Hyacinth Girls (14 page)

I hardly saw Curtis after his wedding. Our visits didn't overlap at Christmas and we didn't share a Thanksgiving meal. There were no birthday cards exchanged, no friendly calls. He moved out of Cansdown with Lara, and I thought he must be very pleased to be starting fresh. But when I held Callie or popped my pinkie finger into her mouth to soothe her, I understood things in a way I never had before. My cousin had done something unforgiveable, not just to me and Joyce, but also to his daughter. He had walked away as though a child meant nothing, and gradually I was starting to see how a child could mean everything.

As I watched Callie cruise around the McKenzies' living room on her hands and knees, I started to think about my own father and how he must've been a monster to leave a two-year-old without a second thought. I'd never been angry about the way I was abandoned, but now, suddenly, I was. My father had carelessly and selfishly walked away as though my life meant nothing. He'd treated me like I was irrelevant, and now Curtis was showing me exactly what kind of person my dad must've been.

To Joyce, I condemned him. I thought she would appreciate my loyalty, but when I said that Curtis was beyond redemption, she seemed embarrassed. I imagined cursing him, reducing him to tears, forcing him to explain—but I could never think up a good enough explanation.

Then, the winter before Callie turned two, Lara had her first miscarriage. A few weeks later, Mom called me at college, all worked up.

“Did you give Curtis pictures of the baby?”

“No.”

“He told Lara it was you. If she calls up, you should say it was you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lara found pictures he was hiding from her—of Callie. He said you sent them to him at work. You think he's seeing Joyce again?”

Joyce denied it when I asked. She said she hadn't seen him, and she hadn't sent any pictures.

After I graduated, I moved back to Cansdown, found a job in a clinic, and saved up to rent an apartment with Joyce and Callie. Joyce brought a lucky bamboo plant that grew out of a glass, and placed it on our kitchen shelf in honor of our jungle theme. Then our new life was beginning, and I was so pleased to be helping, bringing home a paycheck, braiding Callie's hair as she grew heavy on my lap. I held her small gummy hand as we crossed the street in a three-person chain, and whenever I wanted to talk to my best friend she was right there, sitting across from me at the kitchen table, encouraging her daughter to eat another green bean.

To me, the arrangement seemed normal—no different from what Mom and Aunt Bea had done when they were raising me and Curtis. But it was Mom who started giving me a hard time about it. “What happens when you or Joyce wants a boyfriend?” I told her we were both too busy for boyfriends at the moment, and she said, “Oh, so it's
that
kind of arrangement.”

It wasn't what she thought, but I didn't miss having a boyfriend. I had a family now.

Lara had her third miscarriage when Callie was four. By then, Joyce had started taking evening classes at the community college to become a paralegal. I was putting Callie to bed one night when the phone rang.

There was a long silence. I almost hung up, thinking it was a sales call, but I could hear breathing.

“Hello?”

“Is Curtis there?”

It was Lara. I'd barely spoken to her in years. When she came to my grandmother's funeral, she'd mumbled she was sorry for my loss, but she wouldn't meet my eyes. She remembered what I'd done.

“Lara?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yee—” She stopped. There was a long pause.

“I haven't seen him,” I said. “But I was sorry to hear your news.”

She made a noise like someone had just poked her in the stomach. It reminded me of the panicked huhs and hmmphs she made when she couldn't speak. I was trying to think of something sympathetic to say when she erupted.

“
She
did it to me.” The phone sizzled in my hand. “WHORE!”

Lara's calls started to become a regular thing. She called at night, usually at least once a week. Anytime Curtis went out, she called our apartment. If Joyce answered, Lara cursed her out until Joyce slammed the phone down. When I answered, Lara wanted to know where Joyce was. I guessed that Curtis might be cheating on her, but I wanted her to know that it had nothing to do with us. Sometimes I tried to convince her that Joyce wasn't involved. I'd say, “She's sitting right here with me,” or, “She's at school.” If Joyce was there she'd roll her eyes at me and mouth “nutcase,” but I was starting to feel sorry for Lara. Mom told me that her last miscarriage had started at work, and afterward, Lara hadn't been able to face going back. I remembered how I'd abandoned her after she'd given me a second chance, and I decided to stay on the line, to try and make her calm.

Maybe I was lonely, too. Things were changing between me and Joyce. Our talks weren't quite the same: we spoke mainly about Callie.
We no longer goofed around at night, joking and sharing secrets, and if I asked her too many personal questions, Joyce would suddenly turn cold. I didn't understand why, but she was erecting new boundaries. Then I started noticing little things—like Joyce smelled different. She came home late, smelling like men's cologne, and when I asked her where she'd been, she claimed her class ran late. Or traffic was bad. Or she had to do some extra research and forgot to call. One night Joyce collapsed on the sofa and said she'd been out for pizza, but she had a rumpled glow that made my skin itch. It was one thing if she wanted to date, but why wouldn't she tell me? How could she rely on me so much and then lie about where she'd been?

“It's nothing,” Joyce said. “Don't be paranoid.”

I wondered if Curtis said the same things after he'd disappeared for hours. Lara had called me earlier that night and I wondered if I should mention it. I could just drop in her name and then watch for Joyce's reaction. But Joyce wasn't in the mood for questions; she was going to bed. As she brushed past me I caught a whiff of something musky. It was the same cologne I'd noticed before. Sweet like lettuce, ocean breezy. Manly, protective. I sniffed as Joyce walked past and inhaled Curtis.

In the parking lot behind Pembury High, I lied to Callie. I lied to her in the same way that I'd been lied to myself. I told myself I was protecting her and that she couldn't understand. She must've thought the same things when she lied to me.

“So why'd he do it?” she asked. “Why'd he kill himself?”

I thought of the ringing phone. The sound of Lara's breath in my ear.

“Even if I could read your dad's mind, I wouldn't know why,” I said. “When people do things like that, sometimes even
they
don't understand why. And if someone tells you a person must've done
this
because
that
happened first, it's just a guess. People put together lots of facts and still miss the truth.”

“So he slit his wrists,” Callie said softly.

I rested one hand on her shoulder. I didn't know where she'd got wrists from.

“No, sweetheart. It was pills. He overdosed on pills.”

 

All My Interactions with Robyn Doblak, #9

For Rebecca/From Callie

I think my life would be completely different now if I'd waved back to Robyn in the cafeteria. I could've gone over and played with Papa, without caring what anyone thought. But Robyn dropped her hand when she realized I wasn't coming over. Then Ella started giggling. “Does she keep her papa in that bag?”

“His ashes. No, his bones,” Dallas cackled.

“A bag of daddy bones! Callie, where are you going?”

I was headed for the lobby because I needed to get away, but my friends were on my heels. Dallas was laughing.

“Is that your new bestie? Did you guys start a club?”

“I don't know that girl. She was talking to someone else.”

“Oh, sad face! Did you join the Dead Dad Club? The Dead Daddies Club. The Club of Dead Dads.” Dallas chewed each word, testing it out, and then Ella joined in. They said it together. “The Dead Daddies Club!”

This was fun, funny—OMG hilarity! I wouldn't lose my jelly over a dead-dad joke. I smiled, sort of, as sweat trickled down my neck, and then I reminded myself that this was all Robyn's fault.

“She thinks her dad lives in an imaginary dog,” I said. “She's such a freak.”

I didn't know I was going to say that until it came out of my mouth. Then it was too late. Ella and Dallas were laughing.

“Did you see that shirt she was wearing?” Ella gasped. “Über-ganky.”

“She must've forgot her bra,” Dallas said. “You could see those skinny nipples.”

“They're like bullets,” I agreed. “So gross.”

“You know what you need?” Danny said. “You need to go eat some cake.”

I was curled up in bed, holding the cell phone in one hand. I'd called him again, but he didn't seem to mind.

“That's what I do when I feel like crap,” he said. “You know that place Elaine's? If you tell them it's your birthday, all the waiters and waitresses have to come over to your table and sing ‘Happy Birthday' to you. They all smile at you and clap at you and they give you free dessert. Like, ‘Happy birthday, dear Rebecca, happy birthday to you.' ”

“I don't think cake will help,” I said.

“You won't know until you try.”

I imagined getting in my car, driving to Cansdown, meeting him in a diner. I remembered the firm grip of his callused hands and pictured the creamers on the table, the little pink packets of sugar. I was already starting to bargain with myself. Maybe we could just be good friends. By the time Callie was eighteen, I'd be thirty-eight, and maybe he'd still be single. We could start slowly. We'd meet up in diners and cafés and drink bad coffee.

“I wish I could, but I can't leave Callie.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I used to get in some trouble in school,”
he said. “I got suspended plenty of times for fighting and messing around. I was like this volcano, somebody would poke me and I'd explode. I was all, ‘You gotta problem with me? I'll give you a problem.' Half the time I was lashing out at the wrong people—some kid would get at me and next thing you know I'm chucking stuff at the teacher.”

I imagined Danny as a curly-haired runt, waving his fists in the air. His motives were comically simple—unlike Callie's.

“I don't know if it's the same for her,” I said. “She's not fighting, and this is all new to her—the lashing out. She's been asking me about her dad. I think part of this is grief.”

“How long has it been? Nine years?”

“It's difficult for most people to imagine,” I said. “Nine years isn't that long.”

“Did she tell you what her teacher said before she started swearing?”

“She claims she wouldn't let her go to the bathroom.”

“Some of the things that go on in high school could make anyone start acting crazy. You wouldn't believe some of it—it still makes my blood boil. And if you're on the wrong side of it, forget it—you're done for,” he said.

“I mean, I grew up in Cansdown. I know it can be like that, but where we live…”

“And kids are secretive—they don't always want you to know—especially if she's getting into it with friends.”

I couldn't help it. I felt judged. He could tell how bad I was at this—how unmotherly—so he was trying to impart some of his natural parental wisdom, but it felt like he was reading to me from a parenting brochure. I'd read those pamphlets: how to protect your child from bullying, from drugs, from low self-esteem. They were full of perfectly useful information, but in this case they had nothing to do with Callie.

“Her friends are her biggest defenders,” I told him. “They were the ones who protected her from Robyn.”

Danny was quiet, waiting for me to come up with some other explanation, and I remembered the way I'd felt in his office, and I decided to tell him.

“You know, she was there when her mother was killed. Callie was five years old when it happened, and they told us she couldn't have seen anything because she was asleep in the back of Joyce's car. But now I'm starting to wonder. I'm thinking she might've had some kind of flashback. Because wouldn't the noises have woken her up—the lights and sirens? Everything happened only a few yards from where she slept. And maybe Robyn's note triggered her memory, telling her to die like her mother.” Danny exhaled softly. “Why don't you ask her?”

But he didn't understand how impossible that would be.

“Where's Mommy?” Callie used to ask when Joyce was at her evening classes.

“She's studying at the college,” I told her.

“With the man?”

“What man?” I asked, squatting down to her level.

Callie made an adorable giggling face, shrugging, unable to tell me. And when I pressed her further she named her favorite cartoons. When I mentioned this to Joyce, I noticed how she turned her face away, pretending to be busy brushing crumbs off the table.

“She's got a great imagination,” Joyce said.

“Also, Lara called again.”

“Why don't you just screen her calls? Don't encourage her so much.”

I watched Joyce dump the crumbs in the garbage, before wiping the sweat off her upper lip. She wasn't wearing any makeup, but her cheeks were pink.

“If something was going on, you'd tell me, right?”

“Jeez, Rebecca,” she said. “Nothing's going on.”

Then one day I saw Curtis in Cansdown. He was putting gas in his car. Broad shoulders. Brisk movements. Serious-looking belt. I started crossing the forecourt, unsure of my intentions. Would I hug him or punch him? Start berating him over Callie? I hadn't seen him in so long. I didn't know if we hated each other.

“Hey, you,” I said.

Curtis seemed surprised, but he didn't snub me. His voice wasn't chilly; he even smiled a little bit. His face was puffier than before, and he'd shaved off his sideburns. We started talking about his mother; Aunt Bea was having problems with her lungs. “They told her to quit,” Curtis said. “But you know my mom.” He started mimicking the way she chain-smoked, bringing two fingers quickly to his mouth, and he seemed so much like the man I remembered, the boy I'd grown up with, that I looked into his dark unblinking eyes and wondered how he could do it.

I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. “Did you know that Lara calls us?”

“Yeah, I heard that,” he said, giving the gas pump one last squeeze.

He seemed so unconcerned that I had to push him further.

“She knows something's going on. You should be careful.”

“Sure.” He glanced at the meter. “But it's only once in a while.”

“Nothing's going on,” Joyce swore. “They're just visits with Callie.” Curtis had thought I knew. Why wouldn't my best friend tell me?

“I didn't know how you'd take it,” she claimed. “You act like you hate him. Plus, you were talking to Lara. I didn't want you to have to lie.”

She didn't say she thought I'd be jealous. She didn't need to.

How often? Where did they meet? How did they arrange it?

Every four weeks they'd get an ice cream and walk on the beach. Joyce had his number at the courthouse; they called each other at work. “Rebecca, I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't think you
wanted
to know.”

And what about those times she'd come home late after her classes? I remembered her rumpled glow as she threw herself down on the couch.

Joyce suddenly bristled. “You don't own me. I can date.”

I picked up a strudel after work on Friday. It was raspberry, Callie's favorite, and I pictured us polishing off the crumbs as we talked over cups of tea. She'd finished the second day of her in-school suspension, and I'd decided I needed to push her further. I wouldn't ask her about the past, I'd just focus on her problem at school. I imagined our heads tipping together, beams of light across the kitchen table, a golden-haired girl embracing her kindly guardian. She'd finally explain about the chocolate, and I'd consider reducing her two-week grounding. And if she brought up any memories from the past I'd tell her that none of it was her fault.

When I got inside, Callie was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, eating raw baby carrots out of the bag. She was watching a reality show about
models, apparently absorbed, without a phone or computer screen dividing her attention. “Robyn left something for us,” she said, without lifting her eyes from the screen.

The sheet of paper was on top of the mail, on the sideboard by the front door. The pink-lined page had been folded in half.

SUNDAY NIGHT, 1 A.M., BRIDGE OVER FLINT STREET, JUMPING
.

“Where was this? Did you see her?”

“No. It was just in the mailbox when I got home.”

She said there wasn't an envelope. Robyn must've come here. My legs started to tremble. She knew where we lived.

“She must know she's got our attention,” I said, switching off the TV and putting down the strudel. “She knows I called her mom before. But why would she come here? How does she know where you live?”

Callie began opening the strudel, working the white string off the edges. “Maybe someone told her. Who knows?”

“Well, it's harassment,” I said. “Even if it is a hoax. She wants to scare you into thinking she's going to jump off this bridge. Otherwise why else? Why now?”

With a final yank, Callie opened the box and looked at the strudel. “Revenge,” Callie said evenly. “To teach me a lesson.”

Teach her a lesson
, I thought. What wonderful lessons! Robyn squirts paint on her shirt and blames it on Callie. She goes to Joyce's grave and leaves a note saying Callie should die. Now she threatens to kill herself by jumping off a bridge. What kind of lessons were these? Lessons in psychopathy? Lessons about what happens when you don't love a maniac back?

“She has nothing to teach you,” I snapped. “Nothing at all.”

Callie dipped a finger into the crust of the strudel and then looked at me guiltily, as if waiting to be told to get a plate and a knife. “If she's going to jump, someone has to go there,” she said tentatively. “To the bridge on Sunday. You'll stop her, right?”

“No,” I said. “I'll call up her mother and end this right now.”

Callie watched me as I got out my cell phone and found Cerise's number. It went straight through to voice mail, so I left a message asking her to call me back. Then I called a second time and told her about Robyn's intentions. “Sunday night,” I said. “Don't let her out of your sight.”

Callie was picking at the strudel. She pulled off a chunk with her fingers. I looked at her sticky red hands as she popped the pastry into her mouth.

“ ‘Don't let her out of your sight'?” she repeated, once I'd ended the call.

“What's wrong with that?”

“You sound crazed. I bet her mom won't listen to you.”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked. “I'll call back and leave another message.”

“Oh, great,” she muttered. “Why don't you just use your ESP?”

I felt myself flushing. I hated personal sarcasm. But I counted silently to ten; the note had obviously provoked her.

“Look, I don't want Robyn to get hurt. But right now, you're more important. I don't want
you
to be upset by this. I'm not going to let her do that.”

“But you're not going to stop her.”

“I just called her mother.”

“Nobody really cares about her,” Callie said darkly. “Her mother won't help her. She sent
us
this note and now we know what she's going to do.”

“You just said she was doing this for revenge on you. We don't know if this is real—or if Robyn even wrote it.”

“Who else?” Callie said, pulling a coil of hair across her eyes. I could smell her shampoo—lemons in the sun.

“You don't know for sure. You didn't see her.”

“I know because.” She pulled more hair over her face. “Because of what I did.”

I stared at her for a long moment. Maybe I was dumb, gullible. I never saw it coming with the people I loved best. Callie appeared the same as always, the light falling on her in patches; she looked just like Joyce. Just like her mother.

“What did you do, sweetheart?”

“I'm not a sweetheart,” she said.

I opened the glove compartment of my car and started pulling out her letters. I opened each aging envelope that she'd addressed to Mom. She didn't come running out of the house to stop me, screaming like a banshee. Or rip herself in two like Rumpelstiltskin. Maybe she didn't even guess what I was doing in my car. Or she might not have cared what I thought of her anymore.

Hi Mom, What's new? Oh yeah nothing. I guess I'm supposed to imagine you hanging out with all the dead celebrities. There'd be this giant screen and you'd gather around like it was Super Bowl Sunday, and you'd watch everything I did with all your celebrity friends. But then they'd start yelling “Nooooooo! Cooooome onnnnnnn! What's this chick's problem?” And you'd go, “That's not my daughter! Somebody change the channel!” Then you'd regret someone like me ever came out of your perfect body
.

I rolled down the car window. Callie had written this last May—she'd used a colorful font on her ink-jet printer. We were visiting Joyce for Mother's Day, about a month after Robyn left school. About a month after Callie was accused of being a bully. I laid the page on the seat beside me, needing a break, just for a second. Then I looked through her older letters, addressed to Mommy. I read about a paper owl she'd made in third grade, getting her nails done with Dallas. These were better, innocent, but I could pretend for only so long.

I know you were perfect—Rebecca talks about you ALL the time. It's like she knows I can't remember so she's trying to push you into my brain
.

I reached impulsively for another old letter and examined a Christmas tree she'd crayoned, each branch topped with gold star stickers. Callie had written about going to the zoo, seeing the penguins. I remembered how we'd stood by the railing, watching them waddle around their enclosure. She blew them good-bye kisses and I'd promised we'd go back soon. Why hadn't we ever gone back? Where had the time gone? I picked up her letter from four months ago.