dark vermilion polish, a sort of dead red. Cheryl’s fingers are long and attractive and she’s proud of them. She does not seem frightened or worried, so maybe nothing’s happening. But then what’s up with the television van?
Cheryl’s amazement gives way to a smug little smile. “Madison. Darling. What a treat.” She rests her fingers lightly on Madison’s shoulders and gives her air kisses.
Madison is not a treat. Madison has consistently been the rude kid in the family, the one who never calls this woman Aunt, because she isn’t one.
Mom’s mother, Grandma Smith, died when Madison was little. Poor Grandpa Smith, in a moment of loneliness, remarried a woman with an adult daughter named Cheryl. The second marriage was not just a mistake—it was a disaster. It was over almost before it began. There was an embarrassing divorce. When Grandpa had a heart attack a few years later, neither the ex-wife nor the ex-stepdaughter came to his funeral, which was fine, because hardly anybody remembered that they existed.
Mom had been dead more than a year when Cheryl Rand appeared at their door. Such a tragedy! she cried. I just heard! I’m going through a career change, taking time off to find myself. Please let me pitch in and help my dear dead sister’s family.
In what way, Madison wanted to know, were Laura Fountain and Cheryl Rand dear to each other? Laura Fountain—sender of Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Halloween and Valentine’s Day cards—did not have Cheryl in her address book. Laura Fountain—happy keeper of a thick birthday diary—did not have Cheryl’s birthday listed either.
Dad let Cheryl have the guest room for a day or two because he couldn’t think of a nice way to say no. Cheryl was a huge help. From groceries on the shelf to laundry in the drawers, from driving the older children to their circuit of games and rehearsals and orthodontic appointments and friends’ houses, to returning videos on time and being home for the furnace repairman, Cheryl smoothed out their chaotic household.
Cheryl loved the house itself, not the family. She did not take care of Tris, who continued to attend day care, dropped off and picked up by Dad. Dad frequently muttered something about “sending Cheryl packing,” but instead he paid her a salary. He tried to treat her like an employee and not a pretend aunt, but Cheryl wasn’t having it. If Dad introduced her as Ms. Rand, she’d say, “I’m the children’s aunt Cheryl.”
What has it been like for Jack living with this woman all these months?
Madison’s gut shudders at the extent to which she has abandoned her brothers.
Next to Cheryl, in Madison’s front hall, stands a middle-aged man Madison has never seen before. A smile inches across his face and gets a good grip. He extends his hand for Madison to shake. Bringing his other hand forward, he clasps hers in both of his.
He’s staring at her way too intently. What has she stepped into? Is Cheryl dating this man? When he abandons her hand, Madison feels in her pocket, checking for her cell phone, in case she needs to call 911.
“Madison, a joy to meet you. I’m Angus Nicolson. I’m a television producer. You’ve come at just the right time. Your aunt and I have wonderful news. You’re going to be on television!” he proclaims, clearly expecting Madison to jump up and down with joy. “We’re setting up a beautiful, gentle program, in which we’ll follow the tragic circumstances of your beautiful family. Your case is so unusual, so heartrending.”
Madison has picked the absolute worst minute to come home. A media minute.
This man is standing here as if he owns the place, because he thinks he does. That’s what it is to be television.
The Fountains have faced the media three times: Mom’s decision, then Mom’s death, then Dad’s death. To the media, this is not a grieving family. It’s a story. It’s public property. More precisely, it’s their property.
“Let’s all sit
Cheryl’s amazement gives way to a smug little smile. “Madison. Darling. What a treat.” She rests her fingers lightly on Madison’s shoulders and gives her air kisses.
Madison is not a treat. Madison has consistently been the rude kid in the family, the one who never calls this woman Aunt, because she isn’t one.
Mom’s mother, Grandma Smith, died when Madison was little. Poor Grandpa Smith, in a moment of loneliness, remarried a woman with an adult daughter named Cheryl. The second marriage was not just a mistake—it was a disaster. It was over almost before it began. There was an embarrassing divorce. When Grandpa had a heart attack a few years later, neither the ex-wife nor the ex-stepdaughter came to his funeral, which was fine, because hardly anybody remembered that they existed.
Mom had been dead more than a year when Cheryl Rand appeared at their door. Such a tragedy! she cried. I just heard! I’m going through a career change, taking time off to find myself. Please let me pitch in and help my dear dead sister’s family.
In what way, Madison wanted to know, were Laura Fountain and Cheryl Rand dear to each other? Laura Fountain—sender of Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Halloween and Valentine’s Day cards—did not have Cheryl in her address book. Laura Fountain—happy keeper of a thick birthday diary—did not have Cheryl’s birthday listed either.
Dad let Cheryl have the guest room for a day or two because he couldn’t think of a nice way to say no. Cheryl was a huge help. From groceries on the shelf to laundry in the drawers, from driving the older children to their circuit of games and rehearsals and orthodontic appointments and friends’ houses, to returning videos on time and being home for the furnace repairman, Cheryl smoothed out their chaotic household.
Cheryl loved the house itself, not the family. She did not take care of Tris, who continued to attend day care, dropped off and picked up by Dad. Dad frequently muttered something about “sending Cheryl packing,” but instead he paid her a salary. He tried to treat her like an employee and not a pretend aunt, but Cheryl wasn’t having it. If Dad introduced her as Ms. Rand, she’d say, “I’m the children’s aunt Cheryl.”
What has it been like for Jack living with this woman all these months?
Madison’s gut shudders at the extent to which she has abandoned her brothers.
Next to Cheryl, in Madison’s front hall, stands a middle-aged man Madison has never seen before. A smile inches across his face and gets a good grip. He extends his hand for Madison to shake. Bringing his other hand forward, he clasps hers in both of his.
He’s staring at her way too intently. What has she stepped into? Is Cheryl dating this man? When he abandons her hand, Madison feels in her pocket, checking for her cell phone, in case she needs to call 911.
“Madison, a joy to meet you. I’m Angus Nicolson. I’m a television producer. You’ve come at just the right time. Your aunt and I have wonderful news. You’re going to be on television!” he proclaims, clearly expecting Madison to jump up and down with joy. “We’re setting up a beautiful, gentle program, in which we’ll follow the tragic circumstances of your beautiful family. Your case is so unusual, so heartrending.”
Madison has picked the absolute worst minute to come home. A media minute.
This man is standing here as if he owns the place, because he thinks he does. That’s what it is to be television.
The Fountains have faced the media three times: Mom’s decision, then Mom’s death, then Dad’s death. To the media, this is not a grieving family. It’s a story. It’s public property. More precisely, it’s their property.
“Let’s all sit
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