House Broken (4 page)

ELLA

E
lla had been waiting forever for school to end. School was always boring, but today every single period seemed stuck in some bizarre time warp. In history class, Mrs. Bragarian droned on in super slo-mo. Normally Ella'd zone out or doodle her way across a few pages pretending to take notes, and the forty-seven minutes would dribble away. Not today. During biology, she snuck a couple of nonobvious looks—okay, more like stares—at Marcus Frye. But not even His Most Gorgeousness could distract her today. Which was another way of saying she was preoccupied.

When she finally got home, she stuck her head in the barn because her dad always wanted her to check in. Like some creeper in a panel van was going to haul her off between the bus stop and here. She waved hi and he waved back, but he didn't turn off the
sander, so that was that. Prince Charles was playing baseball or hanging out with the Master Stoners or up to something else—what did she care? He'd been working all the angles since he was born. As long as it didn't involve her, more power to him. He wasn't home; that was the point. If he was, he'd be trying to get her to do his homework, or hitting her up for money or, worse, telling her a story about his friends. Daring Deeds of Dickheads. Awe-Inspiring Adventures of Assholes. And her mom was still in L.A. visiting her lunatic mother, the drunken stunt driver. She wouldn't be home until . . . When was it? Tonight? Tomorrow? Whatever.

The point was no one was around to bug her. She had all the peace and quiet she needed for the project she'd been thinking about since she woke up.

Last night she had this dream. She was standing in the middle of an enormous lawn that stretched all the way to the horizon. The puffy clouds overhead started linking up until the whole sky was a mass of cotton balls. Snow fell, but it wasn't cold. The snowflakes were ginormous, the kind you can see the shape of when they land on your skin for the split second before they melt. The snow got thicker, and swirled around her until she was in the middle of a snow tornado. It wasn't scary. She tingled all over with excitement.

Then the best part happened. The snowflakes turned into words. As they spun past, she read them, only it was more like knowing than reading.
Potent
. That was one.
Gamble
.
Heretical
. (She wasn't sure what that meant.)
Greening
. The dream went on for a long time, and when she woke up she could remember every single word. At school she thought about writing them down but knew that wasn't what she should do.

First things first. She pulled her stash of weed from the tummy of her Build-A-Bear and rolled a joint. Most kids were into alcohol, probably because it was a cinch to get and parents generally looked the other way. But booze was mundane and bourgeois. Weed was for artists and dreamers. Leaning out the window, she took a couple of hits, then spit in her palm and snuffed it out. It was good shit, and she didn't want to overdo it. She had work to do. After she put away the weed, she kissed the bear on the nose and gave the room a couple of squirts with orange oil spray. Her mom thought she was addicted to the stuff. Well, you could put it that way.

She found straws in the kitchen and fishing line in Prince Charles's room and went to work. Writing the words on little rectangles cut from index cards took her an hour. There turned out to be exactly one hundred, which creeped her out a little. Whatever. It's my brain, she thought. I have to learn to deal with what it dishes out. Making the mobiles took another hour and a half. It wasn't easy to get the length of the straws and strings right so the words balanced. She wondered if she should choose which words hung together, but scotched the idea. That was the sort of thing her mom would do. No, first her mom would organize them alphabetically or by parts of speech, then decide she needed a spreadsheet.

Ella climbed a stool and attached the mobiles to the ceiling. She was pretty sure she wasn't supposed to tack things to the ceiling, but this was necessary. Critical. Vital.

See? It was working already.

She'd been writing poetry since she could talk. Her very first one went like this: Kitten shark / kitten dark / Kitten bark, bark, bark. Made her laugh every time she thought of it. And, sadly, it
was better than a lot of stuff she'd written recently. Which was exactly why she needed a revelation. She got that everyone's work changes as they get older. She got that it was normal to cringe at poems she had written three years ago. That was her rhyming phase, for Christ's sake! Sonnets were her next thing. She read every book about the Tudors she could find and her poetry got all Olde Tyme Englishy. Still rhyming, but more complicated with iambs and all that. She was so into it she forgot how to spell the regular way, and her grades in English tanked. After that she broke into free verse. So freaking pleased with herself you'd think she invented it. The breakthrough gave her a better window into growing up than getting her annoying period did. Her mom presented her with books like
How to Survive Being a Mutant Teenager
and
PMS: Nature's Battle Cry
, but all she wanted to read was Wallace Stevens. She tried to copy his style but realized she was out of his league—at least for now. Instead, she wrote some drifty pieces that might have been song lyrics for people too stoned to follow a verse. They didn't suck, considering her tender age.

But since then her poems were garbage. She couldn't even stand what she wrote last month. Total unmitigated drivel. Derivative drivel. She'd been hoping for some sort of epiphany. The wordstorm had to be it.

Ella lay down in the midst of the paper scraps. Above her, the mobiles stirred a little, twisting and rocking. She could make out the words from here—that was important. Her mind stepped from one floating word to another—
gallant
,
clapboard
,
feverish
,
necessity
—and she smiled.

It wasn't a swirling storm, like in her dream, but an ocean. Each white card was the crest of a wave, catching the sunlight like
a diamond chip. She watched from above, suspended in the endless sky, while her words danced upon the water.

• • •

She lay there for who knows how long. In a wordstorm-and-weed-induced trance or something. Then she gradually came out of it, checked her phone for the time, and remembered she had a shitload of homework. She learned a long time ago it was easier to do the work than argue with her mom about why she wasn't doing it. Her mom was fixated on the idea that Ella was smart, and so there could be no excuse for not getting As. In reality, there were lots of excuses. Not feeling like doing it, for example. Or not wanting to come off as a nerd with no life by handing in every assignment complete and on time. Because even if you weren't one of the cool kids (and she was 100 percent not), you had to at least fake having something going on other than school. None of the kids knew about her poems—talk about social suicide!—but they knew she was pretty good on guitar. A guy in her grade who was on the edge of cool almost asked her to be in a band. At least that's what someone said. That was enough to save her from Loserville. But nothing could save her from homework. Or her mom.

Most of the time it wasn't difficult. She'd hang out on her special chair in her dad's workshop and read or do math problems. He didn't insist on digging into her life, which was a relief. Sometimes she'd think out loud, and they'd end up talking. She adored the smell of wood and varnish, and the sound of the hand planer rasping like a baby dragon. The big saw was too loud to think around. Diesel hated it, too, so that's when she'd take him for a walk.

Prince Charles didn't do homework. He outsourced it. And he cheated. He'd had some close calls, not that their parents had a clue. His shenanigans had started early. In first grade he set up convoluted trading sessions at lunch so he'd end up with exactly what he wanted to eat. Didn't matter who had it, or how many trades it took. It was pretty funny, watching him work the other little kids, making them believe they really wanted a bag of wheat crackers more than a brownie. They'd start to cry or get mad, and he'd give them half of their brownie and tell them they wouldn't get that kind of deal the next day.

But Charlie wasn't little anymore. He'd get caught eventually, and it wouldn't be so cute. Not that it was any of Ella's business. She made a point of knowing some of what he was up to, in case it came in handy, and sometimes he got weed for her at a decent price, but other than that, who cared?

GENEVA

M
onday evening traffic was light on the Golden Gate Bridge as Geneva headed north out of the city toward home. She lowered her window and a crisp breeze blew through. Twenty miles offshore a wall of fog sat on the water like a layer of meringue. Tonight, or tomorrow night at the latest, the fog would climb over the headlands and enter the bay. A few days later, when the land had cooled, it would shrink and gather itself again, waiting for the warm valleys to call it in. She loved the fog cycle. It was predictable, yet never the same. And the way it crouched offshore, then slunk inland, reminded her of an animal on the hunt. Fog made her think of redwoods, especially the ones along her driveway. From April to November they drank only fog, catching mist along their drooping branches. When Ella was five, Geneva led her
under the largest of their redwoods. The fog lay thick as cream, and when they stood under the canopy beneath an umbrella, water fell in sheets around them. Ella looked up at her mother, wide-eyed and openmouthed, as if Geneva, and not the tree, had made it rain.

She drove past the redwoods and the house came into view. She and Tom had toured the property with a real estate agent a few months after they married. The wisteria over the porch and the apple trees in the yard lent a romantic note, but when Tom's foot went straight through the floorboards in the kitchen she had seen enough. He frowned as he inspected the rafters, the foundation and the roof, so she assumed he had come to the same conclusion. Later she learned his frowning was mostly for show. He told her the place was perfect.

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

He drove the price down, closed the deal, and set to work. For a year, they devoted evenings and weekends to the restoration. To save money, they mined the barn for lumber, hardware, and fixtures. They suspended interior doors on overhead rails, turned bridles and halters into drawer pulls, and installed a stable door leading to the garden to encourage a breeze on warm days. They saved for last a small bedroom with a view of the backyard. On painting day, Geneva stood by the open window because the fumes made her queasy. Tom dipped his brush in a can of daffodil-yellow paint and drew a smiley face on the T-shirt stretched over her rounded belly.

• • •

She left her roller bag and handbag next to the car and headed for the barn. Diesel lifted his head when she opened the door but
didn't get up because Ella was using him as a footstool. Years ago, Tom had moved an old overstuffed armchair into the barn. If Ella couldn't be found in her room, she was in the chair reading or doing homework while her father worked.

Geneva breathed in the familiar scent of sawdust and realized how glad she was to be home. She called hello and walked around the workbench where Tom was sanding an artichoke finial.

He set down his work and opened his arms. “Welcome home.”

They embraced.

Ella waved. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, Ella.”

Geneva kissed the top of her daughter's head, happy she wasn't hiding in her room. At the same time, she couldn't deny feeling jealous that Ella usually chose to be with Tom. When she acknowledged her insecurity to Tom, he had pointed out he worked at home, and had more time. He also said Ella, a perennially quiet child, was no more talkative in the barn than elsewhere. But their conversations were not the point. Tom had a simpler relationship with Ella than she did, and with Charlie, too. When the children were small, Geneva was the undisputed center of their universe. She couldn't remember when it had begun to change, but it had. Maybe her personality was better suited to infants and toddlers, and Tom's to adolescents. If true, then her most intimate days with her children had passed. Her rational mind told her she ought to accept these changes, but that didn't make it hurt any less. And being the de facto disciplinarian didn't help.

She squatted in front of Diesel and scratched his ears. “How's everyone's favorite ottoman?” Diesel licked her hand and whined softly.

Ella said, “How's Nana?”

“Better. She should be out of the hospital in a couple days.”

“That's good.”

Geneva shrugged. “I saw your cousins. Whit was asking about you. He wanted to know if you had a boyfriend yet, or if you were still cool.”

“He said that?”

“Yes. He's a riot. Like his dad.”

“We haven't seen them in a while. Wasn't it Thanksgiving?”

Geneva smiled, gratified her family mattered to Ella. With the Novaks a constant presence, she didn't take her daughter's memory of Riley family events for granted. “Yes, Thanksgiving in L.A.”

“Oh, yeah. Nana fell asleep at the table. Uncle Dub got all the Christmas stuff from the garage, and we strung up lights and decorated the table while she was out of it.” She stopped to control a fit of laughter. “Then she woke up, looked around, and said, ‘Must've been the eggnog. Merry Christmas!'”

Geneva winced. Perhaps some Riley family events were better forgotten.

“Ellie,” Tom said as he put his tools away, “I'm about finished here. Give Diesel his dinner, would you?”

“Sure.” She turned her book upside down on the chair and left, the dog at her heels.

Geneva picked up the book. She tore a corner from the newspaper on the floor, marked the page, and placed the book on a side table. “Ella was verging on garrulous. What's that about?”

Tom shrugged. “She's a teenager.”

“It's just been so long since she said that much. At least to me. Anyway, did she do the practice SAT test?”

“I don't know. She was in her room a long time today working on something. You can ask her.”

“Thanks. I love being the SAT police.”

“You've got a knack for it.”

“Someone has to be the parent.”

He glared at her. “What the hell do you think I do?”

Whatever's easiest, she thought as she sank into the chair.

Tom swept wood shavings into a dustpan with short, sharp strokes. “Did you and Dublin get anywhere with finding help for your mother?”

“Tom, can we talk about this later?”

“I guess. But isn't there some urgency?”

Geneva sighed. “We called a few places that were recommended, but no one was available on such short notice. I'll call more tomorrow.”

Tom stood in front of her. “I mentioned this on the phone, but I'm going to say it again. She could come here.”

“And I'll say what I said on the phone: I can't see it working.”

“Why not?”

“How can you ask that?”

“She's a sixty-four-year-old woman who had a bad car accident. And she's your mother.”

“She could pay for the care she needs. She'd just have to curtail her spending.”

“How much?”

“She'd probably have to move somewhere cheaper. Out of California.”

“Away from her grandchildren.”

“That she's so very close to. She called Charlie ‘Barney' the other day.”

“She's old.”

“Any other tired excuses you want to trot out, Tom?”

“I don't see why you're so hostile.”

“Because you're doing a stellar job of making me feel guilty.”

“Honestly, Geneva, your guilt should be telling you something.”

“Right now it's telling me that you're pressuring me. Try backing off.”

“I only want you to do the right thing.”

“Right for whom?”

“For everyone.”

“Good luck with that.” She instantly regretted her sarcastic tone. “Look. I know a daughter is supposed to help out her mother, especially if there aren't other good options. I get it. But why does that automatically override the fact that I don't want her in our house?”

“Maybe she's learned her lesson. Maybe if she's here, and she needs to rely on you, she'll see how to be a better person.”

She wanted to laugh. A better person. So ridiculous, so trite. But Tom meant it. His face betrayed concern and hope. She had always been drawn to his earnestness and optimism, fascinated by his sunny worldview. She didn't consider herself a cynic, but next to her husband she was. She felt disappointed in herself even while knowing, in logical terms, that her attitude toward her mother was justified. At work, Geneva was precisely the person she needed to be. At home, however, she felt compelled by Tom, and sometimes by her children, to consider other possible versions of herself. More flexible. More forgiving. At forty she hadn't decided whether strength or fear kept her true to her real self—the tough, rational one.

“I wish it didn't have to be me.”

“It's not you. It's us.”

“I know, Tom. Thanks.” That's what he deserved to hear, but she didn't believe it for a minute. When it came to her mother, she was on her own.

• • •

She'd first met Tom outside the clinic during her second year at the veterinary school at the University of California at Davis. One afternoon she left the building, intending to study at home in her studio apartment, then take a long walk before dinner. She pictured the container of vegetable curry she'd moved from the freezer to the refrigerator the night before and wondered whether she had finished the jar of chutney from the farmers' market.

A man sat hunched over on a bench, a dog's collar in his hands, and a leash at his feet. His shoulders shook with each loud sob, the sound half choke, half cry. Geneva stopped, unsure of what to do. Was it worse to ignore him or to intrude? She took a few steps toward her car, away from the crying man, and stopped again. It felt wrong to leave. She wondered for a moment if she recognized him, if that might account for the pull she felt, but couldn't place him.

She never cried in public. Even in the privacy of her apartment, she never gave in so thoroughly to distress. Perhaps she had as a child, but she couldn't recall a specific incident. When her father died, she must have broken down then, but she couldn't be certain. She could summon few clear memories from that time.

She walked to the bench and sat down. People went in and out of the clinic doors. Dogs stopped to sniff and pee on a worn patch of grass. An afternoon breeze lifted across the playing fields on the far side of the parking lot. She zipped up her jacket. The man's crying eased. He sat up, wiped his face with his sleeve, and stared
ahead at the field where a group of men was getting ready to play soccer. He reached for Geneva's hand.

She struggled to comprehend why she was holding hands with a complete stranger—and an emotionally distraught one at that. But a deeper feeling, instinctual, told her she was exactly where she needed to be. For once, she listened.

The man turned to face her. His eyes were hazel. “He was a really good dog.”

She squeezed his hand. “What was his name?”

“Larry.”

She couldn't help a small smile.

“I know.” He shook his head a little and shrugged. “It suited him.” His expression shifted, suddenly aware of himself, but not embarrassed. “I'm Tom.” He smiled at her.

Clarity. Not the certainty of a well-reasoned argument, or the satisfaction of a properly completed procedure. But clarity, like light itself.

“It suits you,” she said.

Eighteen years later, she remembered the feeling, but dimly. On dark days she felt no more than the hope of its return. Her love for Tom was at sea in a fog.

• • •

At six the next morning, she arranged her swim fins, paddles, buoy, and kickboard on the edge of the community pool. A young woman in an ankle-length parka and ski hat sat atop the lifeguard stand, her knees hugged to her chest, and gazed vaguely toward the only other swimmer—a man whom Geneva recognized as a regular. On other mornings, they had nodded to each other across the lane lines but never spoke. She put on her goggles and pressed
the lenses to ensure they were watertight. Goose bumps rose on her arms and legs. She entered the water feetfirst. Fog swirled above the surface of the pool, obscuring, then revealing the large lap timer three lanes away. She stuck a piece of paper detailing her workout onto the pool wall just above the waterline. The workouts came from a Web site. She printed out a month's worth at a time and stored them in her swim bag. She never read the workout until she entered the pool. If it called for lots of sprinting, or length after length of butterfly, she would be tempted to crumple it up and improvise. But once in the water, she was committed.

To her relief, the printout called for long sets to build endurance. She pushed off the wall and began the warm-up series. Each time her arms came out of the water, she felt the cold. Her legs felt heavy, and her flip turns were off by a foot. She concentrated on lengthening her stroke, on catching the water and pushing it past her. She imagined her body as a swimming machine, smooth and efficient. After twenty laps, she found her cadence. She unhooked her mind from the work of her body and let it drift.

To her surprise, the first person who snagged her thoughts was not her mother, but her father. He would have turned eighty a month ago, but she couldn't picture him as an elderly man. He was frozen in his late forties, upright and strong, with a touch of gray at his temples. When Geneva was three, Eustace Riley became mayor of Aliceville. His family's reputation and wealth had helped him garner attention, but it was his self-assurance that held it. It seemed natural to Geneva he should run their town—the only world she knew. He handled every situation within the jurisdiction of his family and his town with unguarded authority. And if he were alive today, he would know how to handle her mother.

As she swam lap after lap, she imagined her parents together
as they were thirty years before, walking home from church or sharing a drink on the wide front porch. Her mother was so young, her hair golden and her eyes clear and bright. She was innocent of her future as a thirty-six-year-old widow. She didn't drink then, not more than most people. Occasionally she came home from a party tottering on her heels and laughing a little too loudly. If the children were awake, her father would steer Helen into the kitchen by her elbow and instruct Paris to make coffee. He was impervious to alcohol and late nights, rising each morning at five without fail.