Pretending to Dance (40 page)

“We'd be careful,” he said, holding the joint to my lips while I inhaled. “You wouldn't even have to be here if you didn't want to be. That way you couldn't get in trouble.”

What was he talking about? I let out the smoke. “What do you mean, I wouldn't have to be here?”

“Like, if I had a party and you didn't want to risk getting caught.”

I had to be misunderstanding him. “This is
my
springhouse,” I said. “If there's a party, I should be here.”

He took a long hit on the joint, then sighed. “Look, Molly,” he said. “You know it's okay when it's just me and you together. Or when we're with Stacy and Bryan. But you and Stacy don't fit in with our other friends. I mean, I like you and think you're cool and everything, but most people I hang out with are a lot older.”

Panic filled my chest. I knew I was losing something. Something I'd never had to begin with. “I thought…” I pressed my lips together hard. I didn't want to cry. “You told me you loved me,” I said.

He laughed. “Well, yeah,” he said. “I love you as a friend.”

I sat up, hugging my arms protectively over my breasts although I knew it was too dark for him to see me. “You just had
sex
with me,” I said. “Doesn't that mean anything to you? Do you always have sex with your friends?”

“Oh great,” he said sarcastically. “Are you going to turn into a whiner?” He sat up, his back to me and his feet on the floor. He pinched out the joint with his fingers. “Don't go getting all emotional on me, all right?” I heard him reach for his jeans. “That's what I mean about hanging out with older people. Older girls. They don't freak out about hooking up.”

“I'm not freaking out!” I said, though I knew my voice made a liar out of me.

“What do you call it?” He pulled on his jeans and stood to zip them up. “I've got to go,” he said, and I heard him hunting on the floor for his shirt. It was too dark to clearly see his face and I felt as though he'd turned into another person in the last few minutes.

I felt desperate to keep him there. I wanted to wind back our conversation to whatever I'd said that had so thoroughly and suddenly turned him off.

“Please,” I said. “What did I say that's so terrible? I don't—”

“Bryan told me you were a mistake,” he said as he pulled on his shirt. “I can see now he was right.”

I hugged my arms more tightly across my chest.
Don't leave!
I wanted to shout.
I'm not a mistake. I can be what you want me to be! You can have parties in the springhouse. Anything you want. Please don't go!

But he did go. He blew out of the springhouse without another word.

I sat alone in the dark, my body trembling convulsively. I felt nauseous, as though if I tried to get up off the bed, I'd get sick. My body was sore and my heart ached. I'd been used. I felt stupid and dirty and ashamed.

Worst of all, I felt alone, like a tiny little speck of a girl in a cold stone springhouse. I was fourteen but felt four. I didn't want to go back to Nanny's. I wanted to be with my parents, the people who I knew loved me. Would always love me, no matter what. I needed them at that moment worse than I'd ever needed anyone in my life.

I dressed in the darkness, slowly, crying quietly. My soft sobs seemed to bounce off the fieldstone walls. I sounded pathetic. I
was
pathetic. I stumbled out of the springhouse and felt my way down the path to the loop road, the beam of my flashlight flickering against the trunks of the trees.

I was still crying by the time I turned onto our road. The meeting would long be over by now, I thought, and my parents would be in bed. That was all right. That was good. I didn't want to see them; if they saw my face, I'd have too much explaining to do. I only wanted to be close to them, that was all. I wanted to feel the security in that house. I wanted to feel the love.

 

55

 

It was eleven-thirty by the time I climbed the steps to the front porch. I slipped quietly into the living room, which was eerily still and deserted, lit only by a table lamp in the corner. Someone must have left that light on after the meeting broke up. I didn't take the time to turn it off, but headed for the stairs, trying to prevent my Doc Martens from squeaking on the hardwood floor.

“Molly?” Russell's voice came from the hallway behind me.

I'd reached the stairs and I froze on the bottom step, my hand on the railing. I had to offer some explanation for being there. I turned around slowly to face him.

“Why aren't you at your grandmother's?” he asked.

“I couldn't get to sleep,” I said. “I wanted to come home to my own bed.”

He took a step closer to me and I was afraid he could see my horrible night written on my face, but it was
his
face that told me something was terribly wrong. Despite the dim light in the room, I could see that his eyes were red, his cheeks drawn.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

He hesitated, looking uncertain. I'd never seen him so unsure of himself. So
sad.

“It's your father,” he said finally. “He's very ill, Molly.”

I sucked in my breath, looking past him down the hall. I started walking in the direction of my parents' room, but he caught my arm.

“You can't go in there,” he said.

“I need to
see
him.” I tried to wrench my arm free but he held it fast.

“Molly … it's better if you don't.” His fingers bit into the flesh of my arm.

“Why?”
I tried to stare him down.

He hesitated again, studying my face as if he could see through my eyes to my soul, and I saw the exact moment he gave in. He let go of my arm. “Come with me,” he said, and with a hand on my back, he started walking me down the hall toward my parents' bedroom.

My heart pounded as we neared the bedroom. The way Russell was acting, I was afraid of what I would find inside. I pushed open the door and stood there paralyzed as I took in the scene. In the dim lighting, I saw Daddy lying on the bed. He was propped up slightly on some pillows, his eyes shut. My mother lay next to him, her cheek against his shoulder, an arm across his chest. She lifted her head when I opened the door, her eyes wide. I thought she looked terrified. “Molly!” she said, jerking me out of my paralysis. I ran toward the bed.

“What's wrong with him?” I said, reaching for my father's arm. He was very still. Too still. I needed to shake him awake. “Is he breathing?” I asked.

“I explained that he wasn't feeling well,” Russell said to my mother.

I saw Daddy's chest rise and fall. He was alive! “Did you call the ambulance?” I asked.

My mother looked up at Russell. “Please take her to her room, Russ,” she said. She sounded exhausted.

“Is the ambulance on its way?” I shook off Russell's hand as he tried to take my arm again.

“I didn't call an ambulance,” my mother said.

“Why not? Are you crazy?” I reached for the phone on the night table, but Russell leaned past me, his hand holding down the receiver.

“He wouldn't want that,” he said.

“But he's really sick!” I didn't understand them. What was going on?

“Honey, listen to me.” My mother lightly rubbed Daddy's shoulder with her hand as she spoke to me. Her voice was soft and controlled. “Listen, please,” she said. “He knew he was getting very sick over the last few weeks and months. He knew he would die soon and he didn't want to go to the hospital when the time came. He didn't want … heroic measures to save his life. He wanted to be allowed to die peacefully. And that's what's happening, honey. He's—”

“He's dying?” I stared at her, incredulous.

“Yes,” she said.

I started to cry. I reached across her to grab my father's hand and shake his arm. “Daddy! Please!” I begged. “Don't die! I need you!”

I felt Russell's hands on my shoulders and my mother held on to my wrist. “Sweetheart, stop,” she said, her voice firm.

“But we can't just let him die!” I sobbed.

“Sh, Molly. You have to stop.” She let go of my wrist, cautiously, as though she didn't trust what I might do. “Let him have these last moments in peace,” she said.

I pressed my hands to my face. I couldn't believe what was happening. “Please,” I begged her from behind my fingers. “Please.” I wasn't even sure what I was pleading for any longer.

“Molly.” Russell's voice was unbearably calm. His hands were still on my shoulders. “There's nothing to do,” he said. “It's all good. He's right where he wanted to be.”

I felt beaten down. I lowered my hands from my face and looked at my father and knew that Russell was right. Daddy looked peaceful. There was nothing to do.

My mother lightly touched my hand with her fingertips. “If you're okay … if you can sit quietly … you can stay here with him and me. You can help me let him go.”

I hesitated. “Okay,” I said, so quietly I barely heard myself.

She wrapped her hand around mine, squeezing gently. “Come around the other side of the bed, honey.” Her voice was gentle. “It's okay.” I saw her look up at Russell. “We're all right,” she said to him.

“Okay.” Russell sounded uncertain. “Call if you need me.”

I didn't hear him leave the room as I walked around to the other side of the bed. I climbed onto the bed and sat next to my father, my back against the headboard. I was still crying quietly, my throat tight with tears. Daddy's breathing was irregular. It seemed to stop, then suddenly start again, but his face was almost serene. He looked like he was simply asleep. Was this really, truly what he wanted? I remembered the night of the party, when he didn't want the ambulance to come.
Yes,
I thought, my heart full of sorrow. He probably would want us to simply let him go.

“Do you want to hold his hand?” Mom asked.

I looked down to where Daddy's hand rested on the bed. I nodded, lifting his still warm hand into mine. I remembered the last time I'd lain with him on this bed. We sang “Lyin' Eyes” together. He'd been so alive that night. So happy.

“He was fine at dinner tonight,” I looked across his chest at my mother. “He ate all that meat loaf, remember? He was fine.”

“I know he seemed fine,” she said. “But he's been up and down for a while.”

“Did it start during the meeting?”

She hesitated. “We cut the meeting short because he wasn't feeling well,” she said. “He was exhausted.” She looked past me, toward the dark windows. “Let's not talk about it, Molly,” she said. “Let's just be with him right now. It's his time. He knew it was coming and I promised I'd be here for him.”

She rested her head on Daddy's shoulder again and closed her eyes.
She's so brave,
I thought. I'd try to be brave myself. I rested my cheek against his other shoulder and shut my own eyes. Immediately, though, I was back in the springhouse. I remembered the stupid, reckless thing I'd done with a boy who didn't care about me at all. Daddy would have been so ashamed of me.
This is the worst night of my life,
I thought.
The worst night ever.

*   *   *

I wasn't sure exactly when he died.

I woke up in Russell's arms as he carried me up the stairs to my bedroom. I felt tired and confused and let him put me on my bed without a fight. I was still in my clothes and he covered me with a blanket.

I jerked awake as the sun began streaming into my room.
Daddy.
Instantly, I was on my feet and racing down the stairs. I ran into my parents' room to find it empty and felt an insane sliver of hope that Daddy had recovered. I would find him in the kitchen, wolfing down his pancakes. I started to turn toward the door, but something on the night table caught my eye. I took a step closer to see the stained-glass pencil case, partially hidden by the phone. Next to it was my father's water bottle, an inch of water in the bottom.

I sat down on the bed and reached for the pencil case, holding my breath. I lifted it to my lap and raised the lid, but I already knew what I would find inside. Nothing.

I remembered seeing my mother reach into the pocket of her pharmacy coat the night after the book tour. I remembered watching her as she slipped pills into the case, hidden away in the kitchen cabinet.

Jumping to my feet, I threw the case to the floor with such force that I heard it crack. I stomped on it, flattening the glass to the floor beneath my Doc Martens. I ran out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen, where Russell was folding up Daddy's wheelchair near the back door, and my mother was taking a bowl of something from the microwave. They both looked up when I burst into the room.

“You killed him!” I shouted at my mother as I rushed toward her, my arms outstretched, and she dropped the bowl to the floor, a look of alarm on her face. I wanted to push her into the wall, but Russell grabbed me from behind.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “Cool it, Molly.”

My mother stared at me. “Why on earth would you say that?” she asked. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her hair was a mess and she was still in the same khaki pants and shirt she'd had on the night before when she'd sat next to Daddy on the bed.

“I found the pencil case on the night table!” I said, struggling to free my arms from Russell's grasp. “You gave him all those pills. How could you do that?”

“Honey!” She frowned at me, then stepped over the broken bowl on the floor to reach the counter near the phone. She picked up a sheet of paper and held it out to me. Russell let go of me so I could take the paper from her. “We called the doctor right after Daddy died,” she said. “He came over and this is the death certificate. See?” She pointed to the line that read
cause of death
and I saw that the doctor had written
natural causes
and signed his name.