I’m a stranger to him.
26
Over the next week, Oona tried to settle into her new life in Boston. When not at High Strung, she took long walks around the city, read books, played her guitar, and had long imaginary conversations with her teenage son. She mentally tried out different parental versions: the cool mom, the strict mom, the doting mom. It made her wonder what kind of mother she would’ve been if she hadn’t abandoned him; what kind of mother she could still be to him. These imaginary conversations always ended with Oona revealing who she was and Kenzie overcoming his shock to accept her into his life. They were far friendlier than the actual terse, brief conversations she had with her mother.
Oona phoned her using a calling card to ensure an untraceable number and named a different city each time Madeleine asked where she was. Neither one mentioned Kenzie. Did her mother know what Oona was really up to? Would she try to stop her? Had she warned Shivani? Hopefully Madeleine would stay out of it.
There were too many empty hours to fill in between visits to the coffee shop/record store, but that problem was solved one afternoon in mid-January.
As Oona entered High Strung, Daphne rushed by with a flyer in one hand and roll of Scotch tape in the other. She dropped the tape and both of them bent down to get it, banging heads together.
“Sorry,” they said in unison.
“I’m having the day from hell,” Daphne said. Her eyes grew wet and she fanned herself with the flyer—a help-wanted poster—to keep from crying. “Let me just put this in the window and I’ll make your chai.”
“What kind of help are you looking for?” Oona asked.
“A cashier. Preferably one who doesn’t show up so stoned he can’t work. Who doesn’t quit and walk out on a day nobody can take an extra shift. At this point, I’d hire anyone familiar with a register.”
“I know how to use a register. Maybe not this exact one, but I worked at a drugstore a while back.” Not that she needed the money, but she needed more to do. “I love music, I don’t smoke pot, and I could start right now.”
Daphne looked her up and down with cautious curiosity. “What’s your name?”
“Um … Nancy.” A mental scramble to create a fake last name. “Nancy Jones.”
“All right, Nancy.” She gave a what-the-hell shrug. “Help me get through today without any major fuckups, and you’re hired.”
In between serving customers, Daphne gave Oona a quickie training session. When Kenzie came in later, Daphne was too busy to chat, but did introduce “Nancy” to him (He still doesn’t know my real name). Work was a welcome distraction from thinking about her son nonstop. By the end of the day, Oona proved herself worthy, and Daphne offered her the cashier position.
In the weeks following, Oona was attentive to customers, kept the inventory organized, and perfectly balanced the cash drawer. She got used to being on her feet all day. She got used to being alone at night. She got used to her new name.
She did not get used to seeing Kenzie.
All the earnest and heartfelt internal monologues she composed, the cute or clever one-liners—every word vanished the moment her son came into High Strung. The confidence and cautious optimism she’d built up crumbled like a sandcastle beneath a tsunami. She could do little more than wave or say hello or offer tight little smiles.
What she learned about him came from observation and eavesdropping. He was a decent student (B+ average), wrote album reviews for the school paper, and was on the debate team. He sometimes brought friends to High Strung, classmates that ranged from quirky to nerdy to alternative. He spoke well about Shivani and Faye, though he grumbled about them bugging him to bring up his science grades and being overprotective.
There was no denying what Madeleine had reported. He was healthy. Happy. Thriving.
While she’d come to Boston believing her presence would improve Kenzie’s life, the more she saw him, the more her self-doubt grew. How could she be sure her words or actions wouldn’t do him harm? She was the butterfly flapping her wings with the best intentions, but what if she brought on hurricanes and tornadoes?
That’s what kept her from speaking to him, following him, or asking Daphne about him.
As January neared to a close, Oona’s uncertainty and paralysis around Kenzie had become routine—until one Wednesday afternoon.
She was going through a plastic bag full of used CDs someone had donated when the bag tore and a CD fell behind the counter before she could grab it. Oona bent to pick it up: on the cover, a brunette in blue jeans and red boots hugged a knee to her chest. Kate Bush. Of course.
Before any second thoughts could waylay her, Oona took the disc over to the stereo and replaced the Portishead album she’d been playing.
Silence followed by whale sounds replaced with a tinkling piano and high clear singing, an undulating melody like a flowing stream.
Kenzie put his pen down and lifted his head, squinting at Oona. “What’s this music? Kinda sounds like a Tori Amos wannabe.”
“Don’t you dare,” Oona hissed.
A flicker of surprise at her vehemence. “Hey, I like Tori. It’s a compliment.”
“Oh no, it’s not. This”—she pointed to the ceiling—“is Kate Bush and she was first. The Kick Inside came out over a decade before Little Earthquakes.” Oona pressed her palms on the counter like she might vault over it. “Kate Bush influenced and paved the way for singers like your precious Tori. Who’s good, don’t get me wrong. But Kate is superb and criminally underrated.” Her skin tingled as heat spread through her chest, up her neck. “I’m surprised you don’t already love her considering—” She stopped short of forecasting his music tastes. “Considering you spend so much time in a record store.”
Maybe there is something I can give him. Something nobody else can.
Kenzie sat back, eyebrows as high as they could go, and shot Daphne a look. “How come you never played any Kate Bush?” he asked her.
“I like boy singers better than girl singers.” Daphne offered a no-big-deal shrug. “Nick Cave, Tom Waits, that sort of thing.”
“In other words, you like singers who sound like they’re gonna kill you in your sleep if they don’t drink themselves to death first,” said Oona. She glanced at Kenzie, who was holding back a laugh.
Instead of getting defensive, Daphne raised her hands in an answered-prayer pose. “Finally.”
“What?” Oona asked.
“I was starting to think you’d never show any personality. Whew.” An exaggerated swipe of her forehead with the back of her hand. “You want a chai?”
“I’d love one, actually.” Shifting her weight to one foot, Oona put a hand on her hip. “If that drink has enough personality for you.” Kenzie’s low chuckle nearly made her lose her balance. There was an inherent satisfaction in making anyone laugh, but when it was your own kid? It felt like a superpower. “As for you, mister,” she said to him, “for all your studying, you clearly need more of a music education. You think this album is good? Wait until you hear Hounds of Love. The second half of it—‘The Ninth Wave’—is gonna blow your mind.”