I took my collection of copper down from the pot rack—three pots, two saucepans, and seven gelatin molds that rarely saw use anymore, which was a shame. Gelatin salads are such fun to eat and so refreshing. Unfortunately they’d fallen out of fashion. But fashions come and go, so I held on to my copper molds and polished them every other month. When the gelatin renaissance arrives, I’ll be ready.
I mixed up some lemon juice with baking soda, putting the mixture on a clean cloth, and got to work, rubbing the surface of a saucepan in little circles, smiling as the color began showing beneath the layer of tarnish. It’s a very satisfying thing, polishing copper.
The phone rang. It was awfully late for someone to be calling. Had Grace or Monica left something behind?
“Hello.” There was coughing on the other end of the line, a loose, wet, ragged sound. I knew right away who was making it. “Dani?”
“Mom? I’m sick. I need money for a place to stay.”
“Where are you?”
“Under a bridge. It’s freezing. You have to give me some money.”
I closed my eyes and pressed a fist to my lips.
“Dani, I can’t do that.”
“But I’m sick! I have a fever! Don’t you care? What kind of mother are you?”
She started coughing again. I felt my heart clutch and my resolve begin to crack. But I couldn’t crack. I’d been down this road before.
“Dani, I’m not going to give you money for drugs.”
“It’s not for drugs! Why don’t you ever listen? I told you, I’m sick and need money for a place to stay.” Her tone went from demanding to wheedling. “I’m freezing, Mom. It’s starting to snow. Bring me some money. Please?”
I looked out the window. It was cold, very cold. But it wasn’t snowing. In former days, I would have believed her. Now I knew better. Everything that Dani said required confirmation. She was a habitual liar.
Though, I reminded myself, it wasn’t really Dani who was lying to me. It was the drugs. Dani was sick. The absence of heroin in her system resulted in sweating, shaking, weakness, nausea, and even hallucinations. In this state, she was a hostage to her addiction. In some ways, so was I.
“Honey, listen to me. You need help. I’ve talked to counselors at a very good rehab, a nice place. Tell me where to find you. I’ll take you—”
I didn’t get to finish. She cut me off, spitting out curses and accusations with the same kind of fury and fear that grips a wild animal caught in a trap. I tried to talk over her, to make her see reason, but it was no use. There was more cursing, then a strangled cry of frustration before the phone went dead.
I stood there, heart pounding, listening to the dull buzz of the dial tone.
I wiped away tears and went back to my copper, rubbing so hard that my arms burned, refusing to stop until every shadow and stain was gone and each piece glowed like the embers of a fading fire.
Chapter 9
Grace
My alarm went off at five the next morning, as usual. After breakfast, I took Maisie for a walk, said hello to Sunny and Z, the homeless couple who lived in the next block, and patted their dog, Kujo, on the head. In the days since my encounter with Luke, I was trying to be more outgoing. It had been a little embarrassing, walking up and introducing myself, but Sunny and Z were very friendly. Why had I waited so long to speak to them?
After changing into my work clothes, I went to Landsdowne to see Jamie. The nursing shift changes at seven, so it was a good time to check in with them. Then I drove to the office, arriving just in time for the monthly companywide meeting.
Those meetings were usually pretty boring and a waste of time. They started with announcements from HR—reminders to clean old lunches out of the break room refrigerator, pitches to sign up for the 401(k) plan, that sort of thing. Then the higher-ups gave the previous month’s performance numbers and a speech on doing better in the month to come. After that, they announced the employee of the month and everybody ate bagels.
Theoretically, it was a mandatory meeting, but about a third of the office usually didn’t bother to show, or only came in at the end for bagels. This Tuesday, everybody was there. Everybody. And they were dead silent. Something wasn’t right.
The chairs were nearly full. My four bosses—Jack Shapiro, Pete Ryan, Mark DeLoitte, and Ava Goddard—were sitting together in the sixth row, but there were no seats with them, so I walked to the back of the room. I found a spot against the wall and stood next to Denise Fine, who worked in accounting.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
“Not sure,” she said, talking out of the side of her mouth. “But something. There’ve been rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
Denise shifted her eyes to the front of the room and a chair on the far left, occupied by a tall man with a long, thin face. I’d never seen him before. He was sitting next to Mert Hanson, president of the company.
“See that guy? His name is Gavin Nutting. I overheard somebody from HR say that he’s going—”
Before Denise could finish the sentence, Mert Hanson went to the front of the room and thanked everyone for coming.
“Judging from the turnout, I can see that the rumor mill has been working overtime.” He smiled, as if expecting people to chuckle, but nobody really did. “Well, the rumors are true. After twenty-two years, I’m stepping down as president of Hewlett and Hanson. It’s been a great privilege to—”
Mr. Hanson stopped in midsentence, sniffed, cleared his throat, and looked down at his shoes.
“Sorry. I . . . uh . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to get so emotional.” He let
