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“I’m sorry,” Lindsey says again, and tears fill her eyes.

“You knew when I hired you that I needed someone on board for the long haul.” I stand and walk toward the door. I thought we were close, that we had each other’s backs. Now I have three months left with her, at best. “I trusted you.”

“What are you going to do?”

I look back at her and at my mother’s face still pinched with anger. This is a mess. “I don’t know,” I say as I walk from the room, hardly noticing the temporary railing as I climb the stairs. Lindsey’s eagerness to leave Washington makes sense now. She had a baby on board and wanted to get as far away as possible.

It’s still early, but I strip down to my bra and panties and crawl into bed. There have been innumerable bad days in the past few months—the flight to New Orleans, the first night in Sutton Hall, casket shopping at Bergeron Funeral Home—but today tops them all. It started with Mom thinking that I’m going to be cool with killing her and ended with Lindsey thinking I’m going to be cool with a baby named Frankie.

“Lou Ann.” Lindsey knocks and pushes open the door at the same time.

I turn on my side away from her. I don’t want to see her right now.

“I’m sorry. I should have done things different, but it just got crazy. When you called in February, I was staring at an e.p.t. stick, and you seemed like the answer to all my problems.”

“And here I thought you were the answer to mine.” I roll onto my back and look up at her. “I depend on you to help with Mom. You’re my rock when everything goes insane around here. Did you think about the position your pregnancy puts me in?” Her silence is my answer. “What about your family?”

“They’d never accept Frankie.” Lindsey sits on the side of my bed. “And every baby should be born into a family that can’t wait to welcome it.”

“What about Frankie’s father? I’m assuming you told him.”

She shrugs and looks away. “He doesn’t want the responsibility.”

Well, that makes him an irresponsible asshole, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s kept this baby a secret since I hired her. It’s not a small secret, either.

“It’s just Frankie and me.”

“No, it’s not.” I sit up. “It’s you and Frankie and my sick mother.”

“I can still give the same quality of care to Patricia that I’ve—”

“No, you can’t,” I interrupt. “If Mother falls and needs help getting up, you can’t help her. Once the baby is born, you can’t take care of Mom and a newborn at the same time.”

“I think I can.”

“Don’t be naive.”

She looks down at her hands resting on her round stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“You never answered the question of when you were going to tell me.” How had I missed something that was so obvious, even to Mom? She must have scheduled doctor appointments on her days off. “Did you think you could have this baby on your day off and sneak him into your bedroom?”

“I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you might fire me.”

It seems we’re right back to the same chaos as when we first arrived at Sutton Hall. Only now a baby has been added to our madhouse.

“Are you going to fire me?” Lindsey asks just above a whisper.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” The only thing I do know is that the circus is officially out of control.

16

May 7

Frankie. Fish.

Peaceful bobbering.

MOM SLAMS her studio door and cranks up the Carmen Miranda record I found in the attic yesterday. She’s behaving like a petulant teenager, blasting her music on the Victrola. Lindsey sticks her head in and leaves the door halfway open so Mom won’t succumb to paint fumes, but unfortunately that means we all get to share in the pleasure of bongos and maracas and “boom-chica-boom chica-boom-boom chica-boom.”


Tags: Rachel Gibson Fiction