Little Monsters

by Adrienne Brodeur

“Some people can’t see what’s right in front of them.” “I’ll remind you that you said that later,” she said.

“You must tap into your deeper sense of hearing. Pretend you’re an acoustic ecologist and feel the world through your ears.” He gave her a moment and then said, “Are you with me?” “That would be a definite no,” she said. “You okay?” Adam chose to ignore this, so intent was he that she experience the multidimensionality of sound. “You can do this. You just need to concentrate.” Adam was now hearing in color, traveling through deep blues until he got to the ocean floor.

Chil

Abby longed for her mother differently than she had in the past, in a way that couldn’t be satisfied by shards of ceramics or a vague ethereal presence.

Her paintings revealed themselves like novels, unfolding over time. Her

Steph nodded and turned away. “Wait. Was he okay out there?” Abby asked, knowing it was an odd question to ask a relative stranger, but she needed confirmation. Steph gave a resolute shake of the head, and Abby had her answer.

“And I’m left wide awake to contemplate my one big mistake and my mind turns into a failure zoetrope, spinning around and around.” He shakes his head. “There’s no sleep after that.”

“When last I checked, I was still the father,” Adam said, smiling while enunciating each word like he was goddamn King Lear.

Abby clutched her brother during the carnage, clinging to him as if her life depended on it. And Ken loved the feel of her hard, round head under his chin, the tangy smell of salt, shampoo, and wet wood. He loved her so much, he’d like to squeeze her to death. Occasionally, they sat on the denim beanbag in front of Charon’s cage, observing the action as if at a movie; but more often, they watched from Ken’s twin bed, where his arm would often fall asleep under his sister’s weight.

But the bigger problem with the new arrangement was that Abby’s bedroom was right off the kitchen and den, without the benefit of a long hallway with creaky floorboards, warning them when adults were approaching.

Wtf

The expert cited a Mandarin word, yu yi, which he defined as “the longing to feel intensely again, as you did when you were a child.” The word explained so much, and yet, had no English equivalent.

“Not really, not anymore. We’re like enemies who love each other. At least, I love him. I honestly don’t know how he feels about me. We used to be close, arguably too close. If you drew a Venn diagram of us as kids, there was barely any part that wasn’t overlapping. Between not having a mother and having a”—Abby took a moment to find the word she was looking for—“complicated father, sometimes we were all each other had. But now, the truth is, Ken scares me.”

Steph flashed to the Ten of Swords and Toni’s warning: Wounded people wound. “Scares you… how?”

To think, she’d come to find answers about one genetic illness only to discover a potentially worse one.

“Ken, I’m serious about having this conversation.” “Sure,” he said, already turning away from her and reaching for the sliding door. “And sooner rather than later,” she said to his back. “Some major stuff is going on with Abby, and she needs you.” “Jenny—” A warning. There was a time in his life when he’d have done anything for his sister. But that time was long gone; she’d thrown him aside.

“No. Simone Manuel!” Tessa screamed, pumping a fist overhead. “An Olympic record!” Who the hell was Simone Manuel? “What about Phelps?” Tessa looked at him as if he smelled. “Is it only real for you if the athlete is a dude?”

His thoughts returned to Abby. It occurred to him that she might announce her little miracle at his party, once again trying to steal his thunder. “Here’s something hot off the presses,” he said, not caring that it wasn’t his news to share. “Guess who’s knocked up?” “No clue,” David said, dipping a fry in mayo. “My sister.” The fry tumbled down David’s front, landing on his lap, three small globs of mayonnaise staining his shirt and shorts. Ken shook his head like they were in on the same joke. “I know,” he said with a chuckle. “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone, either.”

The next glass was consumed in the kitchen when it became clear that Ken—petulant man-child that he was—would not be coming home for dinner, or even calling, for that matter. That glass had been the miracle worker; the second one always was the miracle worker, sending in the cavalry—endorphins! Come home, don’t come home, she didn’t care.

She hadn’t had a blackout since her RISD days, and yet there was no mistaking the light-flickering-on-and-off-in-a-dark-room sensation.

And no outgoing calls, though apparently, she’d had two conversations. One with Ken, lasting under a minute. The other with her father, which went on for more than ten. She had no recollection of either. All in all, it could have been worse.

Abby wondered if her mother had known about the betrayal. Didn’t all women secretly know? Maybe it wasn’t a blood clot that had killed her. Maybe it was heartbreak.

Abby flinched but nodded. Jenny had told David? No, she wouldn’t. “Your brother spilled the beans.” So, Jenny had told Ken. Worse. Then David’s arms were around her, and she could feel his sobs move through his body. “Abby. We’re having a baby!”

“And for sure it’s a boy?” His voice choked with emotion. Did it matter? Abby smiled back. “That’s what my OB seems to think.”

“I know there’s a lot to think about,” David soothed. “We can take things as slowly as you need. Deep breaths.” He didn’t just say that. “In and out. In and out.” He inhaled and exhaled as if to show her how it was done. There was little on earth that Abby liked less than a man instructing her to calm down. “I’ve got to get going,” she said.

He felt embarrassed and foolish. How was it that Abby could still do this to him, return him in an instant to the awkward little boy who missed his mommy?

Was it his eye or was Abby just demanding that he look? Ken knew there was a message for him in here somewhere, there always was—his sister’s cryptic and passive-aggressive way of communicating. The lines kept shifting, making it hard to find purchase. Then his eyes were drawn to an entanglement in the lower-right corner—a snakelike boy coiled around a girl, crushing her. Ken studied the girl’s expression, pained like she was being suffocated. He moved on to the boy, whose legs and arms strangled her. There was a blob of paint at the base of Abby’s signature that created a kidney-shaped spot on the boy’s buttock. Ken touched the birthmark on his backside. Oh my God. She hadn’t. She wouldn’t dare. But she had. Abby had outed them right on this canvas. A private message. No, a threat.

And with a violent thrust, Ken stabbed the knife through the offending image, slashing up and down and up again, leaving a trail of blood from his thumb on the canvas. He heard a twig snap outside his open window. “Who’s there?” he hissed into the night. All was silent.

It was an irreproachable navy linen number, knee-length and sleeveless. She’d slip into it and—presto!—Mrs. Ken Gardner, model wife and hostess. But where was Jenny in all this? Be Jennifer Lowell. That was the advice that her mother had meant to impart, she felt sure of it now. Be Jennifer Lowell.

And if what Tessa had witnessed the night before—her father destroying her aunt’s painting—had taught Jenny anything, it was that behaving like a Stepford wife had done nothing to protect her family.

Even knowing what to expect, she was unprepared for the gash and the triangular flap of canvas that revealed gaping blackness behind it.

Literally?

An urgent craving for a drink arose, and Jenny pictured tequila poured over ice. She loved the crackling sound of ice cubes collapsing and longed for the burn of the alcohol as it hit her throat. Just one. One would do the trick. No. Instead, she put on some jazz, knowing Ken hated it.

He read the speech he’d composed—embarrassing dreck. It read more like a Nobel acceptance than a thank-you-for-coming-to-my-party. He scrunched it into a ball. Who did he think he was? Charles Darwin? More like Victor Frankenstein—just another foolish scientist, believing his potential was limitless, only to be felled by an inflated ego.

Suddenly, Ken had the unpleasant sensation of being watched and spun around. There was Tessa, her eyes boring into him. Sometimes his daughters could seem like young witches.

see you. I see Abby’s painting. Then it hit him. Oh God. Oh no. That twig snap he’d heard was Tessa.

Sweat prickled on his forehead.

A lot of pricking abd prickling in this book

“Impress John tonight, and money will flow into your campaign like the tide into this harbor.” “Thank you, Theo,” Ken said, ushering his father-in-law toward the bar where the off-putting rhythm of jazz was playing. Oh, Jenny was mad, all right. “I’m grateful.”

Ruby-throated hummingbirds darted from blossom to blossom, gorging in preparation for their long journey ahead, and tissue-thin monarch butterflies teetered over Jenny’s prize-winning hydrangeas, whose petals were just starting to antique.

Gorge

August was the Sunday of summer,

“Dad, no one says ‘yuppies’ anymore.” “Well, I’m nothing if not blissfully out of touch,”

“Dad—” Abby began, working up her courage. “Have I ever told you about the migratory paths of our local humpbacks?” Adam interrupted.

Shut up

At the sight of Abby, Jenny knew she couldn’t face this party sober and retreated into the kitchen in search of booze. Already, there was a strange energy to the evening. An edge. She’d been so close to changing back into her navy-blue dress, but when Ken demanded she do so, she’d defiantly refused. Now, she worried about what John Kaufman—a man capable of making or breaking her husband’s political future—would think of her. And while she was going down that rabbit hole, what would he think of Tessa, dressed like a boy? In a nod toward damage control, Jenny tossed a gauzy shawl over her shoulders, which only served to make her look more like a flower child. She retrieved a bottle of tequila from under the sink. The only thing that mattered now was Abby. Abby and her ruined painting.

Jenny hoped her fix—skinny strips of gold mylar tape—would hold at least through the night.

Nice

“Abby,” Jenny said. “Did you get my messages? We need to talk.” Abby kissed David on the cheek. To Jenny, she said, “Don’t you think you’ve done enough talking already?” David took a step back. “What?” Jenny said, confused. “My pregnancy was not your news to share,” Abby hissed.

A gull, wheeling over the shoreline, released a crab from its claws, letting it smash on a rock below.

Nearby, Toni squeezed Steph’s knee, Morse code for I warned you.

Abby was mentally rehearsing what she planned to say about her gift when she felt her abdomen tighten and harden, followed by a wave of dull pain.

used to comfort myself with the knowledge that at least my good name would live on… but guess what? Even that has eluded me. No grandsons to carry on the Gardner name.” The guests shifted uncomfortably. Ken glared at his sister. “Do something,” he hissed. “If Dad will listen to anyone, it’s you.” “So, my friends,” Adam continued. “Let’s lift our glasses to my demise!”

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Her father’s voice quavered. “Abigail, my darling girl, are you giving me a grandson?” Once again, that word: giving. As if babies were gifts women bestowed upon men. Abby bristled: “Well, I’m having a baby in November. And yes, he will be your grandson. But your gift is over there,” she said, pointing to the shrouded canvas. “The Gardner name will continue!” Adam bellowed. David

needed to up his game. His eyes landed on that Steph woman from the church auction again. How did she even know his father?

“Why, thank you, Ken. It’s adorable.” Adam bent down to have a closer look. There was a miniature sign in front of the building: GARDNER SENIOR LIVING. Adam picked up the sign. Oh, this was rich. Gardner Senior Living. A laugh sputtered out of him like an old water faucet. Addressing the audience, he said, “Of all the buildings I ever thought might someday bear my name—say, a lab at the CCIO or a library at one of my alma maters, Dartmouth or BU—it never once occurred to me that my inaugural building would be a nursing home!” “It’s not a nursing home, Dad,” Ken said. “It’s a state-of-the-art senior living center.” “Potato, po-tah-to,” Adam said and embraced his son. “Ken, I’m touched. And you built this all by yourself?” His father wasn’t getting it and was making Ken look foolish. “Dad,” he said, trying to rein in his irritation. “This isn’t the gift. It’s a replica of the gift.” But Adam wasn’t listening. “Folks, my eldest is about to change the face of old people’s homes!” Ken looked at his father incredulously.

Then, the connection shunted into place so forcefully that he felt it physically: Ken had gifted him a condominium in his retirement community. To live in! Adam felt the color drain from his face. He’d move into a nursing home over his dead body. Was this some kind of joke? Was Ken trying to humiliate him? But when Adam looked into his son’s eyes, he saw an earnest and vulnerable boy. Apparently, Ken thought this was a gift he’d want.