Julia's Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Julia Maxton can’t imagine anything worse than losing one of her three daughters—until the day seventeen-year-old Haley runs a stop sign, killing her younger sister Caitlin. Six weeks after the crash, the family is falling apart. Julia struggles not to show hostility toward Haley, but her deep-rooted anger won’t go away. Her husband, Ben, has drifted away emotionally. Their youngest daughter, Izzy, is lost in the shuffle. And despite Haley’s insistence that she’s fine, her actions scream otherwise. Fearing that she’s about to lose a second child, Julia decides to take Haley on a cross-country drive. Maybe somewhere between Nevada and Maine they can bridge the gulf between them. But first there will be painful questions to face—is Julia a good mother? Did she secretly love responsible, respectful Caitlin more than defiant Haley? Can Haley ever find peace with her mother—and herself—again? In Colleen Faulkner’s most thought-provoking and complex novel to date, an unthinkable tragedy becomes the starting place for a powerful journey toward healing and hope. Honest and unforgettable, Julia’s Daughters explores the surprising ways that families—even the most fractured—can save each other, over and over again.

Release date: November 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

47 days

I’ve always thought the worst thing that could happen to a mother would be the death of a child.

I was wrong.

I lie in the middle of my king-size bed, my eyes closed, listening to the sound of the ceiling fan spin overhead. I feel the firmness of the mattress beneath me and smell the fabric softener I used yesterday when I washed the sheets.

I’ve been lying here for hours. Since Izzy and Haley left for school at seven thirty this morning. It’s my daily MO. Sometimes I’m still here when Izzy gets home at three forty-five. Ben takes them to school now since obviously Haley isn’t allowed to drive Izzy anywhere. Which, when you think about it, is kind of ludicrous. Izzy is probably safer with Haley driving than Ben or me. What are the odds that a seventeen-year-old would kill two sisters in two separate accidents?

Tears fill my eyes. I don’t wipe at them. They’ve become as much a part of me as my blond hair or the freckles across my nose that I hated when I was a teenager. I cry day and night. Sometimes for hours. I had no idea a person could cry so much for so long. I was never a crier, before.

Before Caitlin died.

It’s been forty-seven days. Forty-seven days since the police called at 11:27 p.m. The girls wouldn’t even have been home late. If they’d made it home.

It’s interesting how many things you learn when something like this happens to you. For instance, I didn’t know that when your child is dead at the scene of an automobile accident the police don’t tell you that on the phone. They tell you your child has been in a serious accident and ask that you come to the hospital. Even though your child’s heart has already stopped beating. Even though yours will soon feel like it’s stopped beating . . . like it will never beat again.

Somehow it seems cruel to me to have parents rush to the hospital, praying the whole time that, worst-case scenario, they’ll see their child alive one more time. Only to learn that there was no need at all to hurry. That the child of their body is already dead. Has been dead for almost an hour by the time you reach her.

Looking back, the intimation was there when the officer called. I should have known there was no reason for us to hurry. It was his tone of voice. I heard it in the receptionist’s voice when I identified myself at the front desk of the ER, too. Then there was the little room. A nurse led us to a room without windows to wait for the doctor to talk to us. It was just Ben and I in the room. No one else was waiting to hear someone tell them that their sweet, smart, laughing daughter who’d plucked her eyebrows too heavily that morning was dead.

My tears run down my face; eventually they’ll wet the clean duvet cover. If my ten-year-old daughter’s ten-year-old cat hadn’t puked Cat Chow all over it I wouldn’t have washed it yesterday. Since Caitlin died, it’s been hard for me to wash or put away things she might have touched. Ben had to pick up her dirty clothes off the bathroom floor two days after the funeral. He said it wasn’t healthy, her running shorts and lavender T-shirt still there on the floor and her gone a week. He washed and put away her clothes; he put away her school backpack, her pink raincoat that had been hanging in the laundry room. Her new running sneakers. He put them somewhere where I wouldn’t see them; I don’t know where. But he didn’t get everything.

There’s still one of her empty juice bottles rolling around on the floor of my car. It’s my little secret. A part of her I’m not ready to give up because in some crazy way, that glass bottle, the sound of it rolling around under the seat, comforts me. It has to go eventually of course. I know that . . . along with her other things.

I can’t imagine right now, though, how I’ll ever be able to go into her bedroom and pack up her clothes, her books, the ribbons she won cheering. I do go into her bedroom, but just to cry on her bed.

A change of scenery.

The house phone rings. I ignore it.

I wonder if Caitlin’s toothbrush is still in the pink Disney princesses cup in the girls’ bathroom. Did Ben toss it when he picked up her dirty clothes? Or is Izzy using it, which was something that used to really gross Caitlin out.

The day before she died, Caitlin came to me complaining about her little sister’s use of her personal hygiene products in her bathroom: her comb, her toothbrush, her favorite organic lip balm. Caitlin was into organic products and foods. I told Izzy to stop using her sister’s belongings without asking permission. I told Caitlin to stop whining. Had I known my middle daughter was going to die, I wouldn’t have dismissed her complaint so easily. I’d have put down the basket of laundry I was carrying to the couch to fold. I’d have ignored the incoming text on my cell and I’d have asked Caitlin how it made her feel when her little sister used the last of her green apple shampoo. I’d have taken a moment from my busy day to be in the moment, one of my last one-on-one moments with my daughter, as it turned out.

The house phone stops ringing. I wipe my runny nose with the sleeve of Ben’s sweatshirt I’m wearing. I’m not crying hard like I do sometimes. Sometimes I cry so hard that I make myself retch. It’s fascinating how long you can cry and still have tears. You’d think that eventually you’d dehydrate, shrivel up, and die.

I wish.

My cell phone, plugged in on my side of the bed, starts to vibrate. Someone’s calling. When a child dies, the phone rings constantly. Something else I learned. At first people call to tell you how sorry they are and to ask if they can do anything for you, then they call to see if you’re okay.

I rarely answer the phone. What do I say? How the hell can I be okay? I can’t even fathom how I can still be alive. In the first days after, my pain was so great that I thought it really would kill me. When it didn’t, I thought about speeding it along. I thought about it so far as to consider stealing a bottle of my mother-in-law’s sleeping pills when I spotted them in her handbag. I think the only thing that stopped me was the idea that I would have to steal the pills. How screwed up is that? I think it’s okay to kill myself, leaving two girls without a mother, but I don’t think it’s okay to steal from my overmedicated mother-in-law?

The cell phone stops vibrating, leaving me with the sounds of the ceiling fan and my choked tears again.

Then it starts vibrating again. Again, I ignore it. I roll onto my side, my back to the phone and rest my hand on Ben’s pillow. There was a time in my life when I might have taken a deep breath, hoping to catch a whiff of the smell of him. I used to think that he smelled so good, but I can’t remember when the last time that thought crossed my mind. The truth is, a crack opened between us a long time ago; Caitlin’s death just widened it to a chasm.

My cell phone starts to ring again and I roll over quickly, grabbing it. Three calls in a row is the family signal, the “pick up the damned phone” signal, Ben calls it.

I yank the phone hard enough to disconnect the power cord and stare at the screen; my eyes are blurry from all the crying. It’s my best friend since college, Laney. “You okay?” I say into the phone. “Boys okay?”

“You’re supposed to pick up the phone when I call,” she says into my ear.

I roll onto my back. My heart’s pounding. I’m so relieved Laney’s okay. I never used to worry about people I love dying. Now I worry about it all the time. Last week I got the crazy idea that Izzy hadn’t made it to class after Ben dropped her off. I actually got in my car, drove to her school, and insisted she be called to the office so I could see with my own eyes that she hadn’t been kidnapped between her father’s car and the school lobby. Kidnapped and murdered and thrown in a ditch.

“I didn’t know it was you,” I say to Laney.

“I don’t want any excuses.”

Laney never cuts me a break. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.

“You could have looked at your phone, Jules. Did you get out of bed yet?”

I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve again. “Yeah, I made Pop-Tarts for Izzy before school.”

“But you got back in bed as soon as they left the house.” It sounds a lot like an accusation.

I close my eyes. “I fed the cat, first. Then I got back in bed.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Julia, we talked about this. You can’t lie in bed all day, every day. Did you call your boss to talk about going back to work?”

“I’m going to call him.”

“He’s going to fire you.”

“He won’t fire me. My daughter died in a car accident. You’d be amazed by all the perks.”

Neither of us laughs this time, either. At least I’ve stopped crying.

“I’m going to book a flight,” Laney says. “I can be there tomorrow.”

“No, you’re not,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she argues, impatient with me now. “How can you possibly be fine?”

I exhale. “No, of course I’m not fine, but you know what I mean. I’m fine.”

When she speaks again, her tone is kind and gentle, the same tone I imagine she uses with her third graders. “Jules, sweetie, it’s been six weeks,” she says. “I know we’re not supposed to put time lines on grieving, but you can’t keep lying in bed in the dark. You’ve got to get up and do something: Clean the house, go to the grocery store, take a walk. I think work would be good for you. It would give you—”

“Forty-seven days,” I interrupt.

“What?”

“Forty-seven days,” I repeat. “You said it had been six weeks since Caitlin died. It’s been forty-seven days, so technically—”

“I’m getting on a plane.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not.” I try to sound firm. “You’ve got work and Garret’s Scouts and Liam’s surgery is coming up.”

“It was two weeks ago, sweetie.”

I open my eyes. “It was? Oh, Laney, I’m sorry. How is he? Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. He’s fine. Still a little swollen, but he only missed two days of school. The oral surgeon said he was a champ.”

“When Caitlin had her wisdom teeth out, she refused to stay home the next day. She said she didn’t want to waste a sick day at home, feeling like crap. She made me promise to let her play hooky another day when she was feeling better.” Tears fill my eyes as I remember and I make a little gasping sound. I close my eyes, feeling overwhelmed. Like I’m floating on top of water, but just barely. “Oh, Laney.”

“I know, sweetie.”

We sigh in unison.

“Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to go,” she says then. “I need to go collect my little darlings from computer lab, but Jules, I’m serious. I’ll take off and I’ll come. We’ll do something. Go for a drive. Clean out Caitlin’s room. Whatever you want. If you can’t get out of bed, I’ll lie there with you.”

“I don’t want you to have to take off from work. Or leave your boys.”

“Then come here. We’re having a beautiful spring. Maybe you need a change of scenery. You always said you thought heaven would look like Maine.”

Laney lives just outside of Portland. She’s a schoolteacher with two boys. A widow. Laney understands loss. The love of her life since the sixth grade, the father of her boys, Sean, was killed in Afghanistan three years ago.

“I can’t be around people. Not yet,” I tell her.

“Then come and stay in the cottage. You always loved the cabin.” Her family’s cottage is on Sebago Lake, west of Portland. When we were in college, where we met our freshman year, I stayed there two summers with Laney and her wacky, loving family. Theirs was the kind of family I dreamed of being born into, rather than mine. There was just me and my mom and my stepdad growing up and we were a quiet family, unlike Laney’s, which is loud and boisterous. The thing that struck me the most when I met her parents and brothers and sister that first Thanksgiving that I went east with her was that they all liked each other so much. Her mother and father kissed in front of me. Her siblings hugged each other and talked about how much they missed each other. I never felt as if my parents liked each other . . . or me. Anyway, so for the last fifteen years I’ve been taking Ben and the girls to Maine every summer on vacation, although Ben skipped the last two summers. Work.

“Go get your students,” I tell her. “Put them on their buses and go home to your boys.”

She’s quiet for a second. I can hear the sound of an authoritative female voice on the intercom: end-of-day announcements. They’re serving pizza tomorrow for lunch. “I’m worried about you, Jules,” Laney says softly.

I’m worried about me, too, I want to say. I think about the sleeping pills. Had they been my own instead of Linda’s, would I have taken them? Would I really have tried to kill myself? Good girl Julia Renee Maxton who never liked to put anyone out? I think about telling Laney about the sleeping pills.

“Jules?”

“I’ll call you this weekend,” I tell her, knowing I won’t tell her about the pills. You’re supposed to be able to tell those you love anything. Anything at all. But I know I won’t tell her because I do love her. She’s already worried enough about me.

“Please call me.”

“I will,” I insist.

“You won’t. You say you will, but you won’t call, Julia. I’ll call all weekend, but I’ll either get the answering machine or Izzy, who will say you’re asleep. The only way I’ll get you is if I call three times in a damned row on your cell.”

“You’re not supposed to curse,” I tell her. “You’re a third grade teacher. And three calls in a row is only supposed to be for emergencies.” I close my eyes again, resting the back of my free hand on my forehead. Then, “I’ll call. I swear. When Ben and Izzy go to Sunday dinner at his mom’s, I’ll call.”

“You better, or I’m getting on that plane,” Laney threatens.

“I’ll call,” I say. And I mean it. I mean it now, at least. But by the time Sunday comes, I probably won’t be able to bring myself to do it. “Give the boys my love.”

“Call Sunday and do it yourself.”

I disconnect and hold the phone to my chest. She’s a good friend, my Laney. The best. All these years and all the miles between us, and somehow we’ve been able to maintain our relationship. . . which is amazing considering the fact that I haven’t been able to do that with the man who sleeps beside me.

The night Caitlin died, Laney left her house to go to the airport at four in the morning. She called her mother-in-law, an angel, albeit a wacky one, to stay with her boys. Laney stood in lines at the airport in Portland, Maine, for hours until someone found her a flight to Las Vegas by way of New Orleans.

My cell phone rings again. I hit the green square on the screen without opening my eyes and lower the phone to my ear. “See, I told you I’d answer.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a split second, then a man clears his throat. “May I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Maxton, please?”

I sit up, gripping the phone, my hand unsteady. That was what the police officer said when he called to tell us about the accident. Panic tightens my chest and for a second I can’t find my voice. I feel light-headed. “This is, um, Mrs. Maxton.”

“Mrs. Maxton, this is Dr. Carlisle, principal at Smythe Academy.”

I manage to exhale a little gasp of air. “Yes?” My voice sounds high-pitched, not like my own raspy voice usually does.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Maxton, but I’m going to have to ask you to come pick up Haley. She’s been expelled.”

Again, it takes me a moment to respond, but this time it’s because I’m so relieved. Haley isn’t dead. She isn’t hurt. She’s just expelled. “Oh,” I manage. “All right.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “What . . .” I’m struggling to focus now. “Why has she been expelled?”

“I need you to come get her, Mrs. Maxton. We can talk when you arrive. When should I expect you?”

I do the math. I probably need to ditch Ben’s sweatshirt and put on a bra and a shirt of my own. Brush my teeth. Shoes. Fifteen-minute drive. “I can be there in half an hour, Dr. Carlisle.”

46 days, 13 hours

“Right there.”

The school secretary points to one of the three chairs in the hallway that runs between the front office and principal’s office. She doesn’t look annoyed or even all that interested in my latest insubordination. She doesn’t look at me like I’m a murderer, either, which is kind of nice. Of course she’s not really looking at me at all. She’s more interested in one of the charms that dangles from a gold bracelet on her left wrist. It looks like a potato. I wonder why anyone would wear a miniature potato on a bracelet, even if it was real gold.

“You know the drill, Haley. Don’t get up unless the school’s on fire or we’ve got a shooter, and then it better be a five alarm or automatic weapons,” she deadpans.

I’ve decided I like that word. Deadpan. I added it to our list (mine and Caitlin’s) yesterday. I like the action . . . or lack of action. I’m getting good these days at deadpanning. I keep thinking that if I don’t show any emotion, maybe I won’t feel it.

“You shouldn’t kid about that kind of stuff,” I say, looking at her. She’s kind of cute in a weird Zooey Deschanel way, but she’s wearing black patent-leather clogs and her roots need a touch-up. “You can screw up impressionable young women like me saying things about Columbine shit.”

“Language.” Her voice is still monotone. Nothing ever upsets her. She’d make a better principal than Dr. Hairball. My friends and I call him that because he’s got this creepy goatee that looks like he coughed up a hairball onto his chin.

She starts for her desk out front; hers is the biggest because she’s in charge of the other two ladies who work in the office. She has a glass jar of candy on it filled with mini chocolate candy bars, but in the almost four years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen her eat one or give one to someone. I can’t figure out why they’re on her desk. Maybe to try to make people think she’s someone she’s not? Like she’s this person who gives students treats?

“Be sure your mom signs you out before you go,” she tells me.

I drop my backpack on the floor beside the chair where I’m supposed to sit. I know from past experience that if you sit in that chair and lean to your right, you can watch kids go by on the other side of the glass. Wave, if you see a friend. “Even if my mom’s coming in to talk to Dr. Carlisle and he’s the one expelling me?” I ask.

“Even if the risen Christ expels you,” Miss Charter says over her shoulder, “she still has to sign you out.”

I can’t tell if she’s one of those crazy Christians or if she’s being sarcastic and she’s an atheist. I can’t decide which would be worse.

“I’m going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks,” I tell her. “Then I can sign myself out.”

“You sure could.” She stops and turns around; she has this stupid smirk on her face. “If you were still going to be here, which you’re not.”

I’m so surprised that she’d say that to me that I don’t even have a snappy comeback. I’m surprised because it was kind of mean. Adults have been really careful about what they say to me since I killed Caitlin. Like they’re afraid of me or something. I’ve been getting away with mad shit since I came back to school. So much shit that I was genuinely surprised when Dr. Carlisle said he was expelling me.

Miss Charter disappears around the corner and maybe out of my life. I sit down in the chair closest to the front office. It’s blue plastic, stolen from the cafeteria. Not stolen, I guess, if the principal told someone to bring it here. But it’s definitely not an office chair; it’s a cafeteria chair. The legs are uneven so it rocks unless you push back with your foot. It’s probably missing the little disky-foot thing like my chair in my chemistry class.

I lean to my right; the hall outside the office is empty. Classes have already changed. I lean back in the chair and get my ball out of the front pocket of my backpack. The stupid uniform skirts we have to wear don’t have pockets. We can wear long khaki pants like the guys, if we want, but they’re even uglier than the skirts. I throw the pink ball against the wall in front of me, just an easy throw, to judge the distance and surface of the wall. The little glow-in-the-dark bouncy ball comes straight back. I’ve gotten good at bouncing it over the last few weeks.

It hits the wall and comes right back to my hand like magic. The magic of physics, Caitlin used to say when she bounced it. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton’s Third Law of Motion.

I wonder if my mom will be mad at me for getting expelled. She used to get mad at me all the time. All she did was criticize me: Haley, why don’t you get better grades?

Bounce. Catch.

Why don’t you have nicer friends?

Bounce. Catch.

Why do you wear that black eyeliner?

Bounce. Catch.

What she always meant was why don’t you get good grades like Caitlin? Why don’t you have nice friends like Caitlin does? Why don’t you just wear pink lip gloss like Caitlin?

I throw my ball too hard and I have to jump out of my seat to catch it.

My mom is such a bitch. The worst thing is, she pretends she isn’t. Or at least she did before Caitlin died. Since then, Mom hasn’t really acted like anything. She barely speaks to me and when she does it’s in this quiet breathy voice that’s worse than if she just yelled at me.

She thinks it’s my fault Caitlin is dead. She just won’t come out and say it.

Bounce. Catch.

The thing is, it is my fault. Completely my fault.

Bounce. Catch.

I hear the front office door open and lean to see my mom walk in. She’s wearing jeans and flip-flops and an orange T-shirt she usually puts on to clean house. When she used to clean house. Now if anyone cleans anything, it’s Izzy. Dad says we’re going to have to get a maid if Mom doesn’t stop lying in bed all day.

Mom walks up to the counter. She’s not wearing any makeup and her hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail, looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. I always wished I had blond hair like hers and Caitlin’s. I’ve got ugly brown like my dad’s. Or it was ugly brown before I started dyeing it black. Izzy’s got red hair. I don’t know where she came from. Caitlin and I used to tease her and tell her that she was adopted and that’s why she doesn’t look like us.

“Julia Maxton,” my mom says. “I’m here to see Dr. Carlisle.”

“You can go in,” I hear Miss Charter say. I can’t see her because she’s around the corner. “You know the way.”

Mom doesn’t seem to get her little dig, but I do. What she’s saying is that Mom knows the way to Dr. Hairball’s office because she’s been called in before about me: academic probation meetings, behavioral evaluations, suspensions. This is the first time I’ve been expelled from a school. Well, except for preschool, but I don’t really think that counts. My biting was just my way of expressing my individuality and exercising my newfound freedom.

Mom turns toward the hall and sees me, but she doesn’t really see me. It’s like her eyes glaze over. She can’t bear to look at me, which is okay because I can’t stand looking at her, either.

I stare straight ahead. The wall is cinderblock, painted a pale green. As much as tuition is here, you’d think the building would be something other than cinderblock, but apparently they bought the building cheap. It used to be something else. I bounce the ball against the wall in front of me. Catch it.

She comes up to me and just stands there; she’s not even carrying her purse, just her keys. “What have you done now?” she asks. She doesn’t look like she really cares.

“Smoking,” I say.

“Pot?” She says it like she’s asking me if I had an apple for lunch.

I make a face. I bounce. I catch. “Marlboros. In the solarium.”

“In the school,” she says. Not quite deadpanning, but almost.

I shrug. “I didn’t want to be late for physics class.”

I wait for her reaction. If my friend Danielle said something like that to her mother, she’d get her face slapped. My mom doesn’t slap me. She just presses her lips together really hard and looks like she’s going to cry.

I never saw my mom cry until Caitlin. Now, most of the time she’s either crying, getting ready to cry, or just wrapping up a good cry.

She walks in front of me as I catch the ball again. “Could you please put that away?” she asks m. . .