assistant had been a middle-aged, homely, and married chain-smoker. It was the first time Cynthia had to grudgingly admit that perhaps Mrs. Wilkes the second wasn’t as dumb as she looked.
“Hello, Margery, it’s Cynthia Wilkes calling for Tom.”
“Oh.” These calls always seemed to begin with an “oh.” “Oh yes, I will pass you through.”
“Hi. Everyone okay?” Calling at work usually meant at least a code orange family emergency; suspension, broken limb, the visual presence of at least one bodily fluid.
“Hi. Yes. Well, I think so.”
“Good. So no hospitals, prisons, missing children alerts?”
“Well, not missing so much as misplaced,” Cynthia offered.
“Sorry? I’m not following you. Is everyone okay?” Tom repeated, genuine concern now entering his voice. She knew she was being a bit cryptic, but she was never her best when she was talking on the phone with Tom. Their calls were always rapid and perfunctory, and she never had enough time to recall how they used to talk to one another. She was better at it in person.
“Everyone is safe, but …” she stalled, trying to figure out what to say, aware of how still the gadabout little girl had become, of how intently she was listening.
“What’s wrong Cyn, spit it out.” He was so impatient, she couldn’t help thinking, always in a rush to get to the point.
“I am. I am trying to say that your daughter is here.”
“And what? Wait, I thought you said she was at school. Was she lipping off to the history teacher again?”
“No, not that daughter. What I mean is … what I’m trying to tell you is that your daughter is here. Abigail.”
“What?”
“Abigail is here. She is fine. She’s having a snack right now. She got here about twenty minutes ago. I thought you should know.”
“What the hell is she doing at your house?” The tone was still short, but confusion was the key undertone now.
“Well, I am not entirely sure. It’s not like I was expecting her,” Cynthia replied, trying to sound cheerful and smiling slightly at Abigail, wishing she had made the call in the other room so that she didn’t have to temper her annoyance for the sake of the girl.
“How did she get there? She’s supposed to be at school.”
“Yes, she mentioned that. It’s my understanding that she took a taxi.”
“Are you telling me that they let a ten-year-old get in a cab?” His voice was rising.
“Well, I’m no star witness here, Counsellor Tom, but I am under the impression that the school is currently unaware of her whereabouts as well.”
“Oh my god. Okay. Well, what do we do about this?”
“I am not sure what your plan should be. Again, may I remind you that I didn’t orchestrate this little get-together.” Then, looking over at the dark curls hung low over the plate, the treats untouched and getting cold, “As pleasant a surprise as it may have been. Perhaps you could come and pick her up, Tom.”
“Right sorry. Oh so … right. That’s probably … sorry.” Presumably not knowing what to say next, Tom said nothing, silence burning up the line between them for an interminable few seconds. She could see him now, a hand running roughly through his hair as he tried to come to a plan of action … something he was infuriatingly bad at. Tom had built a life on the uninspiring combination of reaction and inaction.
“Ah, Cyn. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m really sorry about this. I know it must be awkward for you.”
The sound of her name from that voice, tinged with sympathy, a reminder to both of them that she had been the loser in what had transpired, that tone of victim empathy, it was not something she was willing to tolerate on this particular morning.
“Just get over here, would you Tom?” she ordered sharply before hanging up.
“I guess he’s pretty mad,” Abigail said from underneath her sheath of hair.
“Maybe a little. He’s on his way to get you.”
It was evident to both of them that neither was looking forward to this. Dropping into a chair at the table, Cynthia pulled the plate into the middle and grabbed a tart. Breaking it in half, she passed a piece to Abigail, who accepted, her face unreadable as she nibbled on a corner, though the thrill seemed lost. They sat in silence for a while as Cynthia tried to process some of what had happened in the short time since she’d opened her eyes only an hour before. Looking over at the glum little face taking her in from the corner of those big blue eyes, Cynthia decided she might as well try to cheer her up a little, because she was probably in for a rough ride when she got home.
“So you were saying you’re a Dorothy Parker fan?
“I adore her,” Abigail said, some animation returning.
“So how did that … come about?” Cynthia asked, fishing for a way around asking “isn’t that a little old for you?” with little success.
“You think I’m too little to like grown-up books?”
“No, no. Just wondering where you might have come across her.” She did not add, Considering your dad can barely stand to read the paper and I’m pretty sure your mother is illiterate.
“I found it in Matthew’s room. You know, his room at our house. I am going to read all the books he left behind. I’m allowed. He said so.”
“Ah,” said Cynthia, prickling a little at the mention of her son’s second home. “Fair enough.”
Her eldest son had opted to spend the summer before his final year at his father’s place. It was a bigger space closer to his summer job and had its own entrance, which, at twenty, she had been told was an absolute necessity. She had resisted the idea, and Matthew had accused her of bordering on the ridiculous, requesting that she not to get all “mom” about this. But none of his valid reasoning had made it any easier for Cynthia to take, and she had not handled the situation with that much grace … or any, really. She remembered with embarrassment hovering in the doorway as he’d packed up an impressive number of boxes full of those books. Some of them had been hers, and she had said so, removing them from the pile even though she didn’t want them, hadn’t even thought about them in years.
She could see Matt slowly extricating himself from the routines and traditions of the family since he started away at school, shedding her influence as he tried to figure out who he was going to be and treating her care and advice like some sort of poisoned apple. That hurt her, even though her friend Ellen assured her that it was natural and absolutely necessary to ensuring he could function as an adult. That had been cold comfort, and she’d remained a little petty and distant after he left, leading to a chill between mother and son that hadn’t thawed entirely before he left to go back out west.
At the moment, if she were honest she could admit that she was 0 for 2 in relationships with her oldest kids, and with Ben gearing up for a season of hockey with Tom filling the role
