Page 18 of Love and Other Lost Things

Check in hand, Jane followed her down the hall.

“You can’t be serious about this,” Jane said, when they were safely in the kitchen. She set the check on the counter. “Matteo would never let us go like that.” Jane grabbed the pan off the stove and ran a sponge over it. “You of all people should know that.”

In the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, the lines around Mom’s eyes looked deeper than they had last night. “Do you remember Martin Lefkowitz from high school? He just took over his father’s family law practice, and he handles divorces and custody cases. He’s handling Dad’s paperwork, and everyone says he’s really smart. He went to Harvard Law and then practiced in New York before he?—”

Jane cut her off. “All the Harvard lawyers in the world aren’t going to stop Matteo if he wants to come here and drag us back home again.” She scrubbed harder at the pot. “He won’t care that they practiced in New York.”

“The police, then.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “The police?” She banged the pot onto the drying rack on the counter and grabbed a mixing bowl. “You really think the police are going to help me? The police in this town?” A wave of anger washed over her. “They can’t get involved in a little domestic dispute, remember?”

Jane’s body tensed at the decades-old memory. Dad in a rage about something. She couldn’t even remember what it was now, but she knew it was something that wouldn’t even register in a normal family. Dad’s rages were always over some small infraction, that’s what made them so dangerous. You’d never know if the wrong toothpaste or a pair of shoes in the hall would set him off. It was part of how he exerted his control. By leaving you constantly afraid.

Jane also couldn’t remember why Mom had finally called 911 on that particular day. Had she feared for her life? Or was it that she’d finally had enough? But Jane’s memory was clear on one point. In her hiding place under the porch, she’d watched Officer Wylie pull up in his patrol car and climb out slowly. Almost reluctantly. From inside the house, Jane could still hear Dad yelling. Mom crying.

Why aren’t the police officer’s lights flashing and his siren on?

Mom had run out onto the porch, her bare feet thumping on the wood slats above Jane’s head. Jane had heard the tears in Mom voice, the desperation as she’d begged the police officer for help. “He did this to me,” Mom had said.

Later, Jane would see the full extent of what Dad had done. The bruises, the fractured wrist. But at that moment, Jane could imagine. She’d seen it before.

Officer Wylie had cleared his throat. “Uh, sir…” He’d trailed off then, one black sneaker kicking at a stone on the path leading up to the porch, not meeting Dad’s eyes.

Dad had descended the steps. Put a fatherly arm around the young officer, and calmly explained that he and Mom had been having a little argument when she’d slipped on the bathroom rug. “There’s no need for you to get involved in our silly domestic dispute.”

A moment later, Officer Wylie had been back in the patrol car on his way down the street. It had always struck Jane that he drove faster on his way out than he had on the way in.

She would never, ever trust the police to help her.

“It would be different with you,” Mom cut in. “You’re Chief McCaffrey’s daughter. If you tell them Matteo is threatening you, those officers will protect you.”

Jane turned away to grab a dish towel and vigorously swipe it over the mixing bowl. “I’m Chief McCaffrey’s daughter, who took off and abandoned him.” Mrs. Swanson had made that clear last night in Ford’s. “I think I’ll take my chances with my plan.” Even with all its flaws, it had to be better than going to the police.

Mom sank down on a stool across the counter and absently straightened the placemats piled there. “Jane,” she whispered. Her hands were shaking. “I’m just saying that there are options. There are other ways to protect yourself and Scarlett. You don’t have to run. You can stay here and give your daughter some stability. You can fight for the life you want.”

Was this why Mom didn’t want to move to that retirement home in town? Because she imagined that Jane and Scarlett would move into this old house? Jane’s first instinct was to shudder at the thought and open her mouth to refuse. But as she gazed around the kitchen, something held her back.

Last night, in the dim light, the room had looked shabby, rundown, an aging monument to all her worst memories. But now with the sun shining in, Jane could see subtle changes. Mom had set flowers in a mason jar on the island and hung colorful curtains in the window. There were rainbow sprinkles in the spice rack and a set of pink butterfly cups in the china cabinet. Was all of this for Scarlett?

And for Jane, too?

It was only nine in the morning, and already this had been Scarlett’s best day in years. Chocolate-chip pancakes and Barbie Legos spread across the living room floor. Earlier, Jane had heard her talking about building a snowman. Linden Falls had four seasons, good schools, and speed limits that people actually respected. In a house like this, Scarlett could have her own room where her friends could come over. A backyard where she could play with the local kids. A neighborhood she could roam without worrying about drug dealers or traffic.

This would be Scarlett’s Dream House.

Jane’s heart tugged with longing.

But she knew how the system worked. She’d talked to a lawyer once, just like Mom had suggested. There are laws, she’d thought. Mechanisms in place to help women.

A protection from abuse order.

A piece of paper signed by a judge. It told the abuser to stop the abuse, to stay away from the victim or face serious legal consequences. If the judge was involved, signing a paper, shouldn’t the abuser already be facing serious legal consequences?

It doesn’t work that way.

A protection from abuse order from a judge wasn’t going to stop a man like Matteo. Jane knew he’d show up and promptly step right on it, grinding in his heel along the way. If Matteo was told to do something, he took it as an invitation to do the opposite. A PFA wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.

Matteo would never let her go. Mom had to understand that better than anyone.

---