I try to recall the last time I spoke to Abby. I don't remember. Nor do I remember the last words I spoke. Surely, I said something rude.
In the hall closet, I find an old gray trench coat of Mom's and slip it on, pulling the belt tight around me. I also find a stray scarf draped over a hanger and wrap that around my neck, then I hurry out into the cold afternoon air.
"What's going on?" I call out, crossing from my yard into the Papadakises.
Abby's seated in the center of the smashed snow fort with Hannie, rebuilding their arsenal of snowballs. Linny and Sari are nowhere in sight.
"Oh, hey, Shannon," Abby greets me. "We're having a snowball war. I was bringing up the trash can and saw the kids out here making a woeful attempt at building a fort. I had to come over and show them the correct way."
"That isn't exactly how it happened," Hannie informs her.
"Hush now," Abby scolds.
"So..." I begin, awkwardly. "How was the Hamptons?"
"Anti-climatic," Abby replies.
"Where's Anna?"
Abby shrugs. "I don't know. Well, she and Mom went to synagogue earlier. Anna's really into that these days. I think they were going to Bellair's afterward. I'm not sure what's taking so long."
"So...Anna and your mom...?"
Abby shrugs again. "We're all works in progress, I guess," she says. She turns to Hannie. "Will you go find Linny and Sari? They promised me cupcakes and I want to know what's taking so long."
We watch Hannie hop up and run through the snow, then step more cautiously onto the porch.
"I'm sorry for how I've treated you," I tell Abby when Hannie's inside the house.
Abby looks up at me. "It's okay. I deserved it. In some ways at least. I was stupid. I'm sorry about stealing your papers. I was a terrible friend."
"So was I. I guess we're even then."
Abby grins. "Yeah, I guess we are," she agrees and holds out her hand so I'll help pull her to her feet. I take the offered hand and help her up. She brushes the snow off her jeans. Her legs and rear are soaked through. "Maybe seventeen is all about being stupid," Abby suggests.
"If that's true, March seventeenth can't come soon enough."
Abby laughs. "Well, I was pretty stupid at sixteen, too. It's been a crazy year."
"Yeah," I agree, softly. I'm not sure "crazy" is the word I'd give it. Disappointing. Sad. Hurtful. Regretful. Any and all apply. "I'm sorry, too," I tell Abby, "that I didn't listen to you about Mary Anne. You were right, I think."
Abby frowns. "Yeah...maybe," she says, slowly, a bit doubtfully. "I don't know. I mean, she didn't want anyone to know. Maybe it wasn't our place to force that on her. It has to be her decision. I don't know."
"Have you talked to her?"
"She wants me to stay away from her."
"Me too."
"She's embarrassed."
"I understand."
"I guess I do, too."
The Papadakis kids come out of their house carrying a plate of Abby's promised cupcakes, interrupting our conversation. They're eager to restart the building of their fort, even though they look cold, wet, and tired. Abby must be freezing in her soaked jeans and sweatshirt, but she shoves an entire cupcake in her mouth and sets back to work, packing snow into blocks. I watch a couple minutes, nibbling on a cupcake and thinking.
"I have to go," I announce. "I'll see you later."
Abby looks up and smiles. "Okay. Bye, Shannon."
"Bye, Abby."
I wave goodbye to the Papadakis kids who've retrieved Noodle the Poodle from somewhere and are in the process of transforming him into a snow-covered guard for the fort. Inside my house, I hang up Mom's coat and the scarf, then rush up to my bedroom. I change out of my jeans and long-sleeved shirt and into a pair of tan slacks and a light blue blouse. I get my coat and put on the scarf Maria gave me for Christmas. I stuff the matching gloves into my coat pocket, then grab my purse and go back downstairs.
I'm not exactly sure why I decided to drive to Mary Anne's. I told Abby the truth. I understand why Mary Anne wishes to avoid me. I know I should respect that decision. And after today, I think I will. But there's something about unfinished business, so much of it presses on me these days. It's almost like I have a checklist, squaring my accounts, settling my debts. Putting my life back in order. It's like when people know they're about to die, or contemplate suicide. Maybe that's what this is - the suicide of Shannon, so she may start anew.
Whatever it is, it's important that it get done.
Mary Anne's cat, Tigger, sits in one of the front windows of her house. The blinds are raised halfway, giving him plenty of room to sit, cleaning his face and paws. He pauses when he sees me coming up the walk, eyes me suspiciously, and then without another thought, resumes his grooming. Cats are odd creatures. But at least Tigger isn't demonic like other cats I've known.
I ring the doorbell and wait. I know Mary Anne is home, or at least someone is. There are lights on inside and the faint hum of the radio drifts out through the window where Tigger sits. The window's open a few inches. Maybe Tigger enjoys the fresh air. I ring the doorbell again and before it's finished with its chimes, hear the approach of footsteps. The footsteps come to a halt on the other side of the door. For several seconds there's nothing but silence. Mary Anne must be looking at me through the peephole. She must be deciding whether or not to answer.
She answers.
"Hi, Shannon," she greets me. Her voice isn't cold. It's neutral, unreadable.
"Hey, Mary Anne. May I come in?"
Mary Anne hesitates only a second, then holds the door open. "Sure," she says and steps aside.
I come into the foyer and begin unbuttoning my coat. I glance around, in through the living room, and up the stairs. Everything looks the same. It feels different though, still sort of charged with the tension and fury of that night. I wonder how Mary Anne stands it. She must feel it, too, feel it all the time.
"Want me to hang up your coat?" Mary Anne offers. She's resigned to the fact that I am here and I am staying. She's probably been expecting me.
"I'll just leave it here," I answer and lay the coat over the staircase banister along with my scarf. "Something smells good," I remark, sniffing the air.
"I'm baking cranberry-raisin bread," Mary Anne tells me. "Come on this way. I've been working in the kitchen." Mary Anne walks away without waiting for me.
I follow several steps behind her, pausing momentarily outside the living room. It's in perfect order, spotlessly clean. Spotlessly clean like the couch. I managed to scrub out all the blood that night. It wasn't hard. It came out almost effortlessly. Surprising, it was.
Mary Anne leads me into the kitchen. The air is thick and warm with the scent of baking bread. The room smells homey and welcoming. It smells normal. And Mary Anne looks normal, too, in jeans and a pale pink t-shirt with a gray tiger-striped kitten on the front. Her hair's in loose pigtails and tied with white ribbons. She looks like Mary Anne, the Mary Anne I've known since we were thirteen. I've never known her well, I've hardly known her at all these past three years, but after all this time she seems unchanged. The things that lurk beneath our surfaces are unexpected and unsettling, our secrets and our true selves.
"Do you want something to drink?" Mary Anne asks me. She goes over to the oven and cracks it open, peering inside.
"No thanks," I answer, coming to stand near the kitchen table. I'm uncertain whether I should sit or stand. The table is crowded with Mary Anne's things, several balls of yarn and knitting needles and a half-finished hat in muted grays and vibrant blues. There's also a tablet of plain white paper, the top page filled with neat cursive in black ink. The pen lays uncapped beside the tablet along with a small pile of crumpled papers. "What are you doing?" I ask.
Mary Anne's lifting her bread out of the oven. She turns her head momentarily. "Oh...well, I'm working on that hat sometimes," she answers and sets the pan down on the stove. "And then, sometimes I'm working on this letter. I'm writing it to my friend Emily's parents."
"Oh...your friend who died. I'm sorry about that."
Mary Anne is expressionless a moment. "Thanks," she finally says. She looks uncomfortable, not knowing if she said the right thing. She looks at me for another paused moment, then comes over to the table and stands behind her chair. "I went to see them a couple days ago, but they weren't seeing anyone at the time. So, I thought I'd write them a letter about how sorry I am. Maybe it's silly. I don't know." Mary Anne pauses again and frowns. "I actually got the idea from Dawn. When I was over there, at Emily's house, I saw a letter from Dawn sitting on the table in the foyer on top of all their other mail. It hadn't been opened. I checked. Anyway, it gave me the idea. Maybe I'm being petty and doing it only because Dawn did it first." Mary Anne turns around and crosses to the sink. She picks up a neon green plastic cup and fills it with water.
"How is Dawn?" I ask. I never hear her name it seems. No one hardly ever talks about her.
"I don't know," Mary Anne answers. "I haven't spoken to her since the end of the summer. I don't think she'll come back to Stoneybrook again. There's nothing for her here anymore." Mary Anne takes a gulp of water, then turns back around to face me. "Sharon says Dawn doesn't feel welcome in this house anymore. Dawn doesn't get along with me or Dad. We're all to blame, I guess. None of us have tried very hard. Anyway, Dawn's avoiding us now - me and Dad. That's what Sharon tells us. She's really angry about it, like we purposely drove Dawn away. Or, well...maybe I did." Mary Anne frowns again. She sets her cup back down beside the sink. She stares at it. "But I don't think we're the only ones Dawn's avoiding. Well, she doesn't have to worry about avoiding Emily anymore. Maybe Emily's parents. They aren't very forgiving." Mary Anne walks back over to the table. She flips the cover down on her tablet.
As usual, I'm completely mystified as to what she's talking about.
"I still don't want to talk about it," Mary Anne informs me.
I furrow my brow. "About Dawn?" I ask, perplexed. She's already said quite a bit.
"No. I don't want to talk about...about Mr. Marshall. Isn't that why you're here?"
"Yes."
"Save your breath then because I don't want to talk about him. You're almost as persistent as Abby."
I don't care what she says, I plunge on. "I think we were wrong," I tell her. "Or at least, I was. You weren't thinking clearly. I was selfish that night, Mary Anne. I wasn't one-hundred percent considering what was best for you. I think we should have listened to Abby. I think that, for once, Abby was right."
Mary Anne sets her mouth in a deep frown. She watches me, dark eyes flat and emotionless. Her eyes give her away. Her eyes reveal that somewhere she is altered, not the same Mary Anne. "Maybe," she finally says. Her expression softens a bit. She doesn't look upset. Instead, she looks sad and almost regretful. It flickers, briefly, several times, coming back and going away. "Maybe," she repeats. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't hung up on the Blumes. Sometimes I wish I let Abby call her mom. And a lot of the time, I'm glad no one knows. I'm glad it's a secret. And I'm glad you and Abby are keeping it for me."
"It isn't too late," I tell her. "You should at least tell your dad."
"No."
"But Mary Anne - "
"You just don't understand," she interrupts me. "You don't. You can't. It's easy for you to stand there and dole out advice. Advice that doesn't affect you. Not really. It's embarrassing, okay? I don't want anyone else to know." Mary Anne pauses and her eyes flicker again. "I should have seen it coming. They warned me. I didn't listen."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter," Mary Anne replies and turns away. She checks her bread, touching a finger to the top of the loaf. Then she touches the side of the pan very quickly. It's still hot. "I hope you'll respect my decision, Shannon. This is what I want. I want to forget about it. I want it to just go away."
I study her, standing at her stove in her kitten t-shirt and loose pigtails. She looks so small and young, much too young to be dealing with such a secret, burying it away for keeps.
"It won't just go away," I tell her. And it won't. I know.
"We'll see," she replies.
I nod. It is her decision. "Okay, Mary Anne. It's your choice, your secret. It's your life."
"Thank you," Mary Anne says. "I knew you would understand. It's kind of the same for us, isn't it? I don't want anyone to know about me, you don't want anyone to know about you. And there's always the risk that we'll be discovered and our dirty laundry aired for all to see. Stains on our clothes, stains on ourselves. We're marked for life."
"We aren't really the same, Mary Anne. I made a choice. You didn't. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I do. I'm a liar and a..." I don't finish. Mary Anne doesn't know all the things I am, all the things I've done. And she is right. Those are my stains, my stains to carry on the inside for all my life, hoping for them to never be seen, to never come through on my skin, visible to all the world. Perhaps, we are alike in that fear, the fear of discovery and shame, deserved or not.
"It doesn't matter," Mary Anne says. "That's how I feel." She slides open a drawer and removes a box of aluminum foil. She tears off a long piece and covers her bread. "Please don't bring it up again. I know you mean well, Shannon, but this is the end, as far as I'm concerned. We're burying it right here and now. Don't come around digging it up again, please." "Okay," I reply, nodding. Maybe she's wrong, maybe this isn't the best way, maybe she's only making things worse for herself. But she's right about one thing - I understand. I understand the desire to forget and walk away, waiting for the bad to fade into the distance and the next beginning to be born.
"I have to start getting ready," Mary Anne informs me, giving me the sense that I'm being dismissed. "Sharon's parents invited me to this potluck at their church. They go to First Methodist. Grandma Baker, Dad, and I, we go to Cherry Valley Presbyterian. That is, when Dad and I go to church. But Granny and Pop-Pop - those are Sharon's parents - want me to come with them tonight. I guess it's a grandparent thing, showing off the granddaughter. They like to show off Dawn when she's here. Of course, they know I'm not Dawn and they're okay with that." Mary Anne pauses and cocks her head to the side, ever so slightly, appearing thoughtful and kind of sad. Whatever she's thinking, she doesn't speak it. Instead, she shakes it off. The look disappears. "Anyway, I need to change and then call them to pick me up. Dad won't allow me to drive at night yet and it'll be dark when the potluck's over."
"Do you want me to drive you over?" I offer.
"No, it's okay."
"I'm going that way."
Mary Anne hesitates. "All right," she finally answers. "Thank you. Just give me a few minutes to change clothes." Mary Anne scoops up her tablet and the crumpled papers and sweeps briskly out of the kitchen. I hear her pound up the stairs.
Mary Anne reappears less than five minutes later. She looks much different than before. She's changed into a red suede skirt and a black scoop-neck sweater and low black heels. Her ribbons have changed to black and red. It's almost as if she's aged three years in the few minutes that lapsed between her exit and re-entrance. Like she stepped through a time warp and came out older and wiser. How we change, going back and moving forward. We're so in-between, not adults and no longer children. We fall somewhere in the middle. In limbo.
"I like your skirt," I tell Mary Anne.
"Stacey bought it for me," she replies. She speaks Stacey's name casually without its hardened edge. How things change, indeed. Swift and rapid.
"For Christmas?"
"No. A while ago," Mary Anne answers and picks up her bread off the stove. "Are you ready?" she asks.
"Sure."
In the car, it seems we've talked ourselves out. We no longer have much to say. It's too bad, I think. Mary Anne and I could have been friends. Maybe not close friends or good friends, but friends nonetheless. I don't see how that's possible now. I'll always know her secret and she'll always know I know. Things could have been different. Maybe if I'd listened to Abby. Or even not. Maybe if I'd just been kinder before when Mary Anne wanted to be my friend. I pushed her away and slammed the door in her face. I ruined things for myself, like I ruined so many things. Some things are ruined forever, damaged beyond repair, never to be mended. It is a truth of life and I am learning that.
"Are you going to Shadow Lake?" Mary Anne asks, speaking for the first time since we left Burnt Hill Road. We've just turned into the Bainbridge Estates and are winding our way to Bertrand Drive. Mary Anne points out the turns to me.
"No," I answer, stopping for a kid skateboarding in the middle of the street. "I don't feel like skiing and ice skating. I don't know if the strenuous activity is all right for me yet." Mary Anne looks at me funny. Of course she does. She doesn't know about the abortion. She'll never know. But it's always on my mind, creeping in the corners like a shadow waiting to cast over me.
"Abby's going, you know," I point out.
"I know," Mary Anne replies and picks a piece of fuzz off the end of her left pigtail. "But Kristy will be there. And Elizabeth and Nannie and Anna and that Amanda girl. Kristy said Greer's going now, too."
I didn't know that.
I bite my lip and make the turn onto Bertrand. I'll really be all alone then. Trapped in my house, trapped in Stoneybrook. Sally will be around, I suppose, unless Kristy loses her mind and invites Sally to Shadow Lake, too. Or more likely, Sally invites herself. And what will I do?
"I'm not ready for a ski vacation," I say, aloud. I'm unsure if I meant to speak that out loud.
Mary Anne gives me another funny look. I don't quite see how she's ready for a ski vacation either. But then, maybe it's another way to throw more dirt on her secret and continue her charade of everything is fine, everything is okay.
I pull alongside the curb between Sharon's parents' house and the Gates' house. Mary Anne glances over at me, settles her eyes on me a second, then turns them away again. She unlatches her belt and opens the door.
"Thanks for the ride, Shannon," she says and climbs out of the car. She leans back in to get her bread off the floor.
"You're welcome. Have fun at Shadow Lake."
"I will," Mary Anne says. She hesitates. "See you around, I guess."
There's an awkward pause.
"See you around," I reply.
Mary Anne shuts the door. I watch her walk up the driveway and climb the porch steps. The front door opens before Mary Anne reaches it. Mary Anne steps through and the door closes behind her.
And I am sorry we're not friends.
I unlatch my own seatbelt and get out of the car. I step carefully along the sidewalk, cautious of the snow, headed toward Janet's house. It is a day for unfinished business after all. I already dived in headfirst. I might as well go farther, deeper. Janet's front walk has been shoveled, so I pick up my pace, less cautious. I rap loudly on the front door, then press the doorbell. The chime is shockingly loud and reverberates in the cold, silent air, setting off the dogs next door and across the street.
Dr. Gates answers the door and immediately shouts for the dogs to shut up. The dogs don't listen, of course. They only bark louder.
"Sorry," I apologize as I step into the foyer.
Dr. Gates looks slightly annoyed, but directs me into the living room, where I already hear Janet's voice. I follow its sound. Janet's in the living room with Amy, both seated on the carpet, building a tower of brightly colored blocks. Janet's carrying on a one-sided conversation with Amy, who appears much more interested in her blocks than anything Janet has to say. Of course, she's barely two years old.
"Hello," I say, loudly from underneath the archway.
Janet glances up. "Oh, hello," she replies in a neutral tone. "Did you ring the doorbell? Don't do that again. Dad keeps disconnecting it, but Grandpa just connects it again. I told you those idiot dogs are annoying."
"If it's like that all the time, I don't know how you can stand it," I comment and come further into the living room.
"Yeah, I know," Janet agrees. "This neighborhood sucks. The dogs are bad enough, but everyone on this block is old and cranky. The Porters are all right. I just want to shoot their dogs. Everyone else, though, is a bunch of crotchety old men and - " Janet reaches out and covers Amy's ears, "bitchy old widows. Mr. Cormack next door is always throwing tree branches and blowing leaves in our yard. He's the worst, but there's still Mr. Jessup and Mrs. Weller and Mrs. McCracken and Mr. Simon. But I guess you didn't come over to discuss my neighbors."
"Not really."
Janet waits for me to say more, but I don't, so she yells, "Daaaad! Come get Amy!"
Dr. Gates appears and scoops Amy up from the floor. He doesn't say anything. Amy waves to us as she's carried off.
When they're gone, Janet folds her legs indian-style and stares at me. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asks.
I come around and perch on the edge of the couch, setting my purse on the cushion beside me and peeling off my coat. Janet continues to stare at me with those buggy eyes of hers, drumming her hands on her knees, expression blank. I never know what she's thinking. She's so unreadable.
"I just dropped Mary Anne off next door," I start, folding my hands, primly, in my lap, "and thought I'd come over. I just wanted to say, Janet, that I'm sorry for telling Elizabeth about what you told Sam. Or rather, I pointed her in the right direction. I'm sure she asked you about it."
"She did."
"Well...I'm sorry for not keeping it a secret."
Janet shrugs. "That's okay. It doesn't matter. Elizabeth wasn't mad. Mad at Sam, yes, but not mad at me. It's okay now."
Well, that was easy.
"So...you and Elizabeth..."
Janet shrugs again and combs her fingers back through her dark hair. "We won't ever be friends, I don't think," Janet replies. "We argue too much. But she's sorry for how she's treated me. That's enough."
"Elizabeth isn't so bad."
"Sometimes," Janet says and there's a small, rare smile on her lips. It makes her look much different. She doesn't seem so old. "Of course," she says, "I hope you don't expect me to apologize for tattling on you to Elizabeth. I don't regret that."
I think that, perhaps, Janet was destined to join the Thomas-Brewer family.
"No...I understand," I reply. "Wes was going to find out someday. Maybe you did me a favor."
"I did."
Yes. Definitely destined.
"So...about Sam - "
"Don't mention his name," Janet snaps.
"Sorry," I mutter and cross my legs. I think a moment. I can't contain myself. "So...about Charlie..."
Janet frowns. "What about Charlie?" she asks.
"Is there something going on between you and Charlie?"
Janet's frown transforms into a scowl. "No!" she cries. "Charlie's a jerk!"
It's my turn to frown. There's something more, settled beneath the surface. Whatever it is, I may never know. Janet isn't telling. We don't always get the answers we desire.
"Anything else?" Janet asks. Her tone is still guarded and testy. I've struck some kind of nerve.
"No," I reply, simply. "I think I've taken care of everything."