Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [25]
“Driving into the city by yourself on a rainy night—and to a party. You don’t even like to drive,” her mother fretted.
“June, take it easy,” Alison’s father said. “It was a party for Claire’s book. Alison had to go.”
“Well. Don’t even get me started on that book. It is a slap in the face to poor Lucinda, whether or not she realizes it. That girl should be ashamed of herself.”
“June,” Alison’s father implored.
Alison’s mother went on, ignoring him. Here it was, in a nutshell: their dynamic. “I have never, ever trusted Claire Ellis—there was always something devious about her. Why you’ve stayed friends with her, I’ll never understand. Haven’t I been saying that, Edward, for years?”
She had, in fact, been saying it for years. Perhaps in part because they were so much alike, June and Claire had never liked each other. Claire thought that Alison’s mother was a self-absorbed drama queen; her mother thought that Claire was up to no good. Of course, they were both right. What Alison resisted in her mother—the arrogance of her opinions, the calculated impulsiveness, the stubborn refusal to abide by others’ conventions, her narcissistic charm—she had always admired in Claire, in whom these traits were manifested as sly subversion.
“Alison,” her father broke in. His voice was grave. “What can we do?”
“There’s nothing you can do,” she said numbly.
“How is Charlie handling all this?” her mother asked.
“Fine. I mean, he’s been … helpful. He took the kids out for the morning.”
“How are Annie and Noah?”
“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Annie had wanted to know, standing next to the bed, her voice already, first thing in the morning, a needling, needy whine. Alison knew that her daughter’s concern was all about her own fear and discomfort, and she’d had to fight the urge to turn away. Instead, she pulled her close, under the covers. (Sometimes, Alison was aware, she expressed the strongest affection for her children when she was least sure of her own response.) Annie had stiffened against Alison’s embrace, pulling away to peer in her face. “Your eyes are all puffy, Mommy,” she’d said, her face scrunched in alarm.
“They know I was in an accident,” Alison said now. “Not the rest.”
“How are you going to tell them?”
“She doesn’t have to tell them,” her father said, at the same time that Alison said, “I don’t know.”
“Oh, Alison.” Her mother sighed. “We should fly up there. You’re in no shape to handle the kids right now. And as long as I’m being honest here I should tell you that I don’t like that babysitter of yours—what’s her name, Roberta.”
“Dolores.”
“Dolores. She’s snippy with me whenever I call there, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t give you all my messages, either. I get the distinct impression that she is not nurturing to those children.”
Alison closed her eyes and shifted the cordless phone to her other ear, as if it might also somehow shift the topic. It was true that Dolores, a former English nanny who for mysterious reasons had been reduced to babysitting by the hour, was imperious and controlling, but Alison didn’t know what to do about it. Frankly, she was intimidated. And she didn’t want to think about that right now. She took a deep breath, calibrating words and tone in her head, and then said, “Mom, I appreciate the offer, but I think we’re okay.”
“Honey, you’re not okay. You’re not okay at all,” her mother said.
Alison had been a curious child. When she was ten or eleven she would read her mother’s correspondence and her friends’ diaries as well as eavesdrop on conversations for a mention of her name. She wanted to learn who she was, reflected in the eyes of others. And then something happened: one day when she was in the eighth grade she read one supposed friend’s note to another in school—Alison G. wears such weird clothes—with the scrawled reply, Yeah, and she’s not as pretty as