Home Again

  “I’m Dr. Madelaine Hillyard. Lina’s mother.”

  He nodded and flicked through the stack of files on his desk, gingerly pulling one out. Indicating a chair, he flipped the file open. “Please sit, Dr. Hillyard.”

  Madelaine crossed to the small, metal-framed black chair and perched nervously on its edge.

  After a moment he looked up from the file and gave her a smile. “Your daughter’s a real spitfire.”

  “Yes.”

  “The store detective at Savemore Drugs caught her shoplifting some makeup. Nailed her on the in-store video, too. Do you want to see it?”

  Madelaine wished she needed to, but she knew Lina had done this—and she knew why. It was Lina’s way of getting back at a mother who wouldn’t make a phone call.

  “No.”

  “Good. Some parents just can’t believe their precious children would do anything wrong.” He shoved back from the desk and stood up. “Here’s the deal. It’s a first offense and the store is willing to overlook what she’s done.”

  Madelaine almost sagged with relief. But before she could revel in the feeling, Spencer went on, “Course, that won’t do jack shit—pardon my French—for your daughter. She needs to face the consequences of her actions.”

  He looked right at Madelaine. “She’s scared—they all are the first time—but from now on, it’s up to you.”

  She wanted to ask what to do, to ask for help, but she didn’t know how. The words tangled in her throat. She’d read dozens of books on parenting, and all of them told her to reason with Lina, to offer her daughter choices and teach her to make decisions. It was good advice, Madelaine knew it was, but it didn’t work, not for her and Lina anyway. And the only other way she knew was her father’s way.

  “I’ve worked here a long time, Dr. Hillyard. Your daughter’s on the brink of real trouble.” Spencer moved closer and sat in the chair beside her. “This is a cry for attention. And the next cry might not be so easy to solve. The suicide rate among troubled teens—”

  Madelaine gasped and broke eye contact, staring at the hands clasped in her lap. Suicide. A chill spread through her.

  “Has she done this before?” That was the question she asked, the words she formed, but what she really wanted to know, needed to know, was How many cries have I missed?

  “She had a definite routine. Looked to me like she’d done it before.”

  Madelaine squeezed her eyes shut. Of course Lina had done it before. If Lina were someone else’s daughter, Madelaine would have noticed the warning signs long ago—dissatisfied teenager, angry and rebellious, looking for attention.

  All of it fit Lina. All of it. The new interest in heavy metal music, the recent ear-piercing frenzy, the truancy, the wardrobe, the attitude. Lina was a teenager in trouble, and shoplifting—whether she knew it or not—was a cry for help. Madelaine had to be strong enough to answer the call.

  “Dr. Hillyard?”

  Slowly she lifted her chin and looked at the social worker. “I want to help her, Mr. Spencer, but …” The words seemed to drag her down, and it saddened her that she was afraid of this. How could a well-respected physician be so strong with strangers and so weak with her own child? She felt tears of shame and defeat sting her eyes.

  “I’ve got a sixteen-year-old daughter myself, Dr. Hillyard. You can love them more than your own life, and give them everything you have. And …” He shrugged. “Shit happens.”

  “I … should have disciplined her better… been there more….”

  “This isn’t about whose fault it is, Dr. Hillyard. You’re a parent, she’s a teenager—believe me, there’s plenty of blame to go around. Today, what you have to focus on is change.”

  She steeled herself. “How do I do it?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Me, I use honesty and consistency.” He smiled, his eyes twinkled. “And when that doesn’t work—take away the television, the learner’s permit, and permission to use the phone.”

  Madelaine looked up, surprised. It wasn’t the advice she’d expected. She flashed on her own childhood, on dark, frightening images of her father’s “discipline,” and felt nausea rise in her stomach. “That works? The books all say—”

  He dismissed the experts with a wave of his hand. “The books are okay, I guess, but there comes a time when talking doesn’t work anymore. A kid needs rules, pure and simple. Oh, and I’d make her apologize to the manager of the drugstore.” He pushed to his feet. “So, Dr. Hillyard, why don’t we get your daughter out of detention?”

  * * *

  Lina lay curled on the narrow, smelly cot, her knees drawn up to her chest. The tears she’d cried had long since dried on her cheeks.

  Noises were everywhere in this shadowy place—the clang of iron-barred doors being opened and closed, the disgruntled voices and shrill-pitched shouts of teenaged gang members, the heavy thud of footsteps on the stone floor. Every sound made her curl tighter and tighter on the dirty bed.

  This place is gonna seem like a picnic, little lady, if they send you to the main ward.

  The social worker’s words came back to Lina, frightening her all over again. She couldn’t help thinking of her bed at home—big and fresh-smelling and covered in Laura Ashley sheets.

  “I love ham-and-cheese omelets,” she whispered, feeling the tears well again, clogging her throat and stinging her eyes.

  What had made her act like such a bitch around her mother? Lina knew how hard her mother tried to please her—she’d noticed the baggy sweats, the lack of makeup, the too bright smile that tried to mask a sharp desperation in her mom’s eyes.

  Yeah, she knew her mom loved her, knew she only wanted to do the very best for Lina. So why couldn’t Lina cut her some slack? Why did she wake up angry and stay angry all day? Sometimes she knew why she was mad, but more often than not, she couldn’t place a cause. She just wasn’t happy. Some mornings she felt fat, the next day she’d think she was skinny. Half the time, she felt like crying few no reason at all.

  She wanted everything to be like it used to be. She didn’t want to feel so ugly and lost all the time. She wanted to fit in somewhere.

  She knew she was a disappointment to her perfect mother—Madelaine, the child prodigy who’d earned her high school diploma before she turned fifteen. Saint Madelaine, who never had a hair out of place, who raised a daughter alone while she attended medical school, who never lost her temper or cried or asked for help from anyone.

  “I’ll never shoplift again, God,” she whispered brokenly, squeezing her eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears.

  Suddenly the door of her dormitory room rattled. Keys jangled in the lock, clicked hard, and the door screeched open.

  “Hillyard, get up.”

  Lina rolled to face the door and lurched to her feet, her heart pounding with sudden anxiety. “Where am I going?”

  The fat, polyester-clad woman gave her a deadpan look. “Do I look like a tour director?” She cocked her head down the corridor. “Get going.”

  Lina hugged herself tightly and eased past the woman. Moving slowly, she walked down the hallway, keeping her eyes down.

  Finally they came to another locked door. The woman pushed the intercom and said, “Hillyard!” in a loud, booming voice.

  The door swung open.

  Lina hesitated for a second. The woman shoved her, and Lina stumbled forward. The first face she saw was John Spencer’s. The second was her mother’s.

  She stared at her mom, saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes, the disappointment that pursed her lips, and felt a wrenching guilt. She wanted to take a step forward, throw herself in her mom’s arms and be swept up, comforted and held, but she couldn’t seem to move.

  “Lina,” Mr. Spencer said, “your mother is prepared to take you home—after you make your apologies to the manager of Savemore Drugs.” He dropped her backpack on the table beside him with a thunk.

  Lina swallowed hard. “Okay.” The word came out on a squeak.
>
  Spencer closed the distance between them. His shadow fell across Lina’s face. “You’ve spent an hour in detention, little girl. Believe me, you don’t want to spend any more.”

  She was so scared, she could barely nod.

  “I’m gonna keep in touch with your mom, and if you cause any more trouble …” He let the threat dangle between them. “You understand me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes, what?” he boomed.

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He turned to Madelaine. “I’ll allow you to take the minor child home now, Dr. Hillyard. But I’ll be calling once a week. I assume this is the last such incident I’ll hear about.”

  Madelaine nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Spencer.”

  Then Spencer left the room, and Lina was alone with her mom. They stood there a minute, staring at each other.

  Lina tried to think of what to say, how to say it. “I… I’m sorry, Mom.”

  It was an excruciating length of time before her mother answered. She looked confused, as frightened as Lina felt. “I’m sorry, too.” She took a hesitant step forward, reached out one small hand.

  It wasn’t enough, just the offer of the hand. Lina wanted to be engulfed in her mother’s arms, but she didn’t know how to ask for such a thing, and she was afraid of making a fool of herself.

  Madelaine stopped. Her hand fell slowly back to her side. “I guess we’d better go home and do some serious talking.”

  Lina stared at her mother, feeling further away than ever, more alone. Tears were so close, she had to turn her head. She stared at the floor through stinging eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

  Madelaine knew that Lina was afraid, but for once, she had to be a parent, not a friend. She had to lay down the law and mean it, and if she failed—again—she would be hurting her daughter.

  “Get your things,” she said in a thick voice. “We’ve got to go home.”

  Side by side, in an almost unendurable silence, they walked out of the building. Late afternoon sunlight, weakened to chilly gold by the season, splashed their faces. Still quiet, they slipped into the Volvo and drove to the drugstore. Madelaine watched from a distance as Lina apologized to the manager for stealing the mascara, and when Lina finally turned away, Madelaine saw the tears swimming in her baby’s eyes.

  God, how it hurt to see her daughter’s pain. Madelaine wanted to take Lina in her arms then and hold her and comfort her, but by sheer dint of will, she remained motionless and dry-eyed. Then, wordlessly, she led Lina back to the car and they drove home.

  By the time they reached the house, Madelaine’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. It was one thing, she knew, to decide to become an enforcer of rules—it was another thing to look at her daughter, whom she loved more than her own life, and say no. Mean no.

  Flicking the car engine off, she grabbed her purse. Lina bounded out of the car and ran up to the house, disappearing inside.

  When Madelaine walked into the house, Lina was already on the telephone. Her daughter’s voice was a loud, lively chatter, punctuated by ringing laughter.

  “And then they locked me in this little room…. Yeah, it was way cool. Just like what happened to Brittany Levin…”

  Madelaine stared at her daughter in disbelief. It was one of those crystallizing moments in life, tiny heartbeats of time that pass and leave you changed. Lina had gone through that terrible time in Juvenile Hall, she’d been terrified and apologetic, but the emotions were leaving her now, slipping away on the tide of the distance between her and the detention cell.

  And she was counting on Madelaine to keep the memories away, counting on her mother to create some fantasy world in which the shoplifting had never happened.

  Madelaine felt a stab of anger so swift and sudden, it surprised her. Lina was sure that Madelaine would want to sweep the whole messy incident under the rug, that the shoplifting could be yet another of the endless stream of things that Madelaine was afraid to talk about.

  Not this time.

  Madelaine forced her chin up and strode across the kitchen. Wordlessly she grabbed the phone from her daughter’s hand and crashed the receiver down.

  “Wha—huh?” Lina stammered, slamming her hands on her hips and glaring at her mother. “Nice, Mom. Now I’ll have to call Jett back.”

  Madelaine stood her ground. “No, you won’t,” she said evenly. “You have no phone privileges anymore.” She shoved her hand toward Lina, palm out. “Bike lock. Now.”

  Lina stared at her mother in shocked amazement. “You must be kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Lina frowned suddenly. She took a step backward. “Hey, Mom, come on….”

  “Give me the lock and keys.”

  She fished them out of her book bag and tossed them to Madelaine. “Fine. Jett can drive me to school.”

  Madelaine shook her head. “I’ll take you to school every morning and pick you up. You will go nowhere—nowhere—without permission from me.”

  Lina barked out a laugh. “Yeah, right. Mrs. Never at Home is gonna regulate my social life.”

  “I can make myself be at home, Lina. I can take a sabbatical from work and be home all the time. Is that what you want?”

  “I want my father,” she shouted back.

  Madelaine should have known. It was only a matter of time before Lina used the incredible unknown father to wound her mother—but still it hurt. “Let’s talk about him, Lina. That’s what you want, right? You want to know about your father. Well, fine. Your father was a reckless, angry young man who didn’t want a family.”

  “You’re the one he didn’t want.”

  Madelaine felt the anger rush out of her at the simple truth. “That’s true,” she said softly. “It was me he didn’t want, me he didn’t love. But he also didn’t want …” Madelaine stared at her daughter, not knowing what to say, which truth to tell.

  “Me?” Lina whispered.

  “No.” Madelaine’s voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “He didn’t want to grow up and make hard choices and sacrifices. He just wanted to have fun, and parenting at seventeen is definitely not fun.”

  Lina wrenched her gaze away and crossed her arms. “He’s a grownup now,” she said stubbornly. “He’ll want me.”

  Madelaine stared at her daughter’s profile, at the trembling mouth and pale skin, at the tears that streaked unchecked from her eyes. She moved closer, pressed her warm palm to Lina’s cold cheek. “I want him to love you, Lina, I want him to want you, but…”

  Lina turned to her. “But what?”

  “I’m afraid, Lina. It’s as simple as that.”

  She blinked. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Is he violent?”

  “No, never that.” Madelaine brushed Lina’s tear away with her thumb. “He’s … selfish. I’m afraid he’ll break your heart.”

  Lina stared at her. “Don’t you understand, Mom? He’s breaking my heart now.”

  Madelaine sighed, thinking suddenly of all the promises she’d broken over the years—little things, a dinner missed here, a movie missed there—and how they’d added up, brought Lina and Madelaine to this moment. A mother and daughter who loved each other, and hurt each other, and didn’t know how to change. “I know you don’t believe me, baby,” she whispered. “But I just want to do the right thing.”

  “I want to believe you, Mom,” Lina said.

  Madelaine heard the quietly spoken words, and they gave her a tiny, sparking ray of hope. She thought of a dozen responses, but in the end it all came down to empty words, promises made by a woman who’d broken too many.

  Finally she said the only thing that really mattered. “I love you, Lina.”

  Lina’s eyes filled with tears. “I know you do, Mom.”

  They weren’t the words Madelaine wanted to hear. Not the right words at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tom Grant was sitting up in bed, laughing quietly at something his wife had said, when Ma
delaine walked into his room.

  “Morning,” she said, plucking his chart out of the sleeve and quickly reading the newest notations. “Everything looks good. We’ll be taking you off the IV meds today, Tom. And those catheters—consider them gone. You’re practically free.”

  He grinned at that. “When can I see my kids? Joe is home from college.”

  She went to the bedside and checked the two small wires that protruded from his chest. They were there to monitor the pace and electrical rhythm of the new heart. When she finished, she looked down at Tom. “I’m sorry, but that’s not going to be possible today.”

  Tom’s smile fell. “What’s wrong?”

  “Joe has a cold, and we don’t want to risk it quite yet.”

  Susan released a heavy sigh. “Oh, God. I thought it was bad news.”

  Madelaine understood—the first few post-op days were always terrifying. “I’ll talk to Joe myself. We’ll monitor him closely for the next few days. Maybe by Monday …” She let the words trail off before they became a promise.

  “He got straight A’s this term,” Tom said proudly, gazing up at his wife.

  Madelaine almost said something inane—an ordinary response—then she caught herself. Instead she inched closer to the bed. “How did you guys do it… raise such healthy, happy kids?”

  “Luck,” Tom answered quickly.

  “And no-shit weeks,” Susan added with a laugh.

  Madelaine turned to Susan. It was the first time she’d ever heard the woman swear, and it surprised her. “What do you mean?”

  “Tom was gone—or sick—a lot of the time while the kids were growing up. Sometimes I used to tear my hair out. The kids were far apart in age, and they were each so different. It took me a long time to get the upper hand. But in the end, I started doing my ‘no-shit’ weeks. I would start on Monday, taking absolutely no crap from the kids. I didn’t yell or scream; I just quietly, flatly let them know that I was the boss. Usually a week was all it took. After that, they were so tired of bucking the rules, they just toed the line.” She grinned. “A good no-shit week would keep them on track for six months or so. Then it would start all over again.”