Flight by GINGER STRAND

was surprised at how keenly she felt left behind.
    “Oh well—,” David’s father began, but his wife interrupted him.
    “It’s true it’s not so far from Westport to New York,” she said, nodding benignly. “We ought to get down there more often. We do love the opera.” Carol, still gripping Leanne’s arm, felt her squirm subtly, in exactly the way she used to as a little girl, trying to get away from something her mother thought was important.
    “I can’t afford the opera,” Leanne said. Belligerence edged the gaiety of her tone. She was clearly drunk.
    David’s mother smiled fixedly at her, unperturbed. “We’ve just been talking about your mother’s little project,” she said. “I think it’s so brave of her to start her own children’s clothing store.” She nodded, buffing the conversation to a quiet sheen. “And creative, too.”
    “A children’s clothing store?” A waiter passed by, and Leanne, in a surprising burst of agility, managed to slide her arm out of Carol’s grasp and neatly snag a glass. “Didn’t you always say that after we left, you were going to pack up and move somewhere civilized?”
    Carol heard a thudding in her ears. David’s parents pretended not to have heard. Leanne lifted her glass, and for the first time ever, Carol saw determination in her—determination aimed at oblivion.
    David appeared then and took possession of Leanne. He told everyone she’d had enough to drink and he was going to drive her back to the hotel and see her to her room. There was something confident and commanding about David. Everyone agreed with what he decided.
    Carol watched them leave. From behind, Leanne looked tiny and fragile. She had always been far more pliant than Margaret. From the beginning, Margaret had tested boundaries, complained, made demands. Leanne drifted along, apparently content with whatever life doled out. Occasionally, Carol would find herself trying to crack the veneer of complacency. What do you want? she would ask, trying not to sound critical. What are you doing withyourself? Leanne would shrug and look away. She could never be drawn into talking against her will.
    Once, when Leanne was about five, Carol lost track of her on the beach at Lake Michigan. She never forgot the feeling, a chasm of fear, as her body yawned open to receive a dark terror. Her knees shook and her groin clenched. She staggered down the beach, frantic. When she found Leanne, she wanted to drop to her knees and shriek out all the fear. Leanne was just twenty or thirty yards down the beach with a group of older kids. She had let them bury her up to her neck in sand.
    “Oh, Leanne,” Carol whispered, watching David lead her away from Margaret’s party. Embarrassed, she glanced around to see if anyone had heard. David’s parents looked discreetly away. Carol looked down at her glass. She had found her unforeseen crisis.
    Two weeks later, she flew to New York and showed up at Leanne’s place. Leanne was shocked at first, but eventually, she did what Leanne always did and accepted the state of things. She was unhappy with her life. Carol assumed a love affair had failed, but Leanne didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, they talked about what Leanne might want to do now. Two months later, financed by Carol, Leanne moved to Cold Spring and started her store.
    Carol has reached the fish counter. She draws her mind back to the present, focusing her eyes on the display. The first things she sees are little jars of cocktail sauce so cute even Margaret will have to admit they’re elegant. The labels look handwritten, and the lids are wrapped in a sweet gingham fabric. Carol takes two of them and then looks for the shrimp.
    To her infinite delight, the fish man has a huge bowl of the most beautiful shrimp Carol has ever seen. They are large and pale, with striking gray stripes. The only problem is that they still have their heads. And they’re twenty-four dollars a pound.
    “What are those?”