What Ann had gleaned was that, in those years, Jim took on most of the duties pertaining to the three older boys, while Helen cared for Chance. Chance had been a colicky baby, Helen carried him everywhere in a sling, Chance didn’t sleep in a crib, he slept in the bed with Helen and Jim. Chance had walked early, and Helen was forever chasing him around. Helen had made chicken with biscuits once, but the biscuits were burned. (In Roanoke, Ann knew, Helen had grown up with a black housekeeper who had done all the cooking.) Jim often took the boys to McDonald’s for lunch, which was a treat for them, since Ann was sponsoring an initiative for healthier eating habits for Carolina schoolchildren and hence did not allow the kids fast food. Helen bought the boys Entenmann’s coffee cake for breakfast and let them eat it straight from the box in front of the TV on Saturday mornings. Helen sometimes yelled at the boys—or even at Jim—to help out more. Jim took the boys to the Flying Burrito for Mexican food on Sunday nights before bringing them back to Ann, and Helen and Chance always stayed home.
Ann tucked every piece of information away. To her credit, she had never demonized Helen to the boys. But she had lived in mortal fear that the boys would one day arrive home, announcing that they liked Helen better.
Just the way that Jim had once announced he liked Helen better.
It took a moment for Ann to realize that Chance was in distress. He dropped his plate on the floor, where it broke in half, and the mussel shells scattered everywhere. Ann jumped out of the way. Then she saw Chance clutching at his throat; he was puffing up, turning the color of raw meat.
“Help!” Ann shouted. She spun around, hoping to find Jim, but behind her was a stout, bald man with square glasses and a bullfrog neck. “Help him!”
A commotion ensued. Chance sank to his knees. The man behind Ann rushed to his side.
“We need an EpiPen!” he shouted. “He’s having an allergic reaction!”
Ann snatched her phone out of her purse and dialed 911. She said, “Nantucket Yacht Club, nineteen-year-old male, severe allergic reaction. Please send an ambulance! His throat is closing!”
Chance was clawing at his neck, gasping for air in a way that made it look like he was drowning right in front of them. He sought out Ann’s face; his eyes were bulging. Ann was hot with panic. She was shaking, she thought, My God, what if he dies? But then her mothering instincts kicked in. She knelt beside him.
“I’ve called an ambulance, Chance,” she said. “Help is coming.”
One of the club’s managers shot through the kitchen’s double doors holding a first aid kit, from which he pulled an EpiPen. He stabbed Chance in the thigh.
Suddenly Jim was there. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “What the hell?”
“He ate a mussel,” Ann said. “He must be allergic. He swelled right up.” It had reminded Ann of the scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory where Violet turns into a blueberry and the Oompa-Loompas roll her away.
And then Ann saw a flash of yellow.
“Chancey!” Helen screamed.
The epinephrine seemed to help. Chance’s color didn’t improve, but neither did it deepen, and he was still forcing wheezing breaths in and out. A crowd gathered, and urgent queries of What happened? and Who is it? circulated. Ann heard someone say, “It’s Stuart’s stepbrother,” then someone else say, “It’s the other woman’s son.” Ann turned around and to no one in particular said, “His name is Chance Graham, and he’s the groom’s half brother.”
Jim and the yacht club manager kept imploring people to back up so that Chance could have some air. Helen was kneeling by Chance’s head, smoothing his hair, patting his mottled cheeks. She seemed elegant and glamorous, even on her knees. She looked up at Ann. “What did he eat?” she demanded.
The question was nearly accusatory, as though Ann were somehow to blame. She felt like the wicked stepmother who had given him a poison apple.
“He ate a mussel,” Ann said.
Helen returned her attention to Chance, and Ann felt a creeping sense of shame. Chance had said he’d never eaten a mussel before, and Ann had said, They’re yummy, you’ll love them. She hadn’t told him to eat it; he had tried it of his own volition. But she also hadn’t given him a warning about allergies. She hadn’t even considered allergies. Hadn’t Chance been allergic to milk as a child? Ann thought she recalled hearing that, but she wasn’t positive. He wasn’t her child. But lots of people were allergic to shellfish. Should she have warned him instead of encouraging him?
The paramedics stormed in, all black uniforms and squawking police scanners. The lead paramedic was a woman in her twenties with wide hips and a brown ponytail. “What’d he eat?”