Chapter 1 - THE COLD PLATE
“If you come home late, you get the lobster head.”
Beatrice didn’t even look away from the television.
“The meat was for the real family.”
I stood in the kitchen doorway of my own house wearing black salon pants, orthopedic sneakers, and a smock that still smelled like bleach, toner, and somebody’s expensive rose shampoo.
It was 9:47 on a Friday night.
I had been on my feet since eight that morning at Harbor & Pine, the small salon I owned in Portland’s Old Port.
I had cut twenty-three heads of hair.
Fixed one home-bleach disaster.
Skipped lunch.
And spent my last appointment pretending my lower back wasn’t throbbing every time I bent toward the shampoo bowl.
All day, I had been thinking about dinner.
Not because I expected anyone to save me a plate.
I had learned better than that.
I was thinking about Oliver.
My five-year-old son had been asking for lobster ever since my father took him down to the working waterfront the previous summer and explained the difference between a lobster boat and a sightseeing boat.
So before work, I had stopped at Harbor Fish Market and spent $186 on five large lobsters.
More than I should have.
Definitely more than I wanted Thomas seeing on the grocery app.
But I could picture Oliver sitting at the table with melted butter on his chin.
That picture won.
I had set the bag on the counter that morning.
“Please make sure Oliver gets some of the meat.”
Beatrice had smiled.
“Of course, darling.”
“And don’t make it too spicy.”
“I raised two children, Mara.”
That was Beatrice’s favorite sentence.
I raised two children.
Usually said while ignoring how badly one of them had turned out.
Now the living room looked like the aftermath of a seafood festival.
Shells.
Beer cans.
Lemon wedges.
Dirty plates.
Cassandra sat with both feet tucked under her on my couch, one hand resting on her six-month-pregnant stomach.
She licked garlic butter from her thumb.
“You should’ve come home earlier.”
I looked at her.
“I was working.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“I ate two. The baby wanted protein.”
Thomas laughed from his recliner.
He had his phone resting on his stomach and a Red Sox game muted on television.
“Don’t start, Mara.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face said it.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Where’s Oliver?”
Beatrice sighed.
“In his room.”
“Did he eat?”
“I gave him rice and an egg.”
I stared at her.
“I bought lobster for him.”
“He’s five.”
“So?”
“He doesn’t appreciate expensive food.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
Cassandra picked something from between her teeth.
“Aunt Bea’s right. Kids waste everything.”
I looked at Thomas.
“You let them eat all five?”
He shrugged.
“There was plenty.”
“Apparently not.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mara. It’s lobster.”
“No. It’s dinner.”
“You’re making it weird.”
I walked into the kitchen.
My plate sat alone at the end of the table.
One lobster head.
Picked clean.
Two cold tortillas Beatrice had apparently found in the back of the refrigerator.
A glass of lukewarm tap water.
That was it.
I stood there for so long I could hear the refrigerator cycle off.
Then Beatrice called from the living room.
“You should be grateful somebody saved you anything.”
Thomas laughed.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
I looked down at my hands.
Red around the knuckles from shampoo chemicals.
A small cut beside my left thumb where a pair of shears had slipped.
Hands that paid the mortgage.
Bought the groceries.
Covered Cassandra’s prenatal copays after she “fell between insurance plans.”
Hands that had spent three years keeping this house running while Thomas assured me his sales commissions would improve next quarter.
Small footsteps came from behind me.
“Mommy?”
I turned.
Oliver stood in dinosaur pajamas.
His blond hair stuck up on one side.
“Hey, buddy.”
He looked toward the living room.
Then reached into his pajama pocket.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not.”
I was.
He opened his fist.
A small piece of lobster meat sat in his palm.
Gray with lint.
One edge had a dark speck of dirt.
My chest tightened.
“What’s that?”
“Aunt Cass dropped it.”
“Oliver—”
“I picked it up before Grandma saw.”
He pushed it toward me.
“I saved it for you.”
I closed his fingers gently.
“No, baby. We don’t eat food from the floor.”
“But you didn’t get any.”
“I know.”
His eyes filled.
“Grandma said you don’t need good food because you’re always gone.”
Something inside me went very quiet.
“What else did Grandma say?”
Oliver looked toward the doorway.
Then leaned closer.
“She said you’re not a real Carter.”
My last name was Carter.
I had taken Thomas’s name seven years earlier.
Apparently paperwork had failed to create citizenship in Beatrice’s kingdom.
Oliver continued.
“She said you’re here to bring money.”
I swallowed.
“Did Daddy hear her?”
He nodded.
“What did he say?”
Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“He said after tomorrow, you won’t be in charge of the money anyway.”
I froze.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
He twisted the bottom of his pajama shirt.
“Grandma said Daddy has to get you to sign the bank papers before Monday.”
My pulse slowed.
Not sped up.
Slowed.
“What bank papers?”
“The ones for Aunt Cass’s new place.”
The living room laughter continued behind us.
I crouched.
“Did you hear them say that?”
He nodded.
“Grandma said you’ll sign because you’re always tired on Saturdays.”
My stomach dropped.
Tomorrow morning, Thomas had asked me to meet him at Casco Bay Credit Union.
He said we were signing “routine refinance papers” to lower the rate on the house.
My house.
The South Portland Cape I had bought two years before I married him using the small inheritance my mother left me.
Thomas was not on the deed.
He had complained about that for years.
Oliver touched my cheek.
“Mommy?”
I stood.
Then I picked up the ceramic plate with the empty lobster head.
Thomas called from the living room.
“Mara, don’t be dramatic.”
I looked at the plate.
At the insult sitting in the middle of it.
At the room full of people eating food I bought while planning something involving my house.
Then I threw it against the tile.
The crash silenced the entire first floor.
Thomas appeared in the doorway.
Beatrice behind him.
Cassandra behind her.
Thomas stared at the broken plate.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I looked at him.
For the first time in seven years, I did not explain myself.
I took Oliver’s hand.
“Go get your backpack.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“Where are you going?”
May you like
I held his gaze.
“Not to the bank.”
