Pretending to Dance (30 page)

Upstairs, Stacy and I washed the makeup from our faces and climbed into the double bed in my room. I stared at the ceiling.

“Do you get dilated pupils from weed?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “And the munchies. I'm starving, aren't you? But I think I'm too tired to eat.”

“I'm not very hungry,” I said. The events of the night had killed my appetite.

Stacy didn't say anything, and after a few minutes, I heard her even breathing. I knew it would be a long time before I fell asleep myself, though. I kept picturing the scene on the ground, illuminated under the floodlights. It wasn't so much my father's face I remembered, but my cousin's. I'd been strangely touched by that smudged eyeliner. The way it trailed down her cheeks like the makeup on one of those sad clowns. I'd felt a taste of her life tonight. I could imagine how she didn't fit in well anywhere, and how she must have been mocked at school just for being who she was. Her hostility toward me—toward the world—was a defensive shell, I thought. I'd be kinder to her from now on. I wouldn't let her nastiness bring out my nastiness.

I heard voices through my open bedroom window and lay still to listen. My mother? Quietly, I got out of bed and walked over to the window. Kneeling on the floor, I pressed my face close to the screen in the darkness. Our front steps were only a few yards below me, and my mother sat on the top step, Amalia next to her. They both clasped mugs of something balanced on their knees, and my mother held a cigarette between her fingers. I'd never seen her smoke before. I was stunned. It was as though my whole family was changing before my eyes.

I watched her lift the cigarette to her mouth and the tip glowed orange as she inhaled. She blew out the smoke, then shook her head. “I feel as though I'm losing my mind, Amalia,” she said. She sounded as worn out as I'd ever heard her.

Amalia didn't say anything right away. Watching them from above, I thought she looked much younger than my mother, her hair falling in waves over her shoulders. Finally, she spoke. “Tonight felt like the last straw,” she said.

My mother nodded. “Trevor could ruin everything,” she said as she lifted the cigarette to her mouth again.

“I know,” Amalia said. I wished I knew what they were talking about. It felt like a code to me, one only the two of them understood.

“Do you think of him as weak?” Mom asked after a moment. Her voice was so quiet I had to hold my breath to hear her.

“No,” Amalia said, “but he's tired. He's so tired, Nora.”

My mother seemed to catch her breath. She set her mug on the step next to her, then lowered her head to her knees, her shoulders shaking. Amalia put an arm around her, and there they sat—my two mothers, so close to me I felt as though I could raise the screen and reach out to touch them.

I wished I could.

 

37

 

I started carrying my palm stone around with me the day after the party. I didn't give the decision much thought. I simply pulled the stone from my dresser drawer and stuck it in my pocket. Every once in a while, I'd wrap my hand around it and feel an instant sense of comfort wash over me. I needed that comfort in a way I didn't understand.

Chris and I talked on the phone for a long time that day and I told him everything that happened the night before. Each time I shut my eyes, I saw Daddy and his chair sailing off the pavilion and my stomach dropped down to my toes. It was the only thing on my mind and it all came spilling out while I talked to Chris. He turned out to be a good listener, although after a while he said he had something to tell me and I realized I'd made the phone call all about me, me, me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to dump everything on you like that.”

“No problem,” he said, “but I think you're going to like what I have to say. It's about Tuesday night.”

“Oh my God!” I said. “Are you coming to Stacy's?”

“You've got it,” Chris said. “We'll show up around midnight, once Stacy's mother's asleep. She'll never know.”

“Awesome!” I said. Finally, I was going to get to see him again. I only hoped Stacy's mother was a sound sleeper. The last thing I needed was for my parents to find out I was sneaking around with Chris again.

*   *   *

On Monday afternoon, I was back in Daddy's office with him, typing chapter 12 of his book. I'd barely seen him the day before. He'd slept a lot, worn out from everything that had happened at the party, I guessed. Mom had stayed with him in their bedroom much of the day, and even this morning at breakfast, she was still hovering over him, brushing Russell aside so she could feed my father herself. Now, though, except for the bruises on his temple and chin and an ugly scrape on his right arm, he seemed like himself.

I looked down at the keyboard and noticed that my starry blue nail polish was chipped and ragged looking. I'd take it off later today, I thought, and give my nails a fresh coat for tomorrow night when I would finally see Chris again.

“Start a new paragraph,” Daddy said.

I hit the return key, then turned to look at him. “I just realized you haven't asked me to type any case notes lately,” I said. “Are all your patients on vacation or what?”

“Well,” he said, “you've probably noticed over the last few months there've been fewer and fewer case notes to type.”

“I figured Mom did most of it for you in the spring while I was in school because of my homework and everything.”

“No,” he said, “there were actually fewer.” He was looking past me to the computer screen. I could see the screen reflected in the blue of his eyes, the image so perfect, I could nearly see the individual words. “I stopped taking new cases in late April and I've gradually been winding down the ones I have,” he said, looking directly at me then. “I'm actually ready to terminate my practice.”

“Terminate?” I was shocked. “You mean …
end
?”

He nodded. “Exactly. “

“Why would you do that?” I asked. “You always say how much you love helping people and everything. It keeps you in touch with what's happening in the world. It gives your life purpose.” The words raced out of my mouth in a panic. “That's what you always say.”

He smiled at me. “You actually do listen to the things I say, don't you?” he said. He tilted his head to one side. “I'm a bit worn out, Molly,” he admitted. “It's getting harder to make the trek into the office, and—”

“People could come to you!” I swiveled in the desk chair to face him. “They would! You told me about therapists who see their patients in their houses. And we need the money, don't we?”

He laughed. “No, we don't need the money,” he said. “We're fine.”

“Well, you could still see people here and rest in between appointments,” I said. “I could help you fix up the office for them. It'd be fun and—”

“Molly,” he said calmly, “I
want
this. I want to terminate. You won't change my mind. It's time and it's nothing to get so alarmed about.”

“I'm not alarmed,” I said. “I'm just trying to understand.” I
was
alarmed. He loved his work. It gave him joy, he told me once. I felt overwhelmed at the thought of him not working. How could I find enough for him to do to keep him from getting depressed? “Will you still work on the book?” I pointed to the computer screen.

“Sure,” he said. “We're nearly done with this draft, though. This is the last chapter. And then I'll turn it over to Mom and she'll whip it into shape. She's so good at—”

“You'll write another one then, though, right?” I interrupted.

“Well … let's see.” He leaned his head against his headrest and studied the ceiling. “I've written one for kids, one for adults, and one for therapists.” He looked at me with a smile. “I'm not sure who's left.”

“Teenagers,” I suggested.

“I think I covered teens in the one for kids, wouldn't you say?”

“You'll be bored!” I said.

“I can read. You know how much I love reading.”

“That won't be enough for you,” I argued. “I know what your mind is like. You'll need more to—”

“It's an early retirement, Moll,” he said, his voice calm. “Lots of people take early retirements. People lucky enough to be able to afford to do it, anyway.”

I turned at a knock on the doorjamb and saw Uncle Trevor standing there. The last person in the world I felt like seeing. “Hey,” he said softly, and his smile was uncertain, as though he wasn't sure he'd be welcome in the room. My father's chair faced away from the door, but Daddy knew who it was without being able to see him.

“Hey, Trev,” he said, as though he wasn't talking to someone who had nearly killed him two days earlier. “What's up?”

“Can I come in?” Uncle Trevor asked.

“Of course,” Daddy said. I wished he'd told him “No, we're busy,” but that obviously wasn't the way he planned to handle the situation. I would rather not have to see my uncle at all, ever again.

Uncle Trevor crossed the room and sat in the only spare chair, which was against the wall behind me. Daddy could easily see him in that chair, and I swiveled around to face him so the three of us formed a triangle. I could tell right away that Uncle Trevor was a different man than the sloppy drunk who'd pushed Daddy off the pavilion. He looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower, his salt-and-pepper hair damp. He was neatly dressed in khaki pants and a green Hawaiian print shirt, and his expression was sheepish.

“Just here to apologize,” he said, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he leaned his burly forearms on his thighs, pressing his hands together. “Actually,” he said, “I'm mortified.” He looked like he might cry. I hoped not. I didn't want to feel sympathy for him, and that would do it. “I hardly remember what happened,” he said. “What I said. What you said. What I
did.
” His chin trembled and I looked down at my hands, embarrassed for him. “
Shit,
Graham,” he said, “I can't believe I did something like that.”

“Apology accepted,” Daddy said simply, and I could tell he meant it. He really did forgive him. I wasn't ready to.

“I'm not going to drink anymore,” Uncle Trevor said. “I get stupid when I drink … not that that's any excuse for what I did. I didn't mean to push your chair clean off the damn pavilion. I just…” His voice faded and he looked down at the floor, rubbing his hands together again. “I don't think I'm an alcoholic or anything like that, but—”

“No?” Daddy asked.

Uncle Trevor looked surprised. “You think I am?”

“You have a problem with alcohol, Trevor,” Daddy said. “You always have. Your personality changes when you drink … and quite honestly, you don't have the best personality to start with.”

I stiffened, afraid of how Uncle Trevor would react to that, but he laughed. “I know,” he said. “I'm a lot like Daddy.” It took me a minute to realize he was talking about my grandfather. Nanny's husband. I'd never known him, but suddenly I felt as though I did.

“Right,” Daddy agreed. “And he never got it under control. You can.”

I was beginning to feel as though I didn't belong in the room. This was a conversation between brothers with a shared history.

“Toni says I have a way of hurting the people I love,” Uncle Trevor said.

“Only when you're toasted, Trev,” Daddy said.

Uncle Trevor sat back and ran his hands through his hair. “I talked to Toni for a long time last night.” He glanced at me, then back to my father.

“Let's save this conversation for another time,” my father said. “Molly and I need to get back to work here.”

“Just…” Uncle Trevor began again. “I want you to know I've decided to come to the meeting on Tuesday.” He stood up and took two steps to reach my father's chair. Putting his big hand around the back of Daddy's neck, he bent over to kiss the top of his head. “I love you, man,” he said. “I'll be there and I'll be stone-cold sober, too. Okay?” He stood up straight again.

Daddy smiled up at him. “I appreciate that, Trev,” he said. “More than I can say.”

Uncle Trevor left without saying good-bye, and I looked at my father who stared out the window in a sort of trance. We were both quiet as we watched Uncle Trevor cross the yard to his truck.

“That was intense,” I said, when I heard the door of the truck slam shut.

“He can be an intense guy.” Daddy seemed to pull himself out of the trance, nodding toward the keyboard. “You ready to get back to work?” he asked.

I didn't lift my hands to the keys. “I'm never going to forgive him,” I said, shaking my head. “He could have
killed
you, Daddy.”

“You'll feel better if you do,” he said.

“Maybe someday,” I said, “but I'm still too mad at him right now.”

“It's hard to move on if you don't forgive,” he said. “It's like trying to dance with a lead weight on your shoulders. The anger can weigh you down forever.”

He was talking to me in his shrink voice and it was all I could do not to roll my eyes. Instead, I swiveled to face the keyboard, lifting my fingers with their chipped starry blue nail polish to the keys. “So,” I said, “where were we?”

 

38

San Diego

I check the screen on my cell phone for the fifth time. It's nearly twelve-thirty. Sienna had told us she'd meet us at noon. We're not off to a good start with this girl.

I dip a tortilla chip into the bowl of guacamole next to my iced tea. From across the table, Aidan gives me a weak grin. “I thought you were going to wait till she got here?” he says.