In an Instant by Suzanne Redfearn
PROLOGUE
Mrs. Kaminski knew.
Before it happened.
Until that day, we thought she was a psycho mom, neurotic and paranoid. Behind her back, we called her the warden and felt bad for Mo for having to deal with such a phobic, obsessive mother. Sheltered was an understatement for the way Mrs. Kaminski guarded her daughter. Birthday parties at the beach or pool were off limits unless a lifeguard was present and Mrs. Kaminski was allowed to be there as well—a fortysomething shadow lurking on the sand or at the water’s edge, hovering watchfully beside the reveling twelve-year-olds. Disneyland was out of the question. Though she was a small, quiet woman, barely five feet tall with a kind smile and exceeding politeness, it was hard to believe how unyielding she was about watching over Mo.
Secretly we wondered if something traumatic had happened to Mrs. Kaminski when she was young that had made her so protective, but Mo said that wasn’t it. She said her mom just believed that nobody looked after your children the way you looked after your own. It was a generous view for Mo to take, her patience far greater than any of the rest of us would have had for our moms interfering in our lives the way Mrs. Kaminski did in Mo’s.
Sixth-grade science camp was when her resolve finally softened from granite to steel: slightly more malleable but not by much. Every sixth grader except Mo was going on the trip. The teacher called Mrs. Kaminski, then the principal, then my mom. It was my mom who convinced her. My dad was going as a chaperone, and he would personally watch after Mo. Perhaps it was because she believed my mom, or maybe it was because she trusted my dad, or perhaps it was because she realized she couldn’t hold her iron grip forever, or maybe it was because the camp was so important to that year’s curriculum. Whatever the reason, for the first time in Mo’s twelve years, she was allowed to leave the nest without her mom at her side.
Since then Mrs. Kaminski has repeatedly entrusted us with her daughter, each sacred trust prefaced with assurances from my parents of “We’ll take good care of her,” “She’s in good hands,” “Mo is like a daughter to us”—throwaway platitudes I wonder about endlessly these days, questioning whether those clichéd, careless words influenced what happened or whether they were meaningless and that things would have happened the way they did regardless of what had been thoughtlessly promised beforehand.
Over the years I was entrusted to Mrs. Kaminski as well, but my parents never asked for guarantees of my safekeeping. Mo is an only child, so I was taken along as company on all the Kaminski vacations. I’ve been to Africa and Spain and Thailand and Alaska. My parents eagerly agreed to each invitation without the slightest hesitation or demand of reciprocal pledges of protection like those given when we took Mo. Perhaps it was assumed it went both ways. Or maybe, deep down, my parents knew the promise wouldn’t be granted, which would have made the decision to allow me to join them awkward. I imagine my parents understood that Mrs. Kaminski’s fears were based on deep-seated self-reflection, that she had considered the possibility of a fault rupturing or a volcano erupting or a ship sinking and knew, faced with the dire choice, she would take care of her own, and though Mo and I were close as sisters, I didn’t qualify.
From my earliest memories, I can remember my sisters, my friends, and me rolling our eyes whenever Mrs. Kaminski was mentioned, how we thought she was crazy.
No one calls her crazy anymore.
She knew. Before it happened. And I wonder, How? Was it because she was a prophet, a visionary gifted with preternatural premonition? Or was it exactly as Mo said—a rational, well-considered protective stance based on the simple understanding that no one watches over yours the way you watch out for your own, knowing hers would be saved second if a choice needed to be made?
These are the things I wonder, now. After.
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One more discussion about pink ribbon or gold and I swear I’m going to lose it! WHO CARES! Just elope. Get it over with. I’M DYING!!!
Mo’s text response is nearly instant: So ur having fun?
A tooth extraction would be less painful. For five months I’ve endured this torture. Since the announcement of my sister’s engagement, the minutiae of her nuptials have been dissected and regurgitated ad nauseam, and the big day is still three months away. Ad nauseam. Now there’s a great word that doesn’t get nearly enough use (or is it two words?), and it’s very appropriate—this whole outing is more than I can stomach.
It’s Friday, a gorgeous blue-sky afternoon and the perfect opportunity to be at the beach, skimming or surfing or hanging out with my friends. But instead, here I am, sitting on the floor of the dressing room of a bridal salon, my back against the wall so my sister can model her dress to my mom, my aunt, and me, her reluctant maid of honor. My other sister, Chloe, isn’t here. A week into the engagement, she made some comment about the institution of marriage being an antiquated patriarchal construct that oppresses women, causing her to be immediately fired from the whole affair and for me to be promoted.
I wonder where she is right now. Probably hanging out with Vance, the two of them lip locked or walking hand in hand downtown, enjoying the incredible day. I nearly groan in envy and wonder, not for the first time, if the comment was made intentionally. Chloe’s brilliant that way. She knows how to make things happen, and working side by side with my mom for eight months is definitely something she would have been very determined to make unhappen.