Pretending to Dance (19 page)

Russell turned the key in the ignition but nothing happened. The van didn't even make the chugging sound it had made in our driveway a few days earlier.

“Oh no.” Russell frowned at the dashboard. “I never should have turned it off.” He tried turning the key three more times and I started to panic.

“Maybe you should try again,” I said, reaching toward the key like I might try to turn it myself. “Maybe you're not holding it right,” I said.

Russell gave me a “who are you trying to kid?” look, and I dropped my hand into my lap as I sank deeper in the seat.

“I'll have to use your friend's phone,” he said.

 

24

 

It was too hot for Daddy to stay in the van, so Russell lowered the platform and wheeled him around Bryan's pickup and into the shade of the carport, tucking his chair in between the chunks of carport ceiling that were on the concrete pad. While he was doing that, I ran back into Stacy's house to find the three of them sitting in the living room, sharing another joint.
Oh God.

“Put that out!” I snapped. “My father's aide has to come in to use the phone. Our van won't start.”

“What do you mean, your father's aide?” Bryan asked. “Is he royalty or something?”

“He's crippled!” Stacy grabbed the joint from Chris's fingers and stubbed it out in an astray on the coffee table. “You guys better leave. Go out the back—”

“No!” I said. “My father's sitting in the carport. He'll see them if they leave.”

“Go upstairs, then!” Stacy carried the ashtray into the kitchen, and the boys bolted for the stairs just as Russell knocked on the frame of the broken screen door.

I pushed the door open for him. “The phone's in the kitchen,” I said. I was breathless.

Russell followed me into the kitchen. I knew he smelled the marijuana. How could he not? Maybe he wouldn't know what it was.

“Hi, Mr.…” Stacy said. The empty ashtray rested on the counter.

“Ellis,” I said.

“Mr. Ellis.” She smiled. “Sorry about the car trouble. You want the phone book?” Stacy was amazing. No shiver in her voice. No insincerity in her smile. She was an ice queen. The only giveaway that she was guilty of anything was in her red lips and raw chin.

“Yes, the phone book, please,” Russell said.

Stacy was already reaching to the top of the refrigerator for the phone book and she put it on the counter in front of him.

He started turning the pages while Stacy and I exchanged looks—mine frantic, hers calming. Then suddenly Russell's fingers stopped moving on the book and he looked at Stacy. “You know,” he said, “I have a set of long jumper cables. If whoever owns that red truck out there is willing to give me a jump, we'll be all set.”

I froze, watching Russell's brown eyes bore into Stacy's nearly black ones. She glanced at me. “It's my brother's,” she said, easy as pie. “I'll get him.”

She went into the living room and we heard her on the stairs. Russell looked at me. “Her brother?” he asked. I knew he didn't believe her.

I nodded, but the motion was more in my mind than my body. I doubted he even noticed.

“I'll go stay with Daddy,” I said. I headed for the living room, desperate to get away from his gaze.

“Molly,” Russell said, and I turned to look at him.

He nodded toward the stairs. “That girl is trouble,” he said quietly.

I didn't know what to say. I walked through the living room, then outside to the carport. Daddy smiled at me from his wheelchair. “Did Russell reach someone?” he asked.

There was an empty ice chest at the side of the carport and I dragged it next to my father's chair, kicking away a piece of the carport's ceiling to make room for it. I sat down on the lid.

“I've got to tell you something,” I said quickly. “Some boys came over. One of them—Bryan—this is his truck. Stacy just told Russell he's her brother, but that's a lie. I didn't know they would be here. Honest, I—”

“Thanks for telling me,” Daddy interrupted, and we heard the back door slam. “I hope Russell's jumper cables are long enough to reach,” he said.

My eyes burned. Was that all he was going to say? I felt no relief, only an intensifying of my guilt.

Chris and Bryan walked through the carport and I stood up. I didn't know whether to look at them or my father or what. Bryan walked straight to his truck and popped the hood, but Chris came up to the wheelchair and held out his hand.

“Hi, sir,” he said and in spite of everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes, I practically melted into a puddle of love for him right then and there.

My father looked at him with an expression I couldn't read. “I can't shake hands,” he said, “but I'm happy to meet you. I'm Graham, Molly's father. And you're…?”

“Chris Turner.” Chris dropped his hand to his side.

Russell had come out the front door and now walked over to the carport, van keys jingling in his hand.

“Bryan here is going to give us a jump, Doc,” he said to my father. He only called Daddy “Doc” or “Doctor” when he wanted someone to show my father some respect. It always worked.

“Excellent,” Daddy said.

Russell headed for the van and my father returned his attention to Chris.

“You go to Owen High, Chris?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Rising senior, I'd guess?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know the counselors over there,” Daddy said. “The principal and assistant principal, too. Very well. They're a great group.”

Those few words had the effect of draining the color from Chris's face.

“Is that right?” he said, but it wasn't really a question.

“Uh-huh,” Daddy said, and I knew the language he and Chris were speaking went a lot deeper than the words. I wondered what the counselors and principals at Owen High School would have to say about Chris that was making him squirm.

“Give me a hand here, Chris,” Bryan said, and I saw the relief in Chris's face as he excused himself to help Bryan and Russell with the jumper cables.

*   *   *

Once he'd gotten the van started, Russell turned on the air-conditioning to cool it down, then started pushing my father toward the ramp with me at his side. Chris looked awkward as he stood nearby, his hands in his pockets, and I avoided his eyes.

“Thanks for the jump,” Russell said to Bryan, who gave him a wave.

“Hold on a second, Russ,” Daddy said, when we were nearly to the ramp. He looked at Chris. “She's fourteen, Chris,” he said. “Remember being fourteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you want when you were fourteen?” Daddy asked.

“Daddy,”
I pleaded, embarrassed. I wanted us to get in the van and drive away, not prolong the agony of this encounter any longer.

“I know I was old enough to choose my own friends,” Chris said, and Daddy shot him a look.

“Watch it, son,” he said, and Chris seemed to shrink back a little.

Daddy nodded toward the ramp and Russell pushed him into the van. I looked at Chris. I wasn't sure if my expression conveyed the apology I was hoping for or not, but he smiled at me in a way that told me my father's intimidation wasn't going to put an end to whatever it was we'd started.

*   *   *

I couldn't remember another time when I'd felt nervous around my father. In the van on the way back to Morrison Ridge, my insides were tied in a knot and the silence was so thick it was hard to breathe. I wished he'd say something. I wished he'd yell at me and get it over with—my mother certainly would have—but that had never been his style. I stared out the side window of the passenger seat, my head turned away from Russell, my cheeks hot, wondering who was going to break the silence. I knew it wouldn't be me.

Ten minutes passed before Daddy finally spoke.

“So, Moll,” he said from behind me, “if you had today to do over again, tell me what it would look like.”

God.
Couldn't he lecture me like a normal parent?

“I don't know,” I said.

“Yes you do.”

I hesitated. “I would have told Stacy not to ask those guys over,” I said.

“Oh bullshit,” my father said.

I stared out the passenger side window at the mountains in the distance. “I don't know what you want me to say,” I said finally.

“Don't give me the answer you think I want,” he said. “I really want to know how you would have liked today to be different.”

I thought about it. About how sweet Chris had been to me. How he didn't try anything more than a few kisses. And how much I'd liked those kisses.

“The truth?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“I wish you and Russell hadn't come early and the van hadn't broken down.”

Daddy laughed. It was a big belly laugh and I smiled cautiously. I glanced at Russell whose expression never changed as he stared at the road ahead of him.

“I love your honesty, Moll,” Daddy said. “Next time you go to Stacy's, though, Mom or I will talk to her mother to be sure an adult is going to be there.”

“Okay,” I said. I knew I was getting off easy, and with the relief came the memory of Chris lying next to me on the sofa, his lips against mine, his tongue slipping into my mouth.

I couldn't wait to see him again.

 

25

San Diego

Two weeks have passed since that phone call with Sienna and I must think of her a dozen times a day. Is she relieved at her decision to keep her baby? I hope it's the right choice for her. I barely know her—well, I don't know her at all, actually—and yet I'm worried about her.

“I wish I could talk to her,” I tell Aidan over breakfast one morning.

He looks surprised. “You'll get us kicked off the waiting list,” he says. “You know you can't try to change her mind.”

“No, that's not what I want to do.” I move the blueberries around in my yogurt with my spoon. My appetite has been almost nonexistent ever since Zoe told us Sienna changed her mind. “I just want to let her know we're not angry or hurt or anything like that,” I say. “I don't like the idea that she might feel guilty about the way she handled things.”

Aidan slices a banana onto his granola. “You're making too much out of it,” he says, setting down the knife. He gives me an indulgent smile. “You had one phone call with her and she thought she was talking to a different woman for half of it,” he says.

I have to smile myself. He's right. I'm going overboard.

“She's forgotten all about you,” Aidan continues, “so why are you still thinking about her?” He lifts a spoonful of granola to his mouth. “There will be another baby,” he says, before touching the cereal with his lips. “This one wasn't meant to be ours.”

I remember that Sienna has a mother and a younger brother and a bunch of friends at school who are all in the same boat. “I hope she has a lot of support, that's all,” I say.

“She's not our problem.” He sips his coffee. “Let it go.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay.” I say. He's right. I spoke with Sienna for all of ten awkward minutes. Why am I so worried about her?

*   *   *

I have half an hour before I need to get to the office, so I pour my second cup of coffee and carry it to my desk to check my e-mail. I scan the list of messages until I reach
DanielleK422
. I stare at the address for a moment before clicking on it.

Amalia's back in the hospital. My mother heard about it through the grapevine. I guess she's pretty sick. It's some infection she picked up after one of those surgeries for her broken leg, and they haven't been able to get rid of it. Just passing that info along in case you're interested. xoxo Dani

I read her e-mail twice. I'm truly sorry Amalia's going through this. I try to picture her in a hospital bed as she fights to get well, but her face is blurry in my imagination. I bring up Google images on my screen and type in her name. I've done this before—searched for pictures of Amalia, and have never had any success in finding an image. Why there would be a photograph of her on the Internet, I can't imagine, and yet I can't stop myself from looking. An array of images fills my screen and I hunt through them searching for her. This time, I find her, although I have to enlarge the photo to be sure it's her. I barely recognize her. She's only about sixty years old but her hair, still long and thick, is as white as cotton. Her body is slender and she wears a flowy purple top. Her hair may be different but her sense of style hasn't changed. She's smiling, standing next to a painting on an easel, and when I click on the page, I see that her picture is from an article about a painting class she taught in Asheville.

I'm going to be late for my first appointment this morning but I don't care. I can't tear my gaze away from Amalia's face.

There have been months … maybe even years … when I haven't thought once about Amalia. What happened wasn't her fault, though I've never been able to forgive her for her response to it. I know she's tried to get in touch with me through Dani over the years, the same way Nora has, and I know that my cousin has kept my whereabouts to herself. I owe her for that. I was finished with Morrison Ridge long ago.

And yet, I stare at Amalia's picture. I touch my own face. My cheeks. My lips. I feel for some resemblance, but I know there is little. I have always been my father's daughter. Yet there's no denying that the woman on the screen is my birth mother.

I will call her.

Not now, though, I think, as I shut down my computer. I
will
call her. Just not today.

 

26

Morrison Ridge

I rode my bike into the clearing in front of Amalia's house the day after I was with Chris at Stacy's house and found her loading her basket of cleaning supplies into the back of her car. We'd moved my dance lesson to Tuesday this week—today—because she had something else she needed to do on Wednesday, but she was in her shorts and T-shirt instead of her dance clothes and she looked surprised when she saw me.