True Places(25)

Tinsley cut in. “What’s this I hear about you adopting this hillbilly girl?”

So Whit had told them. Suzanne was hardly surprised. “Would you both like some coffee?”

Tinsley pursed her lips as if this were a ploy. “If you have some, thank you.”

Anson said, “Coke for me.”

“Diet.” Tinsley cast a glance at her husband’s paunch, which was slight but nevertheless unacceptable.

Suzanne pressed buttons on the espresso machine and retrieved a can of Coke Zero and a bottle of milk from the refrigerator.

“Skim, please,” Tinsley said.

“Of course.”

Her father took a seat at the counter, accepted the soda from Suzanne, and filled her in on the details of his game. She listened in silence as she frothed the milk. The espresso finished sputtering. Suzanne made the latte, then passed the steaming mug to her mother.

“Lovely, dear. Thank you.”

Suzanne nodded. “Now, about the girl. First, she’s not a hillbilly.”

Her mother waved a hand. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“I do. Her name is Iris.”

“Iris? How charming.” She didn’t sound sincere. “You haven’t answered my calls or texts, so I was forced to speak with Whit about it. He said you had filled out paperwork.”

Suzanne sighed and wiped the counter with a sponge. Why did Whit talk so freely with Tinsley? Her mother would forget half the facts and twist the meaning, and Suzanne would have to set her straight over something that was none of her business in the first place. Whit didn’t see Tinsley as anything other than a slightly nosy old lady. Suzanne wished it were true. “The paperwork is an application to become foster parents, just in case Iris’s family can’t be found. The process takes time, so we decided to get the ball rolling.” She didn’t mention that the detective had offered to help expedite the background check and said that a judge could hasten the approval if necessary. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Anson rolled his eyes.

Tinsley jumped up from her seat. “Of course it means something! Whit didn’t sound that thrilled about it, reading between the lines. Just think, you might end up with her in your house!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the idea.”

“Now, Suzanne,” Anson scolded, “there is no call for sarcasm.” His tone was mechanical, a ritualistic defense of his wife.

Tinsley waved her hands as if bats were swooping around her. “You don’t know anything about this Iris. It’s all a bit suspicious.”

Anson said, “If the police can’t find anything, it must be because she’s on the lam.”

Suzanne shook her head. “You both watch too much TV.”

Her mother’s eyes darkened. “And you have no right to endanger your family by bringing in an unknown element.”

It was Suzanne’s habit to absorb such pronouncements, to internally deflect them while not outwardly disagreeing with her mother. What difference did it make what opinions Tinsley held? Except in the end it did, because her mother wormed her way into every corner of Suzanne’s life without, ironically, becoming invested in Suzanne in any way—not as a mother, not as a friend, not even as a pair of helping hands. The fact was that Tinsley had always depended on Suzanne. Tinsley’s obsession with keeping the surface of her life as smooth as her flawless skin had meant her daughter was a receptacle for her many complaints about Anson. Tinsley was needy and could not lean on her husband, not when he was the problem, and airing her grievances outside the shadows of their family home was out of the question. Suzanne had learned to be a good listener and to keep her own counsel.

“I don’t know, Mother. Seems to me that the moment a woman decides to have children, she is bringing an unknown element into her life, don’t you think?”

Tinsley stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean, Suzanne.”

Anson spread his hands on the counter. “Now, I think we’re getting a bit off track here—”

Suzanne ignored him. “I mean that motherhood is a crapshoot. You can try to do everything right, even think that you have, and still end up with a mess on your hands.” She winced at her own unexpected burst of honesty. She turned her back on her parents and began transferring produce from the shopping bags into the refrigerator.

“Oh, Suzanne.” Her mother’s voice dropped a notch. “Reid’s become something of an oddball, anyone can see that, but he’ll probably grow out of it.”

She closed the crisper a little harder than she meant to. Taking a deep breath, she shut the fridge door and faced Tinsley. “I wasn’t referring to Reid, Mother.”

“Is that boy still hanging around him?” her father asked. “You know the one. The pill popper.” He jerked his chin upward to emphasize his distaste.

Suzanne glared at him. “Alex is Reid’s best friend. And Reid would never let him down. Especially now.”

Tinsley tittered. “You needn’t be so defensive about Reid. And surely you didn’t mean to say Brynn is a mess! She’s so popular and doing well in school.”

“That girl is a firecracker,” Anson added. “She’s going places.” He smacked his hand on the counter for emphasis.

Suzanne looked from her mother to her father, gathering her patience. She could’ve countered that Reid was also doing well in school, at least in the classes that interested him, despite the fact that his best friend had attempted suicide. She could have added that being a firecracker at age fifteen wasn’t necessarily a development worth celebrating. But she decided she had had enough of discussing her children with her parents. “I was speaking of parenting generally. But never mind. Whit and I will see what happens with Iris, and when we make a decision, if there’s one to make, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”