Also byChris Jordan TAKEN
Lost
Chris Jordan
www.mirabooks.co.uk
With love to my wife Lynn Harnett,
who gave me the story,
and to my cousin FBI Special Agent James McCarty,
who could be Randall Shane
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Sandra Aitken and Peggy Ruggieri, two
of the best gown-makers in the known universe,
for helping Jane Garner establish her business.
PROLOGUE
Kids Like Balloons
Ricky Lang dreams of his three children. Sometimes they are dressed in white cotton nightshirts emblazoned with cartoons from the Magic Kingdom. Goofy and Mickey and various ducks. Sometimes the children appear to be wearing garments made of light, glowing with an intensity that makes his eyes hurt. Sometimes the two girls float above the ground, grinning like mischievous angels while his son, four-year-old Tyler, tugs at his sisters as if they are wayward balloons. Making a game of pulling them down.
Sleeping or waking, it does not matter, he dreams of the children. For instance at this very moment hes wide-awake, lounging in the hot, hushed shade of his tiki hut, staring at the glistening blue water in his brand-new swimming pool. Sipping on a tall iced tea and wondering why the water looks like Ty-D-bowl, the same bright color, and all the while his three children stand in a row on the far side of the pool. Dressed in their bathing suits, of course. All three of them waiting for his signal. His permission to enter the water. Waiting so patiently.
The children cant be there, he knows that.
Myla! he bellows. Get out here!
Myla hurries out of the house. Slim brown legs, wears little white shorts low on her slender hips and a Victorias Secret cami top he purchased online. Shes barefoot, balancing a tray laden with sandwiches and salsa chips.
Theyve been together for two months, more or less, and she wants to please him. Nothing pleases Ricky, but she keeps trying.
Hurry up, woman!
Myla is barely twenty, has little experience with powerful men. Her big eyes always register a little fear at the sound of his voice, which is just the way he likes it.
Never mind the food, he says. Hit the pool.
Pool?
Swim, Ricky says. In the water.
Were going to swim? asks Myla, confused. A few minutes ago he was demanding lunch at ten in the morning, not exactly lunchtime.
Not me. You. Go change.
Myla carefully sets down the tray. Smiles at Ricky and then licks a tiny daub of mayonnaise from the side of her hand, delicately, like a cat tonguing its pretty paw. What should I wear?
Whatever, Ricky says. Use the cabana. Hurry.
Without a word, Myla hurries away, heading for the striped cabana. She looks pleased and hopeful, as if of the true belief that obeying his command, this particular command, will make him happy.
Ricky stares at the plate of sandwiches. Normally hes a man of vast appetites, but not this morning. The faintly salty odor of albacore tuna and finely chopped celery makes him feel slightly queasy.
Myla!
Coming, Ricky!
A few minutes later she emerges from the cabana wearing the latest itsy-bitsy-teeny bikini. Juicy, thats what it says on her butt, in big white letters. Ricky likes the idea that he gets to read her assthats why he selected this particular itembut at the moment sex is the furthest thing from his mind. Normally he cant be around Myla for ten minutes without getting the urge, but today he has other things rattling around inside his head.
Myla executes a lithe pirouette, showing off her new swimsuit.
You like?
Yeah, baby. Get in the pool. Swim.
Myla lowers herself to the edge of the swimming pool, gingerly, because the tiles are hot. Shes not much of a swimmer, and this is how she enters the pool, by slipping cautiously into the chemical-blue water, no splashing. Ricky likes to dive, belly flop, get things wet. Not Myla.
Very careful girl. Ricky isnt sure if he really likes careful, not for the long term, but for the moment shell do.
Go on, he urges. Swim.
She smiles, bright and nervous, and then begins to dog-paddle. Carefully, so as not to wet her hair. Ricky waits until shes halfway through the first lap before checking to see if the children have gone.
He sighs. The muscles in his shoulders and his gut unclench.
Like this, Ricky? Myla calls from the pool.
Yeah, yeah, he says. Good.
It worked. Myla pushed his children back into the dream. Wherever dreams are supposed to go when youre awake, thats where the children went. Which is good, because seeing them there all in a row, ready to jump in the pool at his command, it made him want to scream.
He picks up a triangle of sandwich, eats. Delicious. The sense of relief pervades every fiber of his body. He begins to think clearly, and among the thoughts is the nugget of a plan. A plan of action. Something that must be done. Something long overdue.
After a while Myla calls out from the pool. Ricky? Can I stop now, Ricky?
Nah, he says, not looking. Keep swimming.
Part I
Island Girls
1. The Girl On The Crotch Rocket
It all starts to go wrong one perfect, early summer evening on the Hempstead Turnpike. Thats when something pulls on the secret thread that holds my life together, and starts the great unraveling.
I dont know it at the time, of course. I think all is well, that Im holding things together, as always. Okay, Kelly and I have been fighting a lot lately, but thats what happens with teenagers, right? All I have to do is stick to my guns, keep on being an involved parent, paying attention to my willful daughter, and everything will come out fine. Right?
I couldnt have been more wrong.
Normally I try to avoid the turnpike at peak traffic hours, but this time thered been no choice. Mrs. Haley Tanner wanted a third fitting for the wedding party, and when Haley calls, you drop whatever and respond. She and her new husband are hosting her stepdaughters very lavish weddingnine tents, two bands, three caterersat their Oyster Bay estate, and shes worried the bridesmaids may have put on a pound or two. Despite her obnoxious habit of summoning people at the very last possible moment, Haley is actually sort of likable, in a nervous, insecure, please-help-me way. So worried shes going to do the wrong thing, make a mistake, and demonstrate to Stanley J. Tanner that he chose the wrong trophy wife. Turns out shes his second trophy wife. Stanley, CEO of Tanner Holdings, ditched the original trophy wife not long after Haley served him broiled cashew halibut at Scalicious, a trendy little fish café in Montauk. At the time Haley was staying with friends while she waited tables, which meant she was paying two hundred a week to sleep on the floor. So nabbing Stanley Tanner was a very big deal. Havent had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Tanner in person myselfhe seems to live in his Learbut just looking at Haley, you know hes a breast man. Which is fine. A man has to focus on something, right? Why not something that reminds him, however unconsciously, of his mother? As my friend Fern always says, whats the harm?
Anyhow, poor Haley was melting down about the gowns not fitting and had summoned all five bridesmaids. Turns out two of them had actually lost weight and the very slight alterations were, to everyones relief, no problem. An hour later Im thinking, as traffic inches along, that for all that money I wouldnt trade places with Haley Tanner. Id rather work my butt off as a single mom with a mortgage. Dont get me wrong, its gorgeous, the newest Tanner mansion, tastefully furnishedone of five homes they own, by the waybut Haley never seems to have an unnervous moment or a peaceful thought. And no children, not yet. Maybe never, unless Stanley gets DNA approval.
Second trophy wives arent about kids, theyre about decorating.
Nope, Ill stay plain Jane Garner, Kellys mom, the wedding lady. The go-to woman for custom gowns. The one driving the very nicely detailed, seven-year-old Mercedes station wagon. Classy but reasonably priced, if you let the first owner take the depreciation. Anyhow, Im cool with being a working mom who balances her own checkbook, who is socking college money away for her daughter, and who thinks she has, at this precise moment, no regrets, no regrets at all.
Lying to myself, of course. Lying big-time. Ive been lying for sixteen years, not that Im counting.
Thing about living a lie, if you do it really well, you sort of forget youre lying.
I forgot.
Thats when the crotch rocket went by, scudding dirt and pebbles in the brake-down lane. Actually beyond the brake-down lane, right up on the grass. I know its the type of sleek Japanese motorcycle called a crotch rocket because Kelly told me. Pointed one out as it shot by us in, where was it, somewhere around Greenwich? Greenwich or Westport, one of those towns. See how they bend low over the fuel tank, Mom? Thats to reduce air resistance. And how did my darling daughter know this, exactly? Everybody knows, Mom. Thats her answer lately. Everybody always knows but you, Mom.
Its not like Im ancient. Im thirty-four. Kelly thinks Im thirty-four going on fifty or sixty. Which drives me nuts, but there it is.
What catches my eye isnt the motorcyclemotorcycles cut and weave through traffic all the timeits the girl on the back, barely hanging on. One hand clutching the waist of the slim-hipped driver, the other hand waving like shes riding a bucking bronco in the rodeo, showing off her balance. The girl on the back has no helmet, which is against the law in the state of New York, and also very stupid and dangerous, but that seems to be the whole point of motorcycles, right?
Something about the girl reminds me of Kelly. Similar stylish mop of short dark hair, frizzed by the wind. Similar petite, gymnast-type figure in tight, hip-hugging jeans. Kelly has jeans like that, but not the tattoo just above the cleft of her buttocks. What Kelly calls a coin slot. Not the tattoo, but the cleft, you know? Anyhow, Kelly doesnt have a tattoo of angel wings spanning the small of her back, because her totally square mom has forbidden tattoos until the age of eighteen at least.
And then the girl on the crotch rocket, the wild and crazy girl on the crotch rocket, the girl who is undoubtedly destined to die in some horrible wreck, or from tattoo-induced blood poisoning, that girl turns her pretty head and looks directly at me as the bike careens back onto the highway.
Looking a bit startled actually, the girl on the bike. A bit surprised as she makes unintentional eye contact.
I scream. Cant help it, I open my astonished mouth and scream like a girl.
Its Kelly. My daughter Kelly. No doubt about it.
2. Sleep With The Poodles
My friend Fern, who knows most of my secretsnot all, but mostshe says the only way to win an argument with a teenage girl is to shoot her in the head. Thats just how Fern talks, like shes related to the Sopranos, very tough in the mouth but soft in the heart. Even looks a little bit like that crazy sister on the show, the one who shot her boyfriend. Not that Ferns ever shot anybody, certainly not her own daughter, Jessica, who finally went off to college upstate and is doing great. A sweet kid, basically, even though she and Fern cant discuss the weather without arguing. Jess had her momentsIm thinking specifically of an all-night prom party in Garden Cityand at times managed to put Fern over the edge, into psycho-mom territory. You know, threatening to chain her daughter to the radiator, things like that. My favorite was her plan to put a special collar on Jess, the kind for invisible fences. She wants to go Goth, wear those stupid spikes around her neck? Fine! She can sleep with the poodles!
Sleep with the poodles. Thats my Fern. Always funny, even when shes anxious or angry. Even so, she thinks Im too hard on Kelly, that I am, in her words, projecting. Fern watches a lot of Dr. Phil. Youre projecting your own teen time on Kelly, Fern says, your bad old days. You gotta wrap your brain around the idea shes not the same as you. Shes her own person and this isnt the 1980s, this is a whole new century out there.
Yadda, yadda. I know. Really, I know. But still I worry. Every day kids get in really bad trouble in this world. They do stupid things with their stupid boyfriends and ruin their lives. They take drugs, wreck cars, have unprotected sex, fall from speeding motorcycles. They think theyll live forever and throw away the miracle that gave them life.
Kelly got her miracle at age nineactually on her ninth birthdaywhen all her tests finally came back clear. No more chemo, no more radiation, no more needles in her spine. After four years of pure hell, she was cancer-free. Unlike some of the less fortunate kids in her clinic, kids who never came back for the remission parties. Empty pillows, Kelly called them, or fivers, because one out of five didnt make it.
Is this why she survived and others didnt, so she can risk her life showing off on Hempstead Turnpike? Riding without a helmet? One-handed?
As you might guess, weve argued about risk taking a few times. More than a few. Last time she actually had the nerve to tell me I was being ironic. Ironic. What did that have to do with snowboarding at night, or hitchhiking? What did ironic have to do with deliberately disobeying my orders? Was ironic what made her roll her eyes, treat me with such withering contempt?
No, Mom, ironic isnt what you are, its what youre afraid of. Sixteen-year-old cancer survivor killed crossing the street. Thats ironic.
Stopped me cold, that one. Of course shes right.
But I do feel that shes been given a gift and should treat it reverently. But Kelly doesnt do reverence. Not for herself, not for me, not even for the dead grandmothermy own semi-sainted momshe used to worship as a kid. Reverence would be so uncool, and for a sixteen-year-old being uncool is way worse than death.
Despite being trapped in traffic for another twenty unbearable minutes, I still manage to get home long before she does, and Im in the kitchen, waiting. Boy, am I waiting. Arms crossed, feet tapping, blood pressure spiking. Im so anxious and angry at her out-of-control behavior that I dont even dare leave a message on her cell. Cant trust myself not to wig out and say something that cant be taken back, something that will drive her further away.
Im working over all of this stuff, rehearsing, ready to let loose with major mom artillery. As soon as she gets her skinny, tattooed butt inside the door, there will be massive inflictions of guilt. There will be bomb craters of guilt.