Mrs. Bryar comes over on Sunday around eleven to teach me how to properly run a household. I have found I am woefully inept. I've managed to dust all the furniture, mop the floors and somewhat clean the bathrooms. However, I still can't work the dishwasher, vacuum, or despite Kristy's earlier demonstration, the washer and dryer. And there's at least a dozen other things I've forgotten. And at least a dozen more I haven't even realized.

Mom and Dad aren't home, of course. I'm alone, as is usual these days, but I'm getting used to it. It isn't any less lonely though.

When Mrs. Bryar arrives, we start in the laundry room. I've brought down all of Tiffany's, Maria's, and my laundry, as well as the sheets I stripped from our beds. Until the other day when Kristy helped wash some of my clothes, I hadn't thought to wonder who'd been doing our laundry since Mrs. Bryar quit. I suppose it was Maria. I never even noticed.

"We'll start with the whites," Mrs. Bryar informs me. She's leaning against the dryer on which she's set a pad of lined paper. She prints WHITES in bold capital letters and begins writing out bullet point instructions while I separate the white clothes from the colored and toss them into the washing machine. When I finish, Mrs. Bryar looks up from the pad and opens the cabinet above her head. She removes the laundry detergent and fabric softener. "Fill the detergent cap to the - " Mrs. Bryar peers into the washing machine, "first line and pour it in here. Then pour the fabric softener in here. Be careful not to mix the two up."

"What will happen if I do?"

"I don't know. Nothing good, I suppose."

I close the lid on the washing machine and Mrs. Bryar shows me which dials to turn to which settings. I wait for her to write out the instructions for colored clothes and towels, then we move into the kitchen. I've been washing the dishes by hand, but haven't been keeping up on it very well.

"This is a lot of work," I remark, as I load the glasses onto the top rack of the dishwasher. "And a lot to remember."

"You'll learn," Mrs. Bryar replies. She's writing on the pad again, but stops every few words to watch my progress and occasionally correct where I've placed something. "It's good that you're learning now. You'll have to take care of yourself next year when you're away at college. You'll have to do your own laundry and clean up after yourself. And someday, you'll have your own apartment or house and will need to know all these things."

I glance up at her. "I'm worried that I won't get into Wellesley," I admit. It's a worry that's been on my mind a lot lately. I haven't been the most diligent student this semester. I didn't make up all my assignments and scored low on several tests and quizzes. Finals aren't until the end of January, but there's no way I'll make straight A's like usual. I won't be third in the class any longer. That rank will go to someone else. Probably to Kristy.

"You'll get in somewhere else then," Mrs. Bryar says, simply.

"That's true," I say, slowly.

"Don't worry over it too much. There isn't anything you can do about it now."

I nod and finish loading the glasses. She's right. There's nothing left to do but wait. Wait and try harder from now on. Make the effort I used to make. I nod again and push in the top rack and pull out the bottom. I begin arranging the pots and bowls. "Thank you for coming over to help me," I tell Mrs. Bryar.

"You're welcome," Mrs. Bryar replies.

"I really do appreciate it. I know you have a life of your own," I say and I do realize that now. Mrs. Bryar does not exist to serve my needs.

"Yes, but I have time for you," she says. "I'm happy to help. I think it's important for teenagers to know how to take care of themselves. Someone won't always be around to do everything for you. Well, you know that now." Mrs. Bryar smiles sort of sadly at me, then resumes her writing. "It is good for you to learn though. I don't think children should be catered to, whether by housekeepers or their own mothers. There's a difference between loving your child and spoiling her rotten." Mrs. Bryar pauses. "Oh, well, that's unkind of me. It's easy for me to judge when I don't have any children. All right, Shannon, the dishwashing liquid is under the sink. I think you can figure out where it goes."

When the dishwasher kicks on, Mrs. Bryar takes down some of Mom's old cookbooks and we flip through them together. She points out simple recipes that even I can make, as incompetent as I may be in the kitchen. I keep the casserole cookbook out on the counter. Casseroles are easy. Even I can make one, I think. Next Mrs. Bryar demonstrates how to vacuum, both the carpet and the tile. She shows me how to screw on the hose attachments and change the vacuum bag. She writes out all these instructions as well. I'm uncertain how many pages she has so far. My head sort of swims in a dizzy fog.

"You'll catch on," Mrs. Bryar assures me as we head upstairs. "And your mother will have to hire a new housekeeper at some point. This house is too big for you to care for on your own. I doubt Tiffany will be much help."

"Maybe you could come back," I suggest, hopefully.

Mrs. Bryar pauses halfway up the stairs. She glances back at me. "No. I won't work for your family again," she tells me. She continues up the stairs with me trailing, a tad slower than before, behind her.

Mrs. Bryar stops at the linen closet and removes three sets of sheets, which she pushes into my arms. Then she leads me into Maria's bedroom. Together, we shake out the fitted sheet which is a pale pink flannel with a bright red strawberry-print. I stare at the sheet, sadly, wondering if Maria will ever sleep on her clean sheets.

"What are your plans for New Year's?" Mrs. Bryar asks as we make Maria's bed. I wonder if she's thinking the same as me.

"Oh, it is New Year's, isn't it?" I reply. Tonight is the start of a new year. I'd forgotten. "I don't have any plans."

"Me either," Mrs. Bryar says and tosses me a pillowcase.

"Isn't your boyfriend in town?"

"Yes. He is," she replies and pulls Maria's comforter up over the bed. She smoothes it carefully into place. "But we don't have plans. Not really. I'm meeting him at his brother's house when I'm done here, but no plans for tonight. I'm much too old to stay up until midnight."

"You aren't that old."

Mrs. Bryar laughs. "Thank you," she says. "Not that old."

I blush. "I mean..."

"I know what you mean."

I scoop up the other sheets and follow Mrs. Bryar into Tiffany's room. Tiffany's sheets are plain lime green flannel. I know she'll sleep on them. In a week, she'll be home and in her own bed. That is for sure. I miss her, her and Maria. I'm thankful that I'll at least get Tiffany back. At least for awhile. Maybe longer.

"How long have you been with your boyfriend?" I ask Mrs. Bryar as I yank down a corner of the fitted sheet over Tiffany's mattress. I am making a conscious effort to not take up all the space in the room. It is not solely mine. I realize that now.

Mrs. Bryar has her head down. "Oh...eleven months?" she replies, uncertainly. "Almost a year, I guess."

"Maybe you'll marry him," I suggest.

"I don't know about that," Mrs. Bryar says with a laugh. "I think the first time cured me forever." She laughs again.

"That was a long time ago," I point out.

"Yes. It was," she agrees. She pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. "The first time was a mistake. I got married for the wrong reasons and paid for my foolishness. But still, I don't know if I want to ever get married again. Malcolm is a very nice man. He's the nicest man I've ever been with. We don't have to get married though. Marriage isn't an answer or a solution, Shannon. I told you that."

I nod.

"Besides, his family doesn't like me much. At least his parents don't."

"Why not? You're very nice."

Mrs. Bryar smiles. "Thank you, Shannon," she says and sounds quite pleased. "But Malcolm's parents don't think I'm good enough for him. They call me 'the cleaning lady' when they think I'm out of earshot. And then...someone at their synagogue who knew me when I was younger told them some things about me, things that shouldn't matter now. I'm not like I was thirty years ago. Those things don't matter to Malcolm and that's really all that counts." Mrs. Bryar pauses, not appearing completely convinced by what she's said. "You have to remember, Shannon," she tells me, "that sometimes the past gets dragged up again. It can come back to haunt you, even when you feel it should no longer matter. The unfortunate truth is that someone, somewhere will always care. You shouldn't worry too much or dwell on it, but just remember it's always a possibility."

I stare down at Tiffany's newly made bed and smooth a wrinkle out of the corner of the comforter. It hadn't occurred to me that everything from this autumn would not stay securely planted there, a stretch of time nestled in the past. It will be with me and affect me and weigh on me the rest of my life. I know that. I knew that. But it didn't occur to me that everything may kick up again like dust into the air and settle over my life in a cloud of secrecy and regret. In the near future, in the distant future, at any time. Nothing is ever truly buried. There is no hole and no will deep enough. Memories fade, but nothing ever disappears completely. All these things I've done, all these mistakes I've made and secrets I've kept are out there in the world, floating through the consciousness of many. Bits and pieces of my life held in the hands of others - people who know me well, people who don't know me at all. And any of them can send me spinning at any time, at any moment. It could be next week, next year, or thirty years from now.

I may be Mrs. Bryar's age, living a life set on course by the events of this year. I may be happy, I may be not. I may be a million things, anything, and then the past rises up again, setting me off-balance, exposing the mistakes I once made. Will it matter? Will people care? Will I still care? Questions without answers. Questions that may never come with answers. I think that now, in this instant, I understand Lindsey and Mary Anne. I have been so focused on my present, the shambles of my current life, that I have not looked too far into the future. Lindsey and Mary Anne have looked ahead. They've realized what I've only begun to realize and have seen what I now see. A hazy, uncertain future. A future marked by secrets, secrets that may not stay buried, secrets that may sneak out at any time. A fear of the unknown lingers before us all, but it's deeper for some. Some of us have more at risk, more to lose.

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Bryar asks me.

I realize I'm standing with my hand frozen over the comforter, hovering there in thought. "I'm fine," I say and it's sort of strangled. I clear my throat. "I'm fine."

"I didn't mean to upset you," Mrs. Bryar apologizes. "Perhaps, I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, it's okay. I should have figured it out on my own. I mean, yes, obviously, other people could still find out about me and Wes," I reply and bite my lip. I don't cry. I need to accept what I've done and accept the consequences, those that have come and those that may come. "People could still find out," I repeat. "I should be prepared."

"And maybe there is no reason to worry," Mrs. Bryar reminds me.

I nod. "Maybe."

Mrs. Bryar and I go across the hall and make my bed. Then she demonstrates how to clean the windows and mirrors without leaving streaks. I try, but leave behind streaks anyway. Mrs. Bryar assures me it's not a big deal. I'll learn, she promises. I'm learning a lot these days. Afterward, we walk through the house and Mrs. Bryar points out little things I should be aware of. She writes everything down for me. I'm not sure if she's simply very organized and efficient or if she worries that perhaps I still don't listen too well.

"You look much better," Mrs. Bryar tells me when we're finished. She tears all the pages from her pad and hands them over to me. "You look more like your old self. You act more like it, too."

I smile and slip the pages into my household daybook. "Thanks. I feel better. Most of the time at least. I'm not sure I'll ever feel completely normal again," I admit. "I'm not my old self, really. I've changed."

Mrs. Bryar smiles as she slips her arms into the sleeves of her coat. "Change can be good. As long as you change for the better. I think you're learning from your mistakes, Shannon. You'll be all right."

I'll be all right.

"I hope so," I reply and return her smile. "You look very nice, by the way." She's wearing a white and black dress with black high heels. I've never seen Mrs. Bryar in a dress before. Or heels. It isn't as unsettling as I would have thought.

Mrs. Bryar's smile widens. "Thank you, Shannon. It's sweet of you to say so."

"You're welcome. I'll walk you out."

"All right."

Yesterday's snow disappeared overnight. Now the day is simply gray and overcast. The sun tries to peek through the clouds, but without success. There's an icy chill in the air. I wrap my arms around myself, around the orange sweater Tiffany gave me. Despite the cold, the breeze feels refreshing.

"You're a lot different than I thought," I tell Mrs. Bryar as we go down the front steps.

Mrs. Bryar laughs. "Really?"

"Yes, but not in a bad way. It's too bad you don't have any children. You would have been a good mom."

"Oh, well, I would have liked children," Mrs. Bryar replies. "But we don't get everything we want in life."

I nod. I'm realizing that.

We stop beside Mrs. Bryar's car. "Thank you for coming over, Mrs. Bryar. You've been a big help. Not just today either."

Mrs. Bryar smiles. "You're welcome, Shannon. Just let me know if you need anything else."

I return her smile. "I will, Mrs. Bryar."

"Oh, well, I suppose you can start calling me Tracey, if you like."

"I don't know if I can do that," I say, giggling.

"Oh, well, Mrs. Bryar is fine then."

"At least until you get married," I point out.

"Oh, yes, until then!" Mrs. Bryar laughs. She unlocks her door and waves. "I'll see you later, Shannon."

"Happy New Year," I call out and start to walk away. I turn back and wave.

When I return to the house, I go into the kitchen and make a late lunch. I stand at the counter, nibbling on my ham and swiss sandwich while flipping through the pages of the casserole cookbook. I find a recipe on page forty-nine for a beef and rice casserole. It looks simple. It looks like something even I could make. Still eating my sandwich, I begin wandering around the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients. I'm lifting a can of tomato soup out of the pantry when Mom storms in through the laundry room. She's dressed in a low-cut eggplant purple suit, but isn't wearing her coat. She comes to an abrupt halt in the doorway. She raises her arms and grips each side of the door frame, eyes flashing, face twisted, absolutely livid.

"Why didn't you tell me," she bellows, "that it was the Ellenburg boy who knocked you up?"

I drop the can of tomato soup.

And my sandwich.

I stare at Mom, open mouthed. She continues to glower at me, nostrils flaring.

"Who told you?" I finally gasp.

Mom drops her arms and strolls into the kitchen, a queer smile on her lips. "His mother," she replies, the smile turning tighter.

"She told you?" I cry.

"Yes. She did!" Mom exclaims. "And I must say, Shannon, it was the highlight of my day. A terrific topper to the end of a terrific year!" Mom says, sarcastically. "There I am, sitting in my office, trying to do my work and I look up and here comes Molly Ellenburg marching through the entrance. I'd never actually met her before, but of course, I knew who she was. And she marches straight through reception and charges right into my office and orders me to hang up the phone. And then she sits down and informs me that her son knocked you up!" Mom pauses for a moment that seems to drag on an eternity. "Why didn't you tell me, Shannon?" she demands.

All I can do is shrug.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Mom asks, furiously.

I nod. "I know, I know," I say and my voice breaks. "I lied to him. I know that he's a lot older and a teacher, but he really didn't know I'm in high school. I did lie and - "

"I don't care about that," Mom cuts in. "Do you have any idea what you aborted?" Mom cries, gesturing to my stomach. "You aborted a fortune!"

My jaw drops. "What?" I shout.

"Do you have any idea how much that baby was worth? I'm not even talking about that stupid boat franchise. Who cares about Ellenburg Marine Supply? You bagged the last Stratten and he knocked you up. The last Stratten, Shannon! Do you realize how much money that boy will inherit when his bitch of a mother dies? Half of that could have been yours! And you aborted away your chance! You're as foolish as Tiffany! At least you're screwing the right men, but dammit, Shannon - "

I don't know what she says next.

She doesn't finish.

Because I smack her hard across the face.

"You're supposed to be my mother!" I scream at her as she stares at me, stunned, holding her cheek. "I didn't abort a fortune, I aborted my baby! It didn't come with a price tag! It wasn't leverage or collateral. It was Wes' and my baby! And you don't even care! You don't even care that I dated a teacher who's nine years older than me and that I lied to him and had sex with him and almost ruined his life. And my life, too. You don't care! And Mrs. Ellenburg isn't a bitch! She probably deserves to be one, but she isn't. The only bitch in this situation is you!"

Mom raises her hand. It swipes down toward me. I catch it. I catch her wrist in my hand.

"You aren't my mother," I tell her, coldly. "I don't know who you are."

Mom jerks her hand away. "Good," she replies, voice colder than my own. "You got what you wanted then. You got what you've wanted since you were thirteen years old."

"That's just an excuse."

"Is it?" Mom asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Aren't you the smart one? You always did know what's best for everyone. And now you're a self-righteous little bitch just like that Elizabeth Brewer, just like that Molly Ellenburg. You have no idea how relieved I was that today is Sunday and half the office was gone. Imagine, having that woman appear with a full audience? Apparently, she'd been trying to call for days. I guess I got lucky then. She really put me in my place. Certainly, she's very proud of herself right now."

"You really don't get it, do you?" I ask Mom. I laugh, but not out of joy or amusement. It's sad. It's resigned. "And I'd rather be like Elizabeth or Mrs. Ellenburg than ever be like you." I turn and start to walk away. I am done here. I am done with my mother.

"Just wait," Mom spits out. "You will be."

I look over my shoulder. "No. I won't," I reply and I leave.

From my bedroom, I listen to Mom stomp out of the house, the door to the garage slamming behind her. Then I listen to her car roar out of the garage, down the drive, and onto the street. And she disappears. Where does she go? Probably back to the office. Probably to an Open House. Important events. Priorities. I don't really care where she goes. After all, she doesn't care about me.

But other people do and that's enough. It has to be.

I sit down on my bed and smile, wondering exactly what Mrs. Ellenburg said to Mom. Whatever her words, they had no affect on Mom and she didn't listen, but that's not important. What's important is that Mrs. Ellenburg took the time to say whatever she had to say. And that's enough for me.

I retrieve my phone from the desk and remove the white business card from the corkboard on the wall. I return to my bed and with the phone in my lap, dial the number written on the back. It rings twice before someone picks up.

"Hello?"

I recognize the voice. "Hello? Aunt Mira?" I reply.

"Shannon? Hi!" she says, brightly.

"Yes, it's me. How are you?" I ask, politely.

"Me? I'm good. How are you?"

"Oh...you know..." I answer. That isn't any kind of answer. "Do you have plans for New Year's?" I ask.

"Yes! We're making lasagna for dinner and then the kids rented...well, I don't know what they rented. Probably terrible movies that Greg and I will hate. So, our plans are staying in. What are your plans?"

"Oh...you know..." I answer again. I have no plans, of course. "So...Aunt Mira? I'm wondering if that invitation to visit is still good? I'd like to come out."

"Yes! Of course it is," she tells me. "When would you like to come?"

"Whenever. Soon."

"I'll call the airline. Maybe I can get you a flight out tomorrow," Aunt Mira says. She actually sounds excited.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you, Aunt Mira," I say. I pause a moment, unsure of what else to say. Is that enough? "Are Tiffany and Maria around?" I ask.

"No. They're not, I'm sorry. Tiffany and the girls went to the mall to find Kate a dress for the formal. And Maria and Max went off with some of the neighborhood kids. I think they went ice skating."

I sigh. "So, they're having a good time?" I ask.

"Yes! And we're enjoying them very much. We'll be looking forward to having you, too."

Should I feel disappointed? Is that selfish? I want Tiffany and Maria to have a good time, but then...and that is selfish. Tiffany and Maria deserve to be happy. I shouldn't deny them that. I shouldn't wish for anything else simply because it benefits me.

Aunt Mira and I hang up. She'll call the airline and get me the earliest flight tomorrow. I sit awhile with the phone resting on my lap. I breathe. I breathe and feel relieved. Things are changing. Things are turning. For the better, I think. I hope. All I can do is hope.

I put the phone back and retrieve my coat and scarf from the closet. I bundle up and head downstairs with my purse slung over my shoulder. I leave my house. I leave my house and lock it up. I lock up the silence and walk away. I'll be back and then I'll leave again. I'll leave for awhile at least. Maybe it won't fix anything, but then, maybe it will help.

I hurry across the street to Kristy's house. Kristy's Jeep and Charlie's Pontiac and Janet's Honda are all parked in the drive. I climb up the steps and walk right in the front door the way I used to. The way I did not so long ago. David Michael's in the foyer pulling Emily Michelle and Amy in a red wagon. Shannon the dog is following behind, attempting to chew on the wheels. I hear Watson and Nannie's voices far away in the kitchen, loud and laughing. I hang my coat and scarf in the closet and leave to search for Kristy. Instead I find Elizabeth and Janet in the living room, hands on their hips, facing each other, arguing over the new placement of the couch. I actually laugh.

"Hey! I tried to call you!" Kristy's voice exclaims behind me.

I turn around. Kristy's coming down the stairs. She's wearing a yellow sweatshirt with a picture of Father Time and Baby New Year on it. A New Year's sweatshirt. Only Kristy.

"I was on the phone with my aunt," I explain. "I'm going to Evanston for the rest of Christmas break. I'm probably leaving tomorrow."

"Oh," Kristy says with disappointment in her voice. "I thought you'd change your mind about Shadow Lake."

I shake my head. "No. I'd like to be with my sisters. I'd like to get to know my family."

Kristy nods. "I understand," she says. "Of course, you're like part of our family, you know."

I smile. "I'm glad. I like that."

"It's almost time for dinner. The Stevensons are coming over. That's why I was trying to call. Stay and eat with us."

"Sure!"

Kristy leads me into the dining room and we help Charlie set the table while Watson and Nannie finish with dinner in the kitchen. It's noisy and chaotic just with the five of us moving back and forth between the two rooms. I like it. It's like old times.

"Hey," Kristy says as we're laying out the napkins. "Guess what? I saw Sally White at the A&P this morning. Yeah, I know, Sally White at the A&P. She was wearing that weird beret with the feather. Anyway, I must have completely lost my mind or something because I invited her to Shadow Lake. And you know what she said? She said she'd have to consult her social calendar! Can you believe her nerve? She actually gets invited somewhere and she acts like I'm inconveniencing her! I think I hate that girl."

I just laugh.

The Stevensons arrive with dessert, an enormous chocolate cake decorated with yellow iced flowers. Abby and Anna made it together, which makes me a bit wary about eating it. I mean, Abby in a kitchen? Mrs. Stevenson helped with the flowers, Anna points out. At least the flowers are surely edible.

Kristy, Abby, Anna, and I carry all the dishes to the table in the dining room. It's even noisier and more chaotic now. We slide into our chairs at the table with myself between Anna and Mrs. Stevenson. Elizabeth and Janet sweep into the dining room. Janet barks at Charlie to shut up before he even speaks. Elizabeth passes behind me and touches my shoulder, lightly. When she passes Kristy, she tugs her ponytail and kisses the top of her head. Elizabeth takes the seat beside Kristy, across from me. Down at the other end of the table, Janet makes a big production about not sitting near Charlie, but ends up two chairs from him anyway with Emily Michelle seated between them. Their arguing dies down and polite dinner chatter rises in its place, filling the air around us, half a dozen conversations drowning each other out. It feels right. I look across the table at Kristy and Elizabeth. They smile.

The End

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Author's Note: And my first reaction is, "Thank God, that's over."

Horrible, I know.

As always, I would like to say thanks to a few (or more than a few) people. First off, I have to thank my friends, emerald-doll, chelz22, and Blanket Apologist. Yes, Bee, I'm thanking you even though just in this last week you've gotten caught up on the last fifty chapters. Seriously, what have you been doing all summer? But you did give great advice in the beginning. So, thank you - all three of you - for your help and encouragement. Your advice meant a lot and the story has benefitted from it. Thank you.

Thank you to everyone on my f-list. You've all been fabulous with your feedback, support, and encouragement. And you're all saints, I think, for listening to my constant whining and bitching. So thank you to Lioness Black, Paris Marriott, Just In Kase, Off-Key, piperrhiannon, RyanStiles4Me, Wicked Wonder, and...apparently that's all the friends I have.

And thank you, of course, to all my fabulous readers and reviewers. Your wonderful reviews are a terrific reward for the time and effort put into this story. They very much motivate me to update sooner and attempt to write the best story possible. Thank you. And thank you especially to the regular reviewers, who review if not every chapter, at least nearly every one. I look forward to your reviews and am pleased you care so much about the story and its characters .

Finally, thank you to my sister for allowing me to write much of this story on her computer after my iMac blew up. Of course, she doesn't know I was writing Baby-Sitters Club fanfiction. Shh...don't tell her.

And thank you to Kathleen Turner for being so damn gorgeous in the '80s. Good luck with your next role as a phone sex operator.

And...thank God, that's over.

-Celica