“We’d better set down the terms of your visit,” I said, all brisk practicality. “How long are you staying?”

“Matthew suggested a week,” Ma said. Her eyes were asking me for more.

“A week,” I agreed. “But only if you’re on your best behavior. If I hear one more word about Randall, you’ll be on the first train home.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“No harm done, though?”

I thought of Hannah, following the conversation like a huntress who’s caught a glimpse of her prey. Was I safe? I’d tried so hard to forget what happened, but Randall would always be there, haunting my past. A reminder of the time I, too, had cracked.



I’d enrolled at the Teachers’ College of Ohio, but unofficially I studied the fraternity boys at Ohio State, deciding which of them would be my future husband.

There were a few who said they loved me, and one who insisted on introducing me to his mother. But none were quite good enough. I held out for better, and it all paid off when Randall Bigelow asked me to the Alpha Delta dance at the beginning of my senior year. Randall was flashy and funny, and it didn’t take much effort to stare at him adoringly. I knew right away he was the one. His father owned hotels all over the state, and the family was flush with money. There was a flurry of proposals in the spring before graduation, and I figured I’d be next.

What I didn’t know was that Mr. Foster, a traveling salesman, liked to stay at the Bigelow family’s hotels and had struck up a friendship with Randall’s father. At some point, with Randall and me all but engaged and Mr. Bigelow boasting about the sweet young girl from Cleveland who was likely to be his new daughter-in-law, my name was mentioned. And Mr. Foster recognized it, right away. Ma always did love to brag about me.

I don’t know exactly what Mr. Foster told Mr. Bigelow or what Mr. Bigelow told his son. I only know it was enough to send Randall barging into my dormitory, raging drunk, at three o’clock in the afternoon. I’d never seen him blotto, but he was grinning in a way that didn’t look happy as he flung open the door and stood there, hands pressed against either side of the doorframe. Swaying.