The Book of Essie Read online

  Other families had enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame, their moment in the spotlight, only to have their shows canceled after a few seasons when the parents divorced or the child who was adorable at age four became positively homely at seven or failed to outgrow a lisp. Or maybe, for no discernible reason at all, the audience simply grew bored and advertising revenue dried up. Then the camera crews would pack up their things and retreat, leaving the house feeling empty, the living room just slightly too large, the rooms eerily quiet. Or so I always assumed.

  I took it for granted, I guess, that we were special, we were chosen, or at the very least odd enough to be intriguing to those who continued to tune in season after season, year after year. Because they did tune in. They watched Daniel take his first steps, saw Matty cut his knee when he fell off his bike and cried along with him when he got stitches. They saw Daddy and Mother move to the new house, the one the church built for us, the week before Jacob was due. They marveled at Mother’s cool exterior, the calm she exuded in the eye of the storm created by those whirling dervishes who were her many sons.

  For by then she was vastly outnumbered. Daddy, Matty, Daniel, and Jacob had been joined by Caleb. Then came Elizabeth, the girl my parents and the nation as a whole had been waiting for. Then triplets, two more girls and a boy, who were born much too early and whose short existence was chronicled and broadcast live from the private room in the neonatal intensive care unit where their three isolettes stood under constant guard. Looking weary but dogged, Mother would lift the thick quilted coverings that encased these strange plastic pods to reveal the closed eyes or purple waxy toes of Mary or Ruth or Zechariah, each of them with tubes disappearing into their mouths and plunged into their belly buttons, dependent upon the machines that pushed air into their tiny undeveloped lungs or dripped sugar and fat into their blood.

  Those weeks the show got the best ratings it ever had, though some said the exploitation of such sick, helpless infants went too far, crossed some invisible line drawn in the sand. Mother was not one to apologize, however, and though people started petitions and vowed to boycott the funeral episode, no one actually did. That month a photograph of those three miniature caskets lined up side by side in a sea of roses made it onto the cover of Time.

  There was a break, then, from the making of more babies. It was just as well. After the triplets, the fans had lost their stomach for such things. Apart from a few miscarriages, after each of which the doctors again said that Mother would never be able to bear another child, the show shifted its focus to Matty and Daniel, then ten and eight, who begged Mother to let them go to the public school rather than be taught at home. They asked for and received a puppy, a golden retriever named Blister, who shed on the carpet but redeemed himself by learning to catch a Frisbee and retrieve a ball. These were some of the most boring episodes, but there was a war on at the time, one of those unnamed conflicts in the Middle East, so the mundanity of it all was probably soothing. Anyway, this sort of thing carried them through until Lissa was nearly six and I was born, wholly unexpectedly, another miracle of a sort, a reward for those fans who had stayed loyal for so long.

  It was not only the folks who watched Daddy’s sermons from the comfort of their couches, or the locals who called out “Pastor Hicks” and waved every time he walked down Main Street, who were tuning in. It was not only those who flocked to his church by the thousands who let the episodes fill up their DVRs. Others as well, some devout and others less so, watched with morbid fascination the seeming contradiction that we epitomized. Our family rejected materialism and popular culture and yet we also produced it. The show, which by then had been called many things but was currently airing with the title Six for Hicks, paid for the SUVs Mother and Daddy drove, the lake house, the “spiritual retreat” that was actually a villa in Saint John. It paid for the car seat I rode home in from the hospital, the muslin blankets I was swaddled in when I slept. It paid for my first backpack when it came time for me to go to school, Mother having by then completely abandoned giving lessons in the living room, not just because her time and energy were better spent promoting our brand but also because marketing said that what our audience wanted at that point was a character who was “normal.”

  The show paid for everything. And now it would pay for a solution to my “problem,” one chosen from a list that Gretchen, on the other side of the wall that I am leaning up against, is about to run through aloud. She starts with the obvious, though I can tell that it makes her uncomfortable. Just forming the word with her lips in all likelihood feels sinful and she probably just wants to get it out of the way.

  “Well, there’s an abortion, of course. She’d have to cross state lines to reach a provider, and such a trip would certainly not go unnoticed. An impromptu college visit to New York or Boston might work. Or maybe even something abroad, though safety might then be an issue. The trip to Cuba is already on the books. A contact of mine knows a doctor there who will work for cash and promise discretion.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Mother says, and I feel the air go out of my lungs. My skull begins to buzz. She makes this statement as if it is nothing to her, a choice of deli meats at the supermarket counter: thinly sliced roast beef or ham. She speaks as if she has not spent the last twenty years railing publicly against abortion and organizing protest marches on the front lawn of the only Democratic official within a hundred miles, even though as comptroller he has nothing to do with health services of any kind.

  An abortion is not anything I have ever wanted, but then again, I never wanted any of this, and for the first time, I consider how it could erase what has happened and maybe even turn back time. As I feel the last of the heat leave the dryer beneath me, I allow myself to hope that there is some part of my mother that cares about my future above her own. That I will at least be offered the choice.

  But Gretchen is already talking again, and I know that despite what Mother says, she will not really consider it. Not because she is so staunchly pro-life, a position that I now realize is just another carefully crafted aspect of her public persona, but because her empire would come crashing down if we were ever caught.

  That sort of crash almost occurred when Lissa left and refused to have the cameras follow her. All season they had aired tape of Lissa looking at colleges, but when she left for Northwestern just shy of her eighteenth birthday, she made it clear that she was going there alone. There were a few unflattering articles written, but Mother found a way to squelch the rumors that Lissa was a girl gone wild and after those last shots of Mother and Daddy carrying boxes into her freshman dorm, Lissa was never seen on film again.

  Every once in a while a grainy photo will show up in some tabloid rag, but for the most part she has proved remarkably adept at avoiding the paparazzi. That or they have taken pity on her, which I suppose is entirely possible. Back when the triplets died, people used to cry that those babies were never asked if they wanted to be on television. They said it was a travesty. But none of us were asked, Lissa told me before she left. I guess they were afraid of what our answers might be. So in the end, Mother had to let Lissa go, had to fall back on leaking details to the press about phone calls that had never happened, trips home that had not been recorded due to Lissa’s desire to remain off camera and Mother’s equally important desire to respect her daughter’s wishes. But the truth is, when Lissa left this house, she never came back. Not once.

  Gretchen drones on about the possibility of a fictitious mission trip overseas once I begin to show, with footage limited to a few carefully edited interviews, angled to mask the baby bump. All the while I would be hiding out poolside in Saint John. The cook and housekeeper at the villa there had been heavily vetted before they were hired, and of course nondisclosure clauses were included in their contracts. They would never tell. I could give the baby up for adoption anonymously. Alternatively, Mother and Daddy could adopt the baby, if we wanted to keep it in the fam
ily. I could have a brand-new brother or sister, and there would be the obvious and added benefit of their appearing to have come to the rescue of a child in need. Mother dismissed this idea before Gretchen had even launched into the particulars. There was too much of a chance that the child would look like a Hicks. Even a slight family resemblance might trigger exactly the sort of rumors they were trying to avoid.

  “What else are we left with?” Mother asked.

  “A wedding,” Gretchen answered. “Essie could get married, quickly. I could throw something together by the end of the month. We’ll have to come up with a reason the ceremony can’t be put off, a sick relative on his side or yours whose dying wish is to see the young lovebirds take their marriage vows.”

  “What happens when the baby is born too soon?” Candy asked. “At least some of our viewers can do simple math.”

  “I know a private midwife who will go on record that the due date is whatever we need it to be, then make a statement that the baby came early. Essie will deliver at home so we can limit the number of variables. But even if there are complications and she needs to go to the hospital, I’ve got contacts there as well, one obstetrician in particular that I know we can trust.”

  I hold my breath at the sound of a chair creaking as Candy or Mother pushes back from the table. Gretchen would not dare to do this until formally dismissed.

  “Candy?” says my mother.

  “I have to admit, there’s something appealing about just having it over and done with. But remember what happened to Bill Lennox when his daughter got her abortion? It was just supposed to be a few pills she took at home to induce a miscarriage, but she ended up hemorrhaging. It was all over the news. His bid for the governorship was over before it even started.”

  “I agree,” says Mother. “It’s just too much of a risk.”

  “So a wedding it is.” Candy sighs with finality. “And just who do you think the lucky young man should be?”

  “Give me a day,” Mother tells her. “I’ll let you know by tomorrow.”

  With this, I scramble down and toggle the dryer to resume its cycle. I slip out through the back hall and step into the sunroom. There’s an empty watering can on a shelf beside Mother’s large overgrown jade and I pick it up, tilt it over the pot. I face the windows overlooking the yard until I hear the door open behind me, then I turn and smile at Gretchen, who quickly lowers her eyes and shuffles off toward the basement stairs that lead down to her office. After Gretchen comes Candy, who embraces me expansively and kisses both of my cheeks. She looks back at Mother, who tilts her head to the side in an act of dismissal, and makes for the basement stairs as well.

  Mother gazes at me appraisingly in a distant, slightly cold way.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  I replace the empty watering can and stand awkwardly with my arms folded in front of me.

  “Fine, thanks,” I tell her.

  “How was the library? Did you find the book you were looking for?”

  I nod and remind myself that the first lie, the one that started everything, was told this morning when I fabricated a school paper I had to do research for. Now I need to stay calm and see it through. I am breathing faster than I should be and so I lower my arms to grip the edge of the shelf behind me and will my voice not to shake. I try to sound as casual as I can without raising suspicion. “While I’ve got you in private,” I say, “I was wondering if I could ask you to add Mr. Richards and his family to your prayer list for this week.”

  “Why?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. Typically this is the type of thing we discuss freely in front of the cameras. Most people in town like to hear their name mentioned on the show for all the usual reasons: the birth of a child, the death of a distant cousin, the onslaught of some minor affliction that he or she needs the Lord’s help to rise above.

  “No reason,” I say and drop my eyes to the floor. “It was silly. Forget it.”

  What is essential at this point is that I remain silent while Mother considers whether or not to take the bait. I grind one foot absently into the rust-colored floor tiles, twisting my heel back and forth. This is a habit of mine when I’m hiding something, which works particularly well in this case because I am hiding something, just not the something that Mother thinks. The best lie, Candy always says, is the one that is ninety-nine percent truth. It’s easier to sell.

  “I will not forget it,” Mother says brusquely in a tone that is meant to be noble. “If the Richards family needs my prayers, then they will have them. I do, however, need to know what exactly I’m praying for.”

  “Well,” I say softly, “I heard that Mr. Richards might lose the store. He went to the bank for a loan, only his credit is so bad, the bank wouldn’t give him anything at all.”

  Mother narrows her eyes, says, “And how did you come by this information?”

  I shrug, then tell Mother more of what is true. “Lily told me. It was her father who had to turn Mr. Richards down. Please don’t say anything to Daddy or anyone. Even Lily wasn’t supposed to know.”

  Mother swallows and nods. “Mr. Richards always was a proud man. He wouldn’t want anyone talking behind his back or knowing his business. Still, I’m glad that you told me. What they need now is the power of prayer and that’s just what they’ll get.”

  She tugs at the bottom of her fitted blue brocade jacket.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I’m sure that will make a world of difference to the three of them.”

  Mother moves toward the door and then turns back as if something has just occurred to her.

  “Roarke Richards is about your age, isn’t he?”

  “He’s one grade ahead,” I answer. “I don’t know him that well, but I’ve seen him at school.”

  “He’s always seemed like such a polite boy,” she says thoughtfully.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I repeat. “That’s what everybody says. Do you want me to bring some of your muffins to school on Monday to give to him?”

  Second only to her praying, Mother believes her muffins are the most surefire cure for all the ills in the entire world.

  “No, no.” She shakes her head. “I think I’ll bring some by the house instead.”

  Mother leaves the room then with a clicking of heels upon tile and I lean back, exhausted, and allow myself a ghost of the first real smile I’ve had in weeks. As she goes, I realize that she’s forgotten my birthday, but I don’t even care. Her sudden heartfelt interest in the Richards family is the best present I could get.

  Roarke

  Dad’s still at the shop when I get back from baseball practice, but Mom is home. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with that woman, the one from church who somehow got famous for acting holier-than-thou, which in and of itself is nothing special, but she does it on TV. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the lady, and even then it was only from a distance. All spring I’ve been ditching church to coach JV since practice starts right after the late service lets out and there’s no way I’m getting up for the early one. I could probably get home and still make it in time if I hustled—that’s what the players all have to do—but I told Dad that I need to be there early to set up and he didn’t push. Baseball may not be his favorite sport, but it’s the only one that’s got any chance of helping pay for college. Dad appreciates that a strong recommendation from the coach could really help my prospects. Working with the younger kids is basically community service. That’s the sort of shit that makes an applicant stand out. The guidance counselor told me that, though she didn’t say it in quite those words.

  I walk into the kitchen and scan for cameras, but there aren’t any. She’s come alone. I wonder if maybe she left them because she didn’t want there to be any witnesses, but as soon as I think it, I know it’s crazy. Still, there’s something off about the entire family and it doesn’t really have anything to do with the
m being on TV. Right now, for instance, Celia Hicks is creeping me out and there’s not a single television camera in sight. Maybe it’s all the smiling they do, the plastered-on look of it, their mouths split wide open, teeth bared, like animals being led to slaughter. Not Celia Hicks, though; never her. Her teeth are always covered. Mom would call that sort of smile ladylike, but I think she probably hides her teeth because she has the sharpest fangs of all.

  Before they notice me, I take the opportunity to really look at her. From where I stand I can see the spot near her hairline where the makeup thins and gives way to normal skin. The sort of skin that is filled with pores, with imperfections. Her hair is dyed. I see that now. I’m not an expert on women’s hairstyles, but for some reason I find it thrilling that just behind her ear there is one fine wisp of gray. I stare at this rebellious strand of hair as if just by looking at it I might be able to spot her other flaws. She must have them. I know. No one can be that perfect.

  Mom looks up, startled. She’s actually holding that woman’s hands. Their fingers are intertwined across the table and I can tell that Mom’s been crying. Not Pastor Hicks’s wife, though. I’ll bet she never sheds a tear without capturing the moment, to milk it for all it’s worth.

  “You’re home,” Mom says, entirely unnecessarily.

  “I’m home,” I repeat, not because I’m being sullen but because I’m still trying to get my bearings, to know what’s the right thing to say. There’s a tin of muffins on the table, clearly an offering from Celia Hicks, and I try to come up with some reason we deserve them.

  Typically we fly below the radar. We sit in the back row, or slip in right after the service has started—that is, if we’re not skipping out entirely. We do belong to the church, of course. Everyone in town does. The folks from the surrounding towns as well. Even Lev Gottlieb, who everybody knows is Jewish, plays his trumpet at Easter every year. He’s coming back from Juilliard specially next month. The way I heard it, his parents got into some sort of mess with the Health Department. They own a deli on the corner of Main and Pine. But once Lev agreed to play with the brass section during the Easter Extravaganza (broadcast live!), those troubles went away. Lev has been playing for them ever since.