True Places(8)

“Something came up. I texted her.”

“She said you were vague.”

Suzanne could picture them speculating but never veering into nosiness. Tinsley saved that for her daughter. Suzanne wove through the parking lot, keys in hand. Spotting the Navigator, she clicked it open.

Tinsley said, “Well, it’s none of my business what you were doing.”

If only the truth of that statement would be enough to hold Tinsley back from pursuing her questioning. “I found a girl on the parkway. She was all by herself and in pain, so I took her to the hospital.”

“What were you doing on the parkway?”

Suzanne almost laughed. An abandoned, injured child was not nearly as intriguing as a woman with a full schedule taking a joyride on America’s favorite highway. “Driving. I was driving.”

“Well, I assumed—”

Suzanne opened the door and tossed her handbag onto the passenger seat. God, the hyacinths. She gagged at the smell. A quick calculation told her she had enough time to drop them off before picking up Brynn. “Mother, was there something you needed?”

“I know you’re busy, dear.”

“It’s okay. What do you need?”

“The fund-raiser at the club is next month, and I’m supposed to be in charge of sponsors. Only I haven’t a clue.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why did you volunteer for it?”

“Your father insisted. He thinks that if everyone sees I’m being a good sport and playing the part, then everything is fine. Which from his perspective it is.”

“You don’t have to agree.”

“You know your father.”

Something in the way she said “your father” carried a whiff of disapproval, as if somehow Suzanne were responsible for Anson Royce because her existence had made him a father, and a poor one, thereby contributing to her mother’s unhappiness, that massive, looming shadow. It was not logical but, then again, her mother’s motivations never were. If Suzanne were to confront Tinsley, she would be devastated to hear that her daughter could think such things of her. And in the next breath Tinsley would bemoan another affair of Anson’s, sprinkling the story of her humiliation (that was the very worst of it) with as many iterations of “your father” as syntax would allow.

“Whatever you need me to do, Mother. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

“If you have time. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s fine. I just need to catch up from today.”

“You know, Suzanne, the police will take care of abandoned children.”

“It was easier to take her myself.” She thought of the girl’s frantic behavior in the car. Perhaps she should have called for help. “You should’ve seen her, Mother. She was so thin and frail.”

“Was she a meth head? I heard a report the other day on the news.”

“No. Just a girl.”

Tinsley paused. “Did you say why you were on the parkway?”

“Driving, Mother. Just driving.”



Brynn stood among a flock of girls gathered in the Barrington School’s front quad. All wore racing swimsuits under sweatpants that were rolled at the top and positioned below jutting hipbones. At five foot eleven, Brynn was the tallest, but not by much. Suzanne studied them. They were extraordinary creatures, like flamingos or giraffes, hybrid humans, or even further removed, a self-invented species. They behaved as a unit; when one reacted to a stimulus, or failed to react, the others did the same, like shorebirds switching direction along the tide line. Whatever it was—a boy passing by, a hilarious Snapchat, a comment from a despised teacher—a pointedly raised eyebrow was sufficient to secure instantaneous solidarity, especially if the eyebrow belonged to Brynn.

Suzanne came to a stop alongside the row of parked cars. Brynn ducked her head, the wet curtain of her hair closing the scene of her mother’s arrival like the end of a dull play. The other girls refused to look at the car without seeming to do so. They continued chatting, tossing their hair, and running their thumbs over their devices until more than five minutes had passed. Finally Brynn shrugged, said, “See you guys,” and left them, coincidentally in the direction of the car, thumbs flying across the glass surface of her phone with the grace of a skater executing her figures, until one hand reluctantly bowed out to open the car door.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He had a meeting.”

Brynn stuffed her bag under her feet and rested her hands, still manipulating the phone, on her knees.

Suzanne checked the side mirror and pulled out. “How was practice?”

“Long. Wet.”

“And school?”

“Oh well, could’ve been better. For example, if I hadn’t bombed on the English paper I spent the whole week writing.”

Suzanne had forgotten about her daughter’s text and felt a jab of guilt. Then again, Brynn had to suffer the consequences of her actions. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to go? Don’t bail out your kids. Let them understand firsthand the way behavior and results were linked. Learn the lesson. Do better next time. Suzanne knew Brynn would not listen to parental homilies. She also knew she couldn’t stop herself from delivering one. Was she supposed to give up on being a parent?