Poison at the PTA (27 page)

Marina watched as I stepped on the last of the hot ash, grinding the powder into small bits, smashing it into unreadable oblivion.

“Was that from Cookie’s box?” she asked.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “She’d kept a list. It was in the bottom of that box. I didn’t find it until just now.”

“A list?” Marina sounded far away.

“Yes.” And I was certain I’d never make another list in my life for fear of remembering the horrible one I’d just burned. “Kirk’s name was on there.”

“Mine, too?”

I nodded. When I’d read the notes about Marina, so much had become clear. I knew why she’d been acting oddly; I knew why she’d been distant. I knew why she’d been preoccupied and I knew why she hadn’t told me about the woman I’d seen her with at the mall. And I thought I knew why she’d been sitting at her kitchen table sobbing, all those weeks ago.

“How did Cookie find out?” I asked.

Marina took a step forward and twisted the toe of her boot on the ash. “That time you saw us at the mall, remember? That was the second time we met. The first time was at a restaurant out by the airport, and for who knows what reason, Cookie was sitting behind us. I didn’t know she was there, didn’t know anyone was there. She heard . . . everything.”

“And later, Cookie called you. The day I found you crying.”

She looked up at me, then away. “I couldn’t tell you. I just couldn’t. I didn’t . . .”

I let out a deep sigh and tipped my head back. The sky was half blue, half clouds. Did that make it partly cloudy or partly sunny? There were so many things I didn’t know. For instance, I didn’t know the difference between deduction and induction. For years, I didn’t realize there was a North American time zone east of the Eastern Time Zone. And, until fifteen minutes ago, I hadn’t known that Marina, as a teenager, had borne a daughter and given her up for adoption.

“There was a letter, right before Christmas,” Marina said. “She wanted to meet me. To talk about medical history, about her biological father, about family history . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Since I wasn’t sure it would start up again without a push, I said, “She looks like you.”

Marina nodded. “Of all my kids . . .” What sounded like a sob got stuck somewhere in her throat. She coughed. Coughed again. “Yeah. She does, doesn’t she?”

“What’s her name?”

The ghost of a smile showed on her face. “You’re not going to believe this, but her name is Elizabeth.”

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“But she goes by Liz.”

“Okay, then I do believe.”

Marina kicked at the ash again. “That day, at the kitchen table, Cookie said having a child out of wedlock was wrong, that I needed to be punished, to make amends. She’d said she’d tell me what I had to do. Only . . .”

Only Kirk had stepped in first.

It’s our duty to make things right, Cookie had told me. It’s black-and-white, she’d said.

But Cookie was wrong. Life was rarely black or white. I intended to live my life erring on the side of kindness, and I was going to do my best to teach my children to live the same way.

Kindness. Was there anything more important?

I heard Marina sniff. When I looked at her, I saw a tear trickling down her cheek. My best friend was in pain, and here I stood, hands in my pockets. Where was that kindness I thought was so important?

Coughing down my own sob, I stepped close to Marina. Put my arms around her, put my cheek against hers, and held her close.

“It was the worst thing I ever did,” she whispered, “giving her away, but I knew it was the best thing. I tried to forget about it, about her.”

“But you couldn’t,” I whispered back. “Of course you couldn’t.”

She nodded, hugged me back, then pulled away. “I’m so sorry, Beth. I wasn’t sure you’d understand. You’re so smart and strong all the time. And I know all about last night. Winnie called. So if you turn best friends with Claudia, it would only make sense. I wasn’t there for you. I was at home sulking like a whiny teenager.” More tears came down. “I was stupid when I was a kid and I’m stupid now, but I won’t be able to take it if you look at me like I’m the stupidest person on the planet. I just won’t and—”

“And will you stop already?” I asked. “I’m just as stupid, almost all of the time.”

“Yeah, but that’s just a front for how smart you really are.” She sniffed, but one corner of her mouth turned up.

Suddenly, I knew it would be all right. Happiness bobbed in my heart, bouncing around like a bright yellow balloon. “We can both be really stupid and we can both be really smart.”

“Hmm.” Marina wiped at her eyes. “You might have something there. I mean, you can’t be smart all the time. What we have to do is coordinate our stupidity.” She twisted up a small smile. “You can have Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. I’ll take Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. We’ll split Wednesdays.”

“Why do I have to be the one who’s smart on Mondays?”

“Okay, we’ll split Mondays instead of Wednesdays.”

“It’s a deal.”

She stuck out her hand and we shook. “Friends?” she asked. “Forever and for sure?”

The sky had been clearing as we’d talked, and now the last shred of cloud whisked out of view. A bright yellow sun shone down from a brilliantly blue winter sky. The day and the future were bright. My children were happy, I was happy, and Marina had come back to me.

I grinned. “Don’t be stupid.”