Stan got there ahead of her. He click-clacked the deadlock with an efficient twist of his wrist and threw open the door.
A sobbing young woman lurched forward as though she’d been resting her forehead on the door and fell straight into Stan’s arms, like a daughter.
Chapter 3
“Hello there,” said Stan, stunned. He clumsily patted her shoulder.
For the first fraction of a second Joy assumed it was one of their daughters, but this girl barely came up to Stan’s chest. Joy’s children were tall: the boys were six foot four, Amy was six foot, and Brooke was six foot one. They were all broad-shouldered, dark-haired, olive-skinned, scarlet-cheeked, and dimpled, like their father. (“Your children all look like giant Spanish matadors,” Joy’s mother used to say, chidingly, as if Joy had picked them off a shelf.)
This girl was petite, with straggly dirty-blond hair and blue-veined mottled white skin.
“I’m sorry.” The girl stood back, took a shuddery breath, sniffed, and tried to arrange her mouth into the shape of a smile. “I’m so sorry. How embarrassing.”
She had a fresh, deep cut just beneath her right eyebrow. Trails of shiny wet blood trickled d
own her face.
“It’s fine, darling.” Joy took a firm hold of the girl’s stick-thin upper arm in case she fainted.
She would call her “darling” until she remembered her name. Stan would be no help. She could sense his eyes trying to meet hers: Who the heck is this?
The girl had a tiny seedlike piercing in her nose and a tattoo of a green vine curled around her pale forearm. She wore a threadbare long-sleeved shirt with a spatter of old grease stains on the front and ripped blue jeans. There was a silver key on a chain around her neck. Her bare feet were purple with cold. She was vaguely, blurrily, not quite familiar.
It would be helpful if the girl said her name, but young people always assumed that they’d be remembered. It happened all the time. A young stranger would make a beeline for them, waving delightedly: “Mr. and Mrs. Delaney! How are you? It’s been ages!” Joy would have to bluff her way through the conversation while simultaneously flicking through her mental database: A tennis kid? A club member’s grown-up child? One of the children’s friends?
“What happened to you?” Stan gestured at the girl’s eye. He looked frightened, suddenly elderly. “Is someone out there?” He peered over her shoulder onto the street. It would never have occurred to Joy that there would be someone out there.
“There’s no one out there,” said the girl. “I came in a cab.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart, we’ll get you fixed up,” said Joy.
This was very confusing, but it would all become clear. Stan always wanted everything instantly clarified.
Joy guessed the girl to be in her late twenties, the same age as Brooke, but she didn’t look like one of Brooke’s friends, who were busy, polite young women with a lot on their minds. This girl had the grungy look that Amy favored, so it seemed most likely she was one of Amy’s friends. This made it difficult, because Amy moved in a variety of eclectic circles. Someone from that amateur theater group Amy had been so enthusiastic about for at least a week? A university friend? From her first abandoned degree? Second?
“How did you hurt yourself?” asked Joy.
“My boyfriend and I got in an argument,” said the girl. She swayed and pressed the heel of her hand to her bloody eye. “I just ran out of the apartment onto the street and jumped in a cab…”
“Your boyfriend did this to you?” said Stan. “You mean he hit you?”
“Sort of,” said the girl.
“Sort of? What does that mean?” said Stan. The man could be so abrasive at times. “Did he hit you or not?”
“It’s complicated,” said the girl.
“No, it’s not. If you’ve been assaulted, we should call the police,” said Stan.
“No.” The girl shifted from Joy’s grip. “No way. I don’t want the police involved.”
“We don’t need to call the police, darling, not if you don’t want,” said Joy. “It’s your choice. But come and sit down.”
If the girl didn’t want to call the police, then that was fine with her. She didn’t want police here.
As they passed under one of the hallway downlights, Joy saw that the girl was older than she’d first thought. Maybe her early thirties? Think, think, think.
Could she be one of the boys’ ex-girlfriends? There had been a few years where it had been hard to keep track of all the young girls sashaying about their house. Both boys had long-term relationships with tanned blond girls in white sneakers called Tracey. Stan could never tell which Tracey was which. Both Traceys ended up crying at Joy’s kitchen table on separate occasions while Joy chopped onions and murmured comfortingly. Logan’s Tracey still sent Christmas cards.