worry.
I tell myself that she’s just been busy and she’ll call me back. I leave a second message for her.
Another day goes by, and she hasn’t returned that call either. I start to get that tight-chested panicky feeling again, but tell myself not to jump to conclusions.
The club ought to know Chrissie’s address. I roll on down there and straight into the Manager’s Office.
Becky, the assistant to the Manager, is there. Like me, she’s in tennis whites, but she’s got more muscles and a bigger mustache than I ever will.
“I can’t give out her home phone or address,” she rasps. “That’s confidential information.”
“Please? I think Chrissie needs help.”
“If she needed your help, she’d ask you for it!”
I leave, muttering to myself about rule freaks. Standing outside the club, I text Emily to complain.
She texts me back.
Maybe it’s for the best.
But I don’t feel that way. Why would Chrissie want to keep me away from Michael’s kid? A steel band clamps itself around my head whenever I think of it.
When I get home, I consider calling Nat and Yancy about the baby, but something stops me. Instead, I call Emily on my computer. On my screen, she looks up at me from where she sits on her bed, cross-legged, surrounded by books and note cards.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“English paper.” It’s obvious I’m interrupting her, but she puts down her pen and says, “What’s up?”
“Should I tell Nat and Yancy about the baby?”
She purses her lips as she considers my question, a little vertical crease appearing between her eyebrows. “I think they’re entitled to know.”
“But I don’t really have any information! I don’t even know where Chrissie is.”
She glances at her books. “Well, you don’t have to tell them. You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.”
I think about it. “I guess you’re right. I’ll do it.”
“She hasn’t left town, has she?”
I’ve been worrying about that, but didn’t want to say it. A wave of panic starts to roll over me, but I push it down.
“I don’t think so,” I say. I sure hope not, anyway.
Chapter 23
A fter I finish talking to Emily, I pick up a book, read a page, then put it down. I turn on the tube, pace around my bedroom, then turn it off.
Since I said I’d tell Nat and Yancy about the baby, I might as well do it now. Maybe they’ll know how to find Chrissie’s home address. It’s about six in the evening, and I decide to drop in without calling.
Their house is this contemporary thing that’s all white surfaces and right angles, both inside and out. Nat and Yancy wanted all those white walls for their art collection. Outside is a gigantic metal sculpture in the shape of a mobile, with arms extending out and circles and triangles dangling off them. Michael used to call it The Octopus.
The last time I was here, it was the night of Emily’s party, when I went looking for Michael. I remember how stupidly relieved I was to find no accident along his route home.
Of course, Nat and Yancy hadn’t been around that night. Even more than my folks, they specialize in disappearing acts. Those two wouldn’t even know what to do with a grandchild.
I think back to all the times they flew to Rome, or had an opening to go to, or something better to do than spend time with Michael. The worst memory of all, the one that caused the split between me and both sets of parents, is the terrible day of Michael’s overdose.
He and I were thirteen when it happened. My parents and the Westons were in Cannes for the Film Festival, having left Michael at our house, with Rosario in charge. Michael had been upstairs, supposedly doing homework, for a couple of hours. I was helping Ro unload the dishwasher when Maddy’s voice came through the intercom from her upstairs bedroom.
“Molly says Michael’s in the driveway.” They can see the driveway from the upstairs windows of their adjoining bedrooms.
“Well, have Molly call down to
I tell myself that she’s just been busy and she’ll call me back. I leave a second message for her.
Another day goes by, and she hasn’t returned that call either. I start to get that tight-chested panicky feeling again, but tell myself not to jump to conclusions.
The club ought to know Chrissie’s address. I roll on down there and straight into the Manager’s Office.
Becky, the assistant to the Manager, is there. Like me, she’s in tennis whites, but she’s got more muscles and a bigger mustache than I ever will.
“I can’t give out her home phone or address,” she rasps. “That’s confidential information.”
“Please? I think Chrissie needs help.”
“If she needed your help, she’d ask you for it!”
I leave, muttering to myself about rule freaks. Standing outside the club, I text Emily to complain.
She texts me back.
Maybe it’s for the best.
But I don’t feel that way. Why would Chrissie want to keep me away from Michael’s kid? A steel band clamps itself around my head whenever I think of it.
When I get home, I consider calling Nat and Yancy about the baby, but something stops me. Instead, I call Emily on my computer. On my screen, she looks up at me from where she sits on her bed, cross-legged, surrounded by books and note cards.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“English paper.” It’s obvious I’m interrupting her, but she puts down her pen and says, “What’s up?”
“Should I tell Nat and Yancy about the baby?”
She purses her lips as she considers my question, a little vertical crease appearing between her eyebrows. “I think they’re entitled to know.”
“But I don’t really have any information! I don’t even know where Chrissie is.”
She glances at her books. “Well, you don’t have to tell them. You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.”
I think about it. “I guess you’re right. I’ll do it.”
“She hasn’t left town, has she?”
I’ve been worrying about that, but didn’t want to say it. A wave of panic starts to roll over me, but I push it down.
“I don’t think so,” I say. I sure hope not, anyway.
Chapter 23
A fter I finish talking to Emily, I pick up a book, read a page, then put it down. I turn on the tube, pace around my bedroom, then turn it off.
Since I said I’d tell Nat and Yancy about the baby, I might as well do it now. Maybe they’ll know how to find Chrissie’s home address. It’s about six in the evening, and I decide to drop in without calling.
Their house is this contemporary thing that’s all white surfaces and right angles, both inside and out. Nat and Yancy wanted all those white walls for their art collection. Outside is a gigantic metal sculpture in the shape of a mobile, with arms extending out and circles and triangles dangling off them. Michael used to call it The Octopus.
The last time I was here, it was the night of Emily’s party, when I went looking for Michael. I remember how stupidly relieved I was to find no accident along his route home.
Of course, Nat and Yancy hadn’t been around that night. Even more than my folks, they specialize in disappearing acts. Those two wouldn’t even know what to do with a grandchild.
I think back to all the times they flew to Rome, or had an opening to go to, or something better to do than spend time with Michael. The worst memory of all, the one that caused the split between me and both sets of parents, is the terrible day of Michael’s overdose.
He and I were thirteen when it happened. My parents and the Westons were in Cannes for the Film Festival, having left Michael at our house, with Rosario in charge. Michael had been upstairs, supposedly doing homework, for a couple of hours. I was helping Ro unload the dishwasher when Maddy’s voice came through the intercom from her upstairs bedroom.
“Molly says Michael’s in the driveway.” They can see the driveway from the upstairs windows of their adjoining bedrooms.
“Well, have Molly call down to
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