“All right,” Marie says with a small nod. “I do need something, but I’ll be honest about it. I’m willing to compensate you fairly for your time and work. My husband and I have to go to the city tonight. We need someone to watch our daughter until we make it back tomorrow.”
Laura ponders this. She feels mild bewilderment and a touch of disappointment. This is what it’s about? She doesn’t know what she expected, but… not this.
“You know who I am, right,” Laura says, not really phrasing it as a question.
Marie observes her intently.
“Laura O’Malley,” Laura says. “My mother is—”
“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Marie says lightly—too lightly.
“And you want to leave an O’Malley alone in your house?” Laura can’t help asking.
Marie chuckles. “Well, Laura, let’s just say I don’t believe in judging people by who their parents are. I believe everyone should get a chance to be judged on their own merits.”
“And I believe you’re full of shit, Madame.”
The words escape from Laura before she can stop herself. Now I’ve done it, she thinks, watching the stunned expression appear on Marie’s face. Clearly, no one has ever dared to speak to the wife of Gaetan Fortier in such a way before. Not to her face anyway.
Why do I keep doing this? Laura wonders idly. Why do I keep ruining everything before it even has a chance to happen? She braces herself, ready to be kicked out of the nice car, yelled at, and called a few names for good measure. Hell, she’ll be lucky if that’s all that happens. For all she knows, Marie will call up her husband’s buddy, the local chief of police, and then the trouble has only just begun.
Her head spins a little from the smoke and the strong perfume.
Marie laughs again. “My goodness. You’ve got to watch your language, young lady.”
Laura, feeling contrarian, pipes up. “Actually, can I have one of those cigarettes?”
Marie ignores her. There’s a sly grin lurking in the corners of her lips.
“I see,” she says. “You’re exactly who I thought you were, and refreshingly honest too. Yes, there’s a catch. I know people talk about us. I know people talk about Michelle. Small-town people, they’re like that, always have been. I knew what I was getting into when I married my husband, but I had no idea how bad it would be. And I know that you, Laura, have suffered from this also.”
There’s a lump in Laura’s throat. For once, she can’t speak. All sarcastic comebacks vanish from her head.
“People talk,” Marie continues, oblivious to her discomfort. “As a result, they’re afraid of Michelle. They think God only knows what goes on at our house. I assure you none of it is true. Nevertheless, I need someone to watch my daughter, and I can’t find anyone. I’ll pay you. Generously.”
She names a figure, and Laura has a hard time keeping her face neutral. It’s a lot of money. It’s enough money to get her out of town, to get her all the way to Montreal if she wants. It’s enough to go to a dozen AC/DC concerts, if Laura still cared about any of that.
“Very well,” Marie said. “It’s settled. As a matter of fact, can you come with me now? That way, the sooner my husband and I leave, the sooner we’ll be able to come back.”
Laura has no time to think about it. Nor does she want to think about it. Her mind is locked on to that magic number, the money that’ll get her out of everything. She can’t say no. She can’t afford to.
And it looks like Marie knows it too.
THIRTY
2017
The next day, everything is more complicated than it has to be because my ankle shows no signs of healing and resuming its normal functions. Putting my weight on it still hurts like hell, and as a result, everything takes three times as long as it should. Meanwhile, Laura conspicuously goes about her business in the kitchen–slash–living room without offering to help. She looks like she’s in a mood. She makes noise on purpose as I try to listen to the messages on the answering machine. She huffs as she piles the dishes on the drying rack—Laura, doing the dishes bright and early in the morning, what a sight.
“Mom,” I say, “if you don’t mind, I need to work.”
For some reason, this seems to send her over the edge. “Work?” she snaps. “On what?”
“On my story.”
“On your story.” She crosses her arms and glares at me.
I’m sitting on a rickety kitchen chair, the crutch leaning against the table and my foot propped up on the only other chair. Laura towers over me, once more in the position of maternal authority. I sure as hell am in no shape to go stomping out the door.
“Haven’t you done enough? What’ll it take for you to give up? It’s not enough to break your ankle, you won’t stop until you’ve broken your neck?”
“My ankle isn’t broken—”
“I thought it was a bad idea before,” Laura says, “but now, I see it’s downright dangerous.”
“No one attacked me,” I explain. “I was alone in the woods, I got scared. I tripped. I hit my head—”
“That’s not what all these no-life gossips seem to think,” Laura seethes. “They seem to think there’s some kind of danger lurking in the woods. Old tales of witches on all fours.” She scowls. The anger makes her look older than she is. “And they also seem to think that you found it and lived to tell the tale.”
I sigh.
“And are any of those tales based in reality?” I ask Laura.
“You tell me. You’re the one who seems to be their new folk hero.”
“I didn’t see any witches,” I say obliquely.
“These women have some nerve,” Laura huffs. “Showing up here like they did. None of them ever gave a damn about us. When my mother died of cirrhosis, not a single one of them—”
