Bloodline(44)

I’ve prepared a new recipe from one of the women at Catherine’s gathering. It’s a hamburger hot dish that calls for corn mixed in with the cream of mushroom soup. I’m grateful everyone appears to have enjoyed it.

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Ronald says. He scoops out his third serving of the hot dish. He seems to especially enjoy the cornflake crust. “That’s what’s most important. You’re carrying our grandbaby in there.”

I smile and let Deck slide his arm around my thickening waist. “I agree. That’s the most important,” I say. Then, almost as if it’s an afterthought: “I was also upset by the accident I witnessed.”

Barbara and Ronald exchange glances. I notice because I’m watching for it.

Deck is oblivious. He selects a sour gherkin from the dish and pops it into his mouth. “What accident?”

“A man was hit by a car.” I gamble on keeping my focus on Barbara because I can watch only one of them. I’m rewarded as she blanches.

“He’s fine,” Ronald says. “Dennis is going to run a bit about it in the paper.”

I swivel my gaze to him. He’s been studying me like I’ve been watching Barbara, just like he was reading me the first day we drove up. Tendrils of warning brush my flesh. I force a smile. “I’m so glad to hear it. When the ambulance drove in the opposite direction of Lilydale General, I worried it was really serious.”

“An abundance of caution,” Ronald says. “Now, what did you learn about Paulie Aandeg?”

Deck drops into his seat, and I rest the relish tray on the table and take my place kitty-corner to him.

“He’s a good-looking fellow,” I say. “But it’s impossible to know if he’s really the boy in the sailor suit.”

“I wasn’t even born when Paulie disappeared,” Deck says, “but I’d like to meet this fellow. I think I’d know if he was telling the truth.”

“He has a scar,” I say. I hadn’t planned to bring it up, but I find I want to see their reaction. “The man who claims to be Paul. Deck, it looks just like ours.”

Barbara’s fork clatters to the floor. “Deck doesn’t have any scars.”

I pull up my sleeve, smiling. I’ve unsettled them, but they won’t know that’s why I’m smiling. They’ll take it for innocence. “It’s a smallpox scar.”

“Everyone has one of those,” Ronald says quickly. “I have one of those.”

I notice for the first time that he and Deck hold their forks the same, like they’re stabbing their food.

“Not like ours,” Deck says. He’s stopped eating. His brow is furrowed. “Joan and I have figure-eight scars.”

For the first time since we’ve moved to Lilydale, I think the Deck I fell in love with might still be here. I fuss with my napkin so he can’t see my grateful tears.

“Did you actually see this scar on the man who claims to be Paulie?” Barbara asks.

I nod. “He showed it to me. Problem is, I have no idea if the real Paulie Aandeg had it. It’s not mentioned in the articles, the local ones, at least. Would either of you know about vaccinations both Paulie and Deck would have received?”

“It’s so long ago,” Barbara says brightly. “Impossible to remember. Did you make this cake from scratch, dear? It’s so much better than the one you brought to Catherine’s.”





CHAPTER 31

I shouldn’t have to manipulate Deck to leave for work an hour before he planned—early bird catches the worm, honey!—or lie about why I’m driving to Saint Cloud (shopping!). I especially shouldn’t have to slouch in my seat as I motor out of town, worried that someone will see me and stop me.

But I do, aware that I’ve gone from being afraid to leave Lilydale to desperate to escape.

Hunched in the driver’s seat, I drive past the lonely ramblers at the outskirts of town, feeling their sleepy, sticky pull: a life of work, family, growing more familiar every day as responsibility and inevitability pour like gravedirt onto my shoulders. But that’s dramatic. The situation doesn’t call for it. I agreed to move to Lilydale. We have a nice house, Deck’s job is solid, and I’ve just been granted the biggest story at the newspaper. The pregnancy is making me unreasonable.

Hysterical.

Barbara’s and Ronald’s behavior last night could be explained away as completely normal. Of course Barbara went pale when we talked about a car accident. Obviously they would be concerned about my health. And a porkpie hat does not a man make. Still, it’s not until I pass through the dark sentinel trees surrounding Lilydale, pass through the thick skin of the town with a pop—just like the day I arrived, except out rather than in—that my neck relaxes, that I can loosen my grip on the steering wheel, that blood returns to my fingers.

Saint Cloud is charming, a river city that’s so open it feels familiar. On the drive, I unclasp my purse, locate the bottle of Valium, and swallow one dry. Then, I close my eyes and anchor myself in the memory of my mom. She understood how important my stories were. She didn’t think it was foolish how I saw the world. She loved my imagination, and she loved me.

I park in front of Grover Tucker’s house.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” I ask my stomach, stroking the firm bump. “You ready to go inside?”