The driveway had washed away again, leaving one treacherous path of mud alongside a sluice of running water. She knew, driving home and seeing the thin skim of brown coloring the bleached road, that it was her dirt spread onto Route 3, but still had not expected the damage the storm had caused. The last of the right side of her driveway had dissolved, and Allie cursed as her car plunged into a rut. She pressed down on the gas; her wheels teetering on the remaining crest of the driveway and gunned it. Rob had always reminded her, with growing derision, to drive slow in snow, in hazardous conditions. Well, he wasn’t here to criticize, so she pressed the pedal further, her tires spinning in protest.
Closer to the house, Allie was relieved to see that the driveway was waterlogged but intact. All was not lost. Something had to be done, sooner rather than later, but she refused to tally the cost now. Since she had bought this house, her house, hers and Jemma’s alone, it had been one expense after another that she couldn’t afford, all shuffling to the forefront of the queue based on what failed that week. She knew of course, even without Rob there to tell her, that this house would be a money pit. Never buy a Victorian, he had always said. But Victorians had always been her favorite, and this one sat back from the road, close to the bay. With the windows open, you could hear the lap of the waves and smell the saltwater brine.
Allie had gotten home before Jemma. Her bus was due soon, and tonight Simone would be with her. Allie was glad that Jemma had a friend. The past few years had been full of worry about her daughter, who seemed too alone, so alone that she didn’t even know to be unhappy about it. But this year Simone had moved to Maine from Louisiana, and she and Jemma became inseparable. The bookish girl that Allie had raised was almost unrecognizable now that she had a friend. Jemma had adopted Simone’s preference for short skirts and fishnet tights, heavy mascara, and winged eyeliner. When Rob had mentioned this change to Allie, she had snapped, aren’t teenagers supposed to experiment? She said she thought Jemma’s new look was edgy. Of course, Allie didn’t think that, but she wasn’t going to share her fears with Rob. As far as he needed to know, she was doing just fine on her own.
She heard the girls shrieking and went to the living room window. It was still raining, not as hard as earlier today, but enough to still drench. Both girls were leaping to avoid puddles, spindly black-clad gazelles. Simone was charging ahead, and before she reached the front steps, she twirled, arms open, head thrown back and tongue pushed out. She was splattered in mud, her eyes screwed shut, spinning faster and faster. Jemma finally caught up and bent over in hysterical laughter, nearly throwing her backpack over her head with the suddenness of how quick she dropped. The girls stayed out in the rain, seeming to relish the bad weather. Watching them, Allie was tempted to fling open the door and scold them inside, but instead, she stayed behind the curtain, watching her daughter dance in circles around her new friend. Simone stayed in one spot, arms upraised, her mouth moving fast as if chanting. Her words ignited Jemma and as if bound to a tether, Jemma lifted her bony knees high in euphoria, twirling with abandon, circling Simone as if she were a maypole.
This was a new Jemma she was seeing, and Allie felt worry root. Maybe Rob was right; Jemma was a follower like Rob had always told Allie that she was, susceptible to aligning herself with bad leadership. Jemma did seem to worship Simone. But didn’t all teenage girls feel a devotion to their friends that bordered on obsession? Simone did fit what Rob would label a bad seed. Half her head was dyed an unnatural magenta, the other half black, and worst, she looked you directly in the eye when speaking to you as if she wasn’t afraid of anything. Such confidence was incomprehensible to Allie, and to her, Simone seemed narcissistic, capable of luring Jemma away. Outside, Simone had dropped her arms and Jemma rushed into Simone, nearly bowling her over with her embrace. Allie stepped back quickly as the girls turned towards the house.
“Mo-om,” Jemma said, when she finally came in, shaking water off like a too-big puppy, “The driveway is like, totally gone.”
“Not totally!” Allie always felt a rush to defend the house.
“Three-quarters to totally,” Simone deadpanned. “Anyways, you should see the shithole I live in.”
Jemma giggled and darted her eyes to Allie, gauging her reaction. Allie had to work to keep her face neutral. She was shocked at Simone cursing in front of her, but more than that, offended. This was not a shithole. This was a Victorian.
Allie thought that when it came to teenagers, it was good policy to not fan flames. So, she changed the subject, “I’m making pizza. I’ll call you when it’s time to put toppings on.” She wanted to lick her fingers and rub off the rivulets of mascara running down Jemma’s cheeks, but instead, she said, “Take off your shoes too! You guys are covered in mud and it’s dripping.”
“Like I told you, the driveway!” Jemma said, using the heel of one toe to slide her shoe off without unlacing, smearing mud into the grooves of the wood floor.
“Let’s go,” Simone said with authority, and the two bounded up the stairs, their steps in unison, heads bent towards one another. Allie rested one hand on the banister, watching her daughter disappear.
Allie sank into the couch, then sprang up just as quickly, remembering the bottle of wine prechilled in the refrigerator. One glass to settle the unease she felt – likely from the impending bill her driveway would be. But Jemma too. It used to be that Jemma would talk to her – maybe not about school or friends, but movies at least. In truth, Allie felt a little lonely without Jemma’s company. Twirling her wine stem, she wondered what the appeal of dancing in the rain had for Jemma. It wasn’t the splashing puddles that had excited her as a toddler, this was almost as if she and Simone were celebrating the rain. Almost like communing.
Draining the last of her glass, Allie shook her head free of such thoughts and set to work on dinner. The wine hadn’t eased her anxiety; if anything, she felt fuzzy detachment from the alcohol. She began to knead the dough, too aggressively, stretching with her fingers till she tore holes and had to start over. The kitchen looked out into the backyard, a reclusive spot shaded by trees, though the view was blurred by the rain. Off the kitchen door, a small patio, then, where the grass petered out was a well-worn path that led to the bay. When Allie and Jemma first moved here, they would walk down to the rocky beach every day, sometimes more than once. The ocean was always changing. Allie especially loved the unapologetic surge and swell of incoming high tide, but the low tide that unearthed silt full of snails, starfish, sea glass was Jemma’s favorite. In her bedroom, she had a glass jar filled with treasures found beachcombing.
A crash, followed by the sound of objects spilling and rolling across the floor above, startled Allie. Her first thought – which she resented herself for! – was to call out for Rob. Rob always solved all problems, investigated all sounds, soothed Allie’s worries. Eventually, though Rob, practical Rob, had run out of steam examining the minute strands of Allie’s fear. Allie had worked to overcome her anxiety without his guiding logical judgment. Rinsing her hands to remove the sticky traces of dough, Allie intended to go speak to Jemma. She was glad Jemma had a friend, she was, but they needn’t be so wild. Rob had always been the one concerned with decorum, and she could hear his voice in her head, chastising Jemma to be more careful. Allie wouldn’t admonish as Rob would have; she’d just ask them to calm down.
Allie resolutely climbed the stairs, feeling her anger toward Jemma rise. She hadn’t bothered to switch on any lights, leaving the upstairs shadowed. How could she even see? What were they doing together in the dark? Halfway up the stairwell, a loud crack of lightning illuminated the living room below. The lights snapped off, along with the electric hum of the refrigerator. It never got less eerie, the loss of power, how used you were to the safe buzz of electricity, and how alone you felt in the sudden quiet. Allie gripped the banister, counting the seconds till she heard the roar of thunder as she had as a child. She got to four when the boom shook the windowpanes. That was close. The storm was nearby.
In times like this, Rob would charge into action, lighting candles and flicking on flashlights from the emergency cupboard. Allie didn’t have an emergency cupboard, so she stood, uncertain, thinking about when she last used candles and if there were any matches. She remembered using a Citronella candle on the patio to deter mosquitoes. Maybe it was still there? She turned, walking cautiously down the stairs, unsure of her footing in the dark. She felt her way to the kitchen, hands out, dragging her fingers against the walls to align her. Reaching the kitchen door, she opened it to the pelt of the rain and stepped out onto the slick concrete in bare feet. The candle was there, a large jar with a double wick, filled with rainwater. It would be impossible to light wet. If only she had brought it inside. Rob would describe this as a preventable accident. If you just thought a little Allie, he always used to say, you could avoid reacting.
Dumping out the dregs of water, she made a plan to dry the wicks with paper towels. And she was sure the matches were still on the shelf beside the fireplace. Maybe she should start a fire – it was still storming and the temperature had dropped, cold and damp enough to warrant warmth. It could be cozy, she and the girls around the fire with peanut butter sandwiches. This could be just what she needed to resolve her concern over Jemma, over Simone.
More lightning flashed, followed quickly by a boom of thunder. Allie didn’t have time to count by she knew the storm was zeroing in on her house. God, her driveway would surely be washed away now. Allie, holding the candle upside down to drain out the dregs, turned to go inside when she heard a squeal. She turned and saw two figures run towards the bay. Was that the girls?
“JEMMA!” Allie screamed. She waited for answer, then screamed her daughter’s name again. The wind whipped her hair in her eyes and whistled as it sped through the yard. She scanned the yard, squinting, but saw nothing: just rain and swaying trees. It must have been the storm she heard. The girls would still be upstairs, waiting for her.
Allie used the kitchen towel that had covered the dough and rubbed the inside of the candle vigorously. She listened for the girls as she retraced her steps to the living room, her wet feet wanting to slide beneath her, hands reaching out ahead. The house was silent.
“Jemma! I’ll be up soon with a CANDLE!” Allie shouted up the stairs, emphasizing the last word like a promise. No response. She knocked her knees into the coffee table on the way to the fireplace and gripped the candle tighter. Her fingers were frigid when she found the matches. Sitting the candle at her feet, she cupped her hands and blew hot breath to warm them. Reinvigorated, she struck a match and dropped to her knees to light the candle. It was still wet, but Allie held the match there till the flame licked her fingertips. Singed, she blew the match out. Trying again, Allie held the match to the wick and it nearly caught. Come on, she thought, angling the jar to give the tiny flame more airflow. Finally, the wick ignited and Allie nearly cheered, the panic that was mounting quieted.
“Jemma? I’m coming!” Allie called, climbing the stairs, holding the candle aloft. Jemma’s bedroom was at the end of the hall. Her door was ajar. Allie repeated her daughter’s name down the dark hall, but softly now.
Allie pushed the door open further. Inside, Jemma’s jar of beachcombing treasures was strewn across the floor. Many of the shells and sea glass were arranged in an intricate circular pattern on the floor, spokes radiating out from a center plate. Allie leaned her candle closer – there was something in the dish. The light shone on a frog, flattened as if run over by a car, its limbs frozen and outstretched. Allie gasped and stepped back. As if underwater, Allie went to Jemma’s bed, her feet crunching over the debris. Stones pierced her heel, but she didn’t feel it. She sat, slouched over her candle, unsure.
Lightning struck again, brightening Jemma’s room and shining a spotlight onto the backyard. Allie stood at the window, the glass candle burning her hand, when she saw movement below. Splashing on the soggy lawn, Allie saw her daughter and her friend, dancing triumphantly, calling the storm to them. Allie couldn’t be certain, but she thought Simone saw her. It was the way Simone paused, head tilted up, and smiled under the drumming rain, before pulling Jemma towards her, out of Allie’s sight.