The Broken Girls(45)

He seemed surprised at that, but he promptly dropped the radio back in the box and closed the lid. “Am I making you break the rules?”

“I’ve done it before.”

He grinned. “I like the sound of that.” They smiled at each other for a second, and CeCe thought again, This is good. “Listen,” Joseph said. “Dad tells me your mother is a housekeeper in Boston.”

“It’s surprising he’s been so open with you about all of this,” she said. “Doesn’t he worry people will disapprove?” She blushed again. “What about, um, his wife?” Her mother had never told her anything about her father’s wife—not a single word.

“His wife is sick,” Joseph said bluntly. “They never had any kids, you know, in the marriage. So Dad is behind me in this. He doesn’t have any sons. Except me. I don’t think he cares very much what people think. He wants his kids taken care of, even if they aren’t his wife’s. I mean, who is going to take over his business someday, if it isn’t me?”

CeCe nodded and looked down at the box on the table in front of her, drawing her thumbnail along the lid. She didn’t know her father well—barely at all, actually—but he’d never been unkind to her. It was other people who were unkind. And, of course, Mother was ashamed, while Father wasn’t. That, too, was the way of the world.

She had the sudden feeling this visit had more to it than just friendliness from a long-lost half brother, though she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “I guess he’s always been honest.”

“He has.” Joseph paused. “He told me about your mother and the time you almost died at the beach.”

Her head jerked up. No one talked about that. Never. “That was an accident.”

Joseph shook his head. “That’s not what Dad says.”

“He doesn’t know,” she said, the words coming out forceful with her sudden anger. “He wasn’t there. It was an accident.”

But still he shook his head, so calm, so certain. A young man who had been told the truth by his father, undoubting. “Look, no one blames you. Not at all. But your mother—”

“She slipped.” CeCe heard the rushing of water in her ears, and pushed the thought away.

“CeCe, you nearly drowned,” he said. “Dad said they had to put your mother in a hospital for a while.”

“That was unfair.”

“The doctors said—”

“Stop,” CeCe nearly shouted. The families at the other tables were looking over at them now, and the teacher on duty, Mrs. Wentworth, was looking concerned. “The doctors don’t know her.”

She had been six. Her mother had taken her swimming at the beach. She remembered the dark, damp sand between her toes, the slap of cold water. Watching the waves come and go, making the sand look slick as glass as the water receded. She’d touched it over and over, after every wave left, trying to feel the hardness of the sand-glass, watching the water curve around her fingers. Nothing else. She didn’t remember her mother telling her to come into the water. She didn’t remember the sky, or the voices of the other people on the beach, or the sound of seagulls calling, or the water rushing into her mouth. She only remembered touching the smooth sand, then looking up at Mother through the water.

And then someone was shouting, and she’d opened her eyes to see a man with a huge mustache looking into her face. Little girl, are you all right?

Her mother had slipped, holding her in the water. She’d slipped and fallen and pinned CeCe beneath her by accident. But the police came, and though CeCe had no memory after that, just flashes of images here and there—a strange house she’d stayed at that had a puppy, a man who had made finger puppets sing a song and made her laugh—she knew what had happened. Her mother had assured her, years later. It had been an accident.

Her father hadn’t been there; she and her mother had gone to the beach alone. Had he been involved when her mother went into the hospital? Had he had her locked up? She hadn’t known that. It was unfair. Her mother had never had the chance to defend herself. She’d never gone back to work for the Ellesmeres after getting out. She’d gone to Boston and her father had dropped CeCe off at her first boarding school, the one that took younger kids, the one she’d been at before her father had come to get her again to move her to Idlewild.

“Dad was looking out for you,” Joseph said. “He got your mother that job after she got out of the hospital, and he sent you to school. He says that now I’m grown, I have to look out for you, too.”

“My mother looks out for me,” CeCe said numbly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Joseph said. “I didn’t come here to upset you.” He did look rather sorry, his eyes sad and his chin drooping. “I just know things have been hard for you—you know, harder than they are for me. So I wanted to meet you and bring you a present. I wanted to let you know I’m here. If you ever need help, just let me know.”

She blinked hard. She wanted to shout at him, wanted to stomp from the room. If she were Katie, she’d know some profanity she could say, something that would shock him and make him stop feeling sorry for her. No one ever felt sorry for Katie, while everyone always felt sorry for CeCe. She was sick of it.

But she stared at him, and she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be mean. He’d tried to be nice to her, and he’d spent quite a bit of money on her radio. So she heard herself say, “Thank you for the present.”