Free Social Lives by Wendy Walker Page A

as the competing forces of her own need and profound guilt tugged at her emotions. With everything that she had, it seemed entirely wrong to have turned here—of all places—for help. Still, it was the only family she had left, and she found herself letting go.
    â€œShhh . . . it’s okay,” Kelly said as her sister cried in her arms.
    â€œCome sit down. Did you bring the papers?”
    That had always been her sister’s way, to focus on the task at hand, worry about one thing at a time. It was how she had survived their childhood, and the many mistakes she’d made since then, including the reckless behavior that had produced two children over the years.
    â€œI have them.” Jacks wiped her face and followed Kelly to the metal table set up next to the window in the small family room. Having only two rooms on the first floor, Kelly had struggled to transform the space to serve as a dining room as well, and a place for her kids to do their homework. There were crates with school supplies set up against one wall, and a large bulletin board with a chore wheel. Tirelessly, she had done her best to make the home tolerable—torn out the old carpet and wallpaper, sanded the floors, painted the walls and sewn window treatments. It was tidy, orderly. She ran a tight ship for those kids. All that with two jobs—hotel clerk for the benefits, nanny in a neighboring, more affluent town for money. There wasn’t a moment in her life that Kelly Moore didn’t devote to her children. Still, the problems came, which was exactly what had Jacks sitting here now.
    â€œI only have an hour. Mrs. Linder took the baby to the doctor, but she wants to get her hair done.” Kelly dropped the cigarette into the coffee mug, then turned on a fan to push the smoke out the window. “Goddamned cigarettes.”
    Jacks reached out and touched her hand. “It’s okay. You do what you can do.”
    Kelly smiled and nodded, but the sadness on her face was unwavering. Nothing she did would ever be enough. Not now. Not ever. Her face turned deadly serious. “This can’t happen. Not after all these years . . . after everything.”
    â€œI know.”
    They looked at each other then, and in a way that took them both back in time. It had been years, decades since they’d shared this look. Not that anything had been forgotten, or ever could be. But there had been a sense of calm, a reordering of priorities. Urgency had been replaced with long-term planning, parochial school for Kelly’s children, a college fund. They were close to teenagers now. They were almost there. She had refused to take a dime for anything else, not a piece of clothing or furniture or food. It was more than just her pride, though her pride was not insignificant. Kelly understood people, even people like David Halstead. It was how she had gotten by for so many years. Giving the poor relations money for school made him feel good. Wondering what might be next—loans for the phone bill, a new car, the list could be endless—would make him feel used. Kelly knew the difference, and so she remained disciplined, even in the face of deprivation. She accepted the school tuition and, at Christmas, a small trip somewhere, a time when the two families could be together on equal footing. The cousins had grown close because of it, and in spite of the vast disparities in wealth. Kelly had dreamed of their futures, the things that college could give them. The things she had never had. It was the light at the end of this long, miserable tunnel, the reason she tolerated one boss who grabbed her ass and another who belittled her. It couldn’t be for nothing.
    There was a knock at the front door, and Kelly jumped to get it. From her seat at the table, Jacks watched as a chubby middle-aged man passed through the entry and into the house. She could smell the stale alcohol from across the room.
    They spoke quietly