Pure Red (17 page)

Thunder slams her fist on the table but quickly jerks her arm back. “I said, leave him out of this. Ryan’s a great guy. Best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Talk about someone in denial. This is sad.

“Then why did he do that to you?” I point to her shoulder.

Thunder takes a deep breath. I watch her chest rise up and down. “He didn’t do this. Or anything.”

“Really,” I say. Even I’ve seen all those episodes of
Law and Order
where the victim sides with her abuser, trying to protect him.

“I don’t care if you guys don’t believe me. It’s the truth!” Thunder shouts.

Coach reaches out and places her hands on top of Thunder’s. “It’s only because we care about you.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t.” Thunder lowers her head.

I thought I had low self-esteem, but damn, hers is rock bottom.

“You’re not
that
bad,” I mumble.

Thunder looks up. Her eyes are cloudy. “I did it, okay.”

Coach and I both look at her but don’t say anything. What is she talking about? She beat herself up?

Thunder rubs her nose. “It was me. I punched Ryan and my shoulder snapped. It was such a stupid fight. But sometimes I can’t help myself. I get so angry.”

Thunder punched the half-ton bulldog? That doesn’t make sense. What about his evil eyes? He had his arm around her so tight, that day I saw them walking to the court.

“But he looks so scary,” I say.

“Ryan’s a teddy bear. He cries at chick flicks.” Thunder’s face is red and splotchy.

I can’t believe I felt sorry for this girl.

“But everyone on the team thinks…”

“I don’t care what they think,” she cuts me off.

“It’s okay, Kate,” Coach says.

“I’m a fucking bitch.” Thunder shakes her head. “I screwed up. It’s like something takes over and I can’t stop myself. Sometimes I get so mad, I feel like my head is going to pop off.” She digs her nails into the side of her arm.

Wow, this is totally messed up.

“It’s great that you’re finally opening up,” Coach says. She sounds like such a natural. How does she know what to say to Thunder? I’m still in shock that she beat up on such a huge guy, even if she is 6’1”.

“That’s about the only thing. I’ve got all the charm of my old man. At least that’s what my mom says.” Thunder laughs. It’s a deep laugh, not the kind reserved for jokes.

“Did he hurt you?” Coach asks.

“Yeah, but he’s history. Ran out on us five years ago. Never seen him since. Wished him dead plenty of times.” Thunder releases her fingernail grip. The color slowly returns to her arm.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. My dad’s never even laid a hand on me. Not even when I’ve acted like a total brat.

“The worst thing is … ” Thunder wipes the tears from her cheek with her palm. “I’ve done this before, taken my anger out on other people, on Ryan.”

“I’m happy to get you help,” Coach says.

“All right,” Thunder complies. She didn’t put up a fight. Maybe there is hope.

“Anything you want to say to each other?” Coach looks at me, then Thunder.

“You’re an okay player, Cashew,” Thunder blurts out.

I look at her. At her hollow brown eyes set a little too far back into her head. I guess this is her way of apologizing. Even if she is the bully, my sympathy for her doesn’t change. She seems so lonely. She’s still a victim. “Thanks. You too, Thunder.”

“Thunder?” She looks confused.

Coach slams her hand on the table. “I’m counting on both of you for Thursday’s game.”

“You still want me?” Thunder asks.

“Absolutely.” Coach nods. “We have some more talking to do, though.”

I drain the last of my soda from the can and stand up. “What about ceramics?”

“Game doesn’t start until five, after ceramics ends. Don’t let that wheel wear you out, because you’re both starters.”

Kate and I look at each other and nod.

battle of orange and red

In a moment of weakness, I agreed to join Dad and Helga for dinner. Actually, Dad asked me four days ago, but now, ninety minutes before we’re supposed to meet Helga at the restaurant, is when I start to panic. The plan is for me to meet Dad at La Reverie before we catch a cab to Athena’s, a Greek restaurant about a mile from the gallery.

First off, I have no idea what to wear. I don’t want Helga to think I’m just some dumb kid. I mean, if there is any remote possibility that she wants to continue to date my dad, she has to know he’s
my
dad. I don’t want some bossy control-freak woman barging into our lives thinking she can take over. That being said, I need to wear something that means business.

I’m leaning toward black pants and a solid shirt, like blue or green. I take out the silk aqua blouse that I save for Dad’s art shows. Aqua usually means you have high ideals. Or I could wear the button-down baby-blue shirt that would be sure to lull Helga to sleep. Maybe then she’d keep her paws off my dad. Even though I feel glam in either of these outfits, I want to wear something that makes an impact. I need to show that I’m in charge. Red is the way to go.

I pull out a wine-colored tank top from my drawer, but it’s ribbed and way too casual. I step into my closet and wade through a couple potential reds. Then I see it, at the very back—my little red dress from the painting.

It’s simple, with a small ruffle lining the bottom. I haven’t looked at it in a long time. Mom sewed it herself, on the same sewing machine that her mom had sewed her clothes on. She wanted us to match for the portrait. We had to stand completely still as Dad worked his magic. The wind on the balcony blew the backs of our dresses slightly, making the warm air bearable. Mom held my hand tight for what seemed like an eternity. Finally Dad said we could call it a day, that he would need us again when he got to the finer details. That day never came, because Mom died five days later. Not even all our love could plug up the pinpoint-sized hole in her heart.

I take the red dress from the hanger and run to Dad’s bedroom closet, where he keeps an oversized box of Mom’s personal things. In all the years since her death, I’ve never seen him take it out. However, I’ve sifted through it on especially lonely days, on days that I long for her companionship. I’ve never gotten to the bottom of the box. I didn’t want the memories of her to come to an end.

The box is pretty heavy but I manage to pull it out and slide it across the carpet. I sit up against Dad’s sturdy iron bed and inch it closer to me. I lift up the flaps and stare inside: jewelry, photos, journals, all things I’m dying to get my hands on. These are my mom’s treasures—my treasures now.

My body is trembling—there’s so much of
her
in this box. I know it sounds stupid, but I can feel her presence, even smell the scent of lilies she left behind. I stick my head in and inhale. Among the musty smell, there’s still that flowery sweetness. I dig down deep until I feel something soft. I slowly pull it out. It’s not the dress, but a red piece of cloth. I haven’t seen this before, or if I have, I’ve ignored it. Is this the material Mom used to sew the dress? I slowly unfold it in front of me; it’s the size of a bathroom towel. I hold it up to my little red dress. The fabric is the same. It’s what an artist would call “pure red.” It’s what I imagine a designer would search for to make the wedding dress for the princess of China. I run the smooth fabric across my face and breathe deep. I remember this is what it felt like to be close to her, to feel her touch, her face as smooth as silk.

I get to the bottom of the box, but no dress. Where else could it be? I quickly glance at Dad’s clock radio. Crap, I need to be at the gallery in less than thirty minutes and I still need to find something to wear. I take the fabric, an envelope of photos, and one of Mom’s journals back to my room with me. The photos and journal will be safe under my pillow until I get home, even though I would rather stay here and devour them now.

I go with black pants and a black tank, then throw the red cloth over my shoulders. Still, my outfit is incomplete. Rummaging through my drawers, I come up with a tube of scarlet lipstick. I paint my lips and blot with a tissue. Maybe I should’ve worn this color to my dinner with Graham. Not that he would’ve noticed the difference from Pink Vixen, but I do.

I stare into the mirror. With the black hair and scarlet lipstick, Vampire Chick comes to mind, but I also feel like an adult. Scary. My cell is ringing. It’s Dad. Figures he actually remembers we have to be somewhere when it comes to a date.

“
Ma cherie
, are you on your way?” he asks.

“I’m leaving in a sec.” I peel myself away from the mirror and slip on a pair of strappy sandals with a small heel.

I’m at the gallery in less than fifteen minutes. Not bad for a girl recently off crutches.

“How’s it going, kiddo? Don’t you look gorgeous! Your dad will be out in a minute.” Lucien pulls up a chair for me and we both sit down at his desk. He opens the drawer and offers me some Saltines. He knows me too well. Maybe they’ll help calm my Helga jitters.

I pull a couple loose from the packet. “Thanks.”

“I’m coming to your game on Thursday. Looking forward to seeing you back on the court.” Lucien crumbles up a piece of paper and tosses it into the trash can.

“Lucky shot.” I fiddle with the top desk drawer, sliding it open and closed. “I’m glad you’re coming. In case Dad forgets.”

“No, your father will definitely be there. I showed him how to program his cell to go off half an hour before he needs to be somewhere.”

I lean back in my chair. “You did not!”

“It was either that or tie a string on his finger.” Lucien laughs. “If it’s any consolation, he was always a bit flighty … just a little more so after Bianca passed. She really kept him in order.”

“I’m not marrying a guy without a personal secretary.” I slam the drawer shut.

“That’s going to be some event. Your wedding. But promise me you won’t get married for at least another twenty years.” Lucien pats me on the back.

I scrunch up my eyes and tilt my head.

“Okay, ten years.”

“For now I’m focusing on non-date number two.”

Lucien gives me a funny look. He’s so easy to talk to, I forget he doesn’t speak
Girl
. I hear the bathroom door swing open. “You’re a good catch, kiddo,” he says. “Your mother would be proud.” There’s nothing like having a pseudo uncle.

I get up from the desk and meet Dad halfway across the gallery floor. His hair is fully gelled back and he’s doused with cologne for the over-forty crowd.

“Cassia, you look so grown up.” He smiles, then takes my hand and twirls me around. He sings the words softly, about the lady in red.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” I smile back at him.

“For an old guy, right?” He puts his hand on his hip and gestures for me to link arms. “Shall we?”

–––––

We arrive at the restaurant before Helga, quite possibly a first for Dad. He talks to the host and picks his own table near the back. The tablecloths are white with cerulean embroidered flowers. Multiple chandeliers hang from the ceiling and the hardwood floor shines like the top of Mr. Clean’s head.

Dad orders me a Coke, but I can’t even take a sip. My stomach is queasy. Actually it’s more a mixture of butterflies and swords. Butterflies for the jitters and swords to keep Helga away. Maybe I should tell Dad I’m not ready yet, that I need a little more time to let the idea of her sink in.

If there ever was a need for an escape door, this would be one of those times. A petite lady with a glowing tan and cropped platinum-blond hair walks toward us with a cell phone glued to her ear. She’s wearing an orange linen dress with thin straps. She shoves her cell in her purse and waves in our direction. Even if I hadn’t seen her before, I would know it was her. She has Helga written all over her face.

I think Dad senses my sudden urge to flee because he rubs my back, then stands up to greet the lady in orange. I wonder what color she would appear to Graham. Poop brown, maybe? Perhaps he has the gift of seeing the truth.

Dad gives Helga a quick peck on the cheek and pulls a chair out for her. I don’t move from my seat, frozen like a Popsicle.

Then she leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek, too. “And you must be Cassia, even more lovely than your father described.”

Hello? Didn’t she see me at the gallery the night I saw her, or was she too busy groping my dad? Without defrosting, I manage to eek out, “Nice to meet you.” I don’t say “Helga” because the very mention of that name might send me into giggle spasms. I can’t get the picture of Liz out of my mind breathlessly whispering “Hell-ga.”

With her orange dress, Helga is supposed to bring the warmth of the sun to tame my ball of fire. She is supposed to be in control. Of course, maybe she’s really a gray lady, dull to the core, but forced herself to put the dress on. Okay, a little dramatic, I know, but I’ve got my eye on this woman. One wrong move and she’s out. I didn’t spend a year in the fifth grade doing karate for nothing.

Let the battle of red and orange begin. May the best-dressed lady win.

lady in red

Helga and Dad share a bottle of red wine while I sip at my Coke.

“So, I hear you’re quite the basketball player, Cassia.” Helga dips a piece of focaccia bread into the bowl of oil in the center of the table.

“Kind of short-lived, since I sprained my ankle in the middle of the session.” I tap the tip of my knife against the table, making a small indentation on the tablecloth.

“What about the game on Thursday?” Dad straightens out his collar.

“Yeah, but that’s it, unless we make the finals. Then we could have three more games.” Tap. Tap.

“I’d love to see you play. Mind if I tag along?” Helga’s eyes twinkle. It doesn’t take much to excite this lady. God, does she have to be such a poser? Who says I want her swooning over Dad while I’m trying to score some baskets? As if I need any more distractions during the game.

I tap my knife harder and faster against the table. I wonder if they can kick you out for annoying repetitive noises.

Dad clamps down on my wrist, abruptly ceasing my noisemaker. “Helga asked you a question, Cassia.”

Man, I wouldn’t have agreed to go out to dinner if I knew she was going to be all up in my business.

I wiggle free from Dad’s hold, but I’m still gripping the knife. “It’s really hot on the court, you’ll sweat a lot.” Probably melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“I played tennis for years. I’m used to sweat.” Helga laughs.

Dad’s leaning back in his chair, sipping his wine like he doesn’t have a care in the world. How does he do that? Let everything go? I adjust my cover-up so it doesn’t slide off my shoulders. This is the only piece of fabric that Mom saved. I can’t afford to get it dirty. “Fine,” I murmur. “But don’t be late. Coach hates tardy people.”

The waiter takes our orders. Dad picks lamb and Helga and I both ask for Greek salads. Surely, we can’t have anything else in common besides our choice of dishes. I go to the bathroom twice before dinner arrives. Once because I really have to go and the second time to call Liz. I don’t even wait for her to speak.

“Liz, she’s so annoying. I’m not even going to say her name, but you know who I’m talking about.”

“Your dad’s girlfriend, I mean, friend … ”

“Don’t say that! She’s the lady from Hell. All cheery and crap, wants to go to the game on Thursday.”

“So what’s the bad part?” Liz asks.

“Hello?” I want to smash the phone against the bathroom wall. Would do it, too, if I didn’t remember that’s how Liz broke hers. “It’s totally fake. How could anyone be so happy about meeting some guy’s daughter?”

Liz laughs. “If she gets too nice, then spill your drink on her or flick hot sauce in her eye.”

I open the bathroom door and peek around the corner to make sure no one’s listening. “I can’t do that. You know how much it costs to dry-clean linen.”

“Okay, then do the whole cold-shoulder thing. You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. I think.” I look out at our table. The waiter is setting down plates of food. Dad waves at me. “Dinner’s here. If you don’t hear from me later, assume I’m dead.”

“Don’t forget, Graham’s still alive,” Liz says before I hang up.

Very alive. I wonder what he’d think of Helga. He’d probably like her. Think she was very interesting and friendly. Geez, nobody’s on my side. I stomp back to the table. They’re waiting for me, to eat.

“There you are.” Dad seasons his dish with pepper. “Did you know Helga teaches an art history course at UM?”

“Yes. You already told me that.” I stuff a wad of feta cheese into my mouth.

“I also co-own a framing business,” Helga adds, like that’ll pique my attention.

I let the cheese melt against my tongue before I answer. “Oh, that so
unds fascinating.”

Dad sets his glass down. “Actually, it is. Helga sells high-end, ornate frames. She contracts with museums and big corporations. Has met all sorts of neat people.”

He’s got me wrong if he thinks I’m going to jump on the I’ve-met-a-celebrity bandwagon. A celebrity to her is probably some old country singer with one foot in the grave or the prime minister of some never-heard-of-before country the size of a pea.

“My favorite Miami client is that actor from
Ocean’s Eleven
, Matt Damon.”

“He’s all right for an old guy, Helga.” There, I said her name. All in one syllable, though.

“Framer to the stars.” Dad chuckles at his own joke.

Helga gently rubs Dad’s shoulder. There she goes again with the touchy-feely crap.
Don’t get too close, lady, or I might have to chuck a tomato at you.
“Jacques, you make me sound so important.”

“Well, you are.” He takes her hand and squeezes it.

I clear my throat really loud and slurp my Coke like I’m trying to sip up the entire ocean floor.

Dad and Helga both laugh. I don’t find anything funny. My blood’s overheating. The waiter comes over to check on us. Helga fake-smiles and tells him we’re doing well. Well for a dead fish maybe, but not for me.

I keep my hands busy slicing through the mound of lettuce on my plate. I’m cutting it into tiny rabbit-sized bites like Mom used to do for me when I was small.

Dad nudges me with his elbow. “What?” I snap.

“Don’t you want to ask Helga anything else about hersel
f
?” There is a drop of oil on his white shirt sleeve. I’m not going to tell him; he’ll have to figure it out for himself.

I roll my eyes. “Dad, if you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to eat.”

“Cassia, what’s gotten into you?” He tugs his left earlobe. Is he aware that he’s sending out the Jacques Bernard SOS signal?

I slam my fork down with a clank. “Me? I’m not the one trying to be Mr. Perfect, kissing ass to impress some woman.”

Dad’s face drops. He sets his knife and fork down on his plate. “You’re being very rude to our guest.”

“Our guest?” I push my chair back from the table and fold my arms. “You mean,
your
guest.”

The waiter clears our plates and leaves a few dessert menus on the table.

Silence.

More silence.

I don’t know about them, but I’m enjoying the silence.

“Are we ready?” Dad finally speaks.

“Ready to get out of here.” I grit my teeth.

Dad gives me the death stare. Helga smiles at him and says, “All teenagers would rather be anywhere but with their folks.”

“Hurumph.” I flip open my menu. “Yeah, I’ll get something.” Maybe some chocolate will ease the pain. I flag down the waiter and order a slice of SINsational chocolate cake.

“I’ve got a big surprise for you, Cassia,” Dad says after the waiter finishes taking our dessert orders.

I pull the red fabric tight around my shoulders. I’m skeptical, very skeptical. “What?”

“Well, I should mention that Helga is part of it too,” Dad adds.

She shakes her head no at him. Her orange glow ignites my fire until I feel like my face is a wild blaze burning out of control. The flames quickly spread until my whole body is burning up. Not even a fleet of fire trucks could save me now. “No way!” I yell. I mean, really yell. I get up from my chair so fast that it falls to the ground. It’s so unfair—I just met the lady and now they’re getting hitched! “It’s too soon!” I run from the table, past all the other diners, out the front door.

Dad calls my name, but I can’t stop. The smoke has filled my lungs. I can’t breathe. I need fresh air.

My back is pressed against the stucco wall of the restaurant as I try to catch my breath. I can’t believe them and their sick plan. What’s next, they’re catching a p
lane to Vegas so they can get married by Elvis in the Chapel of Love? Make me puke!

A fire truck races by. I wave my hands hysterically. “The fire’s over here,” I shout.

I see Dad storming toward me. His untucked shirt flaps as he runs.

“Cassia, what is it?” Dad pushes my hands down.

My eyes well up and tears flow freely like a broken hydrant. “How can you marry her?” I blubber.

“Relax,
ma cherie
.” Dad is still holding me. “We’re not getting married. Let’s take things one step at a time.”

I wipe my face with the cover-up before I realize what I’m doing. “Then what’s the grand announcement for?”

“I have a gift for you.” Dad removes a sticky strand of hair from my cheek.

I’m still trembling on the outside, but elated on the inside that they’re not getting hitched. At least not for now.

An older couple walks by and whispers. They were sitting at the table next to us. I don’t care if they’re talking about me. They know nothing about my life.

Dad reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a rubber eraser. He takes my hand and places it inside.

“This is my gift?”

Dad laughs. “No, something to tide you over. Now please come back inside.”

I thumb the eraser, then look up at him. At the few small creases extending from each eye. To my mom he
’s probably forever young. I wonder if she knew how much he truly loved her. Does she know how much we both miss her, how we would do anything to feel her presence? I look up at the sky. The setting sun reveals the night’s colors—crimson, orange, and mauve. I imagine Mom looking down at us.
I’m with Dad now
, I want to say. He grips my hand tight and I follow him inside.

Helga hasn’t moved. She must be one nutty lady to stick around. Who wants to date a guy with a psycho daughter? She smiles big when we get back to the table.

“Sit down and I’ll get it,” Helga says. She walks to the other side of the restaurant.

“Does she have to be here?” I ask Dad.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, Cassia, she’s a good woman.”

“For you maybe.” I roll my eyes.

He doesn’t answer, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s done pleading with me.

Helga returns to the table with a large package wrapped in Bubble Wrap and brown paper. A painting, no doub
t. Don’t tell me she’s a budding artist, too. And if it’s a portrait of her and Dad, I’m going to punch a hole through the center.

Dad moves the condiment basket from in front of me and lays the painting down. Then kisses me on the cheek. “For you,
ma petite fleur
.”

He hasn’t called me his little flower in a long time. Not since I used to climb into his bed when I couldn’t sleep. He would tell me to close my eyes and he wo
uld sprinkle me with magic seeds. The seeds would help me grow, he said. No wonder I have such big feet!

I slowly unwrap the package. First I remove the masking tape, then the Bubble Wrap, and finally the brown paper. I take a deep breath to prepare myself for what might be insi
de.

My heart thumps.

No he didn’t!

It’s so beautiful, and the new frame is amazing, like spun gold.

“Wow,” I say, and look up at Dad. He’s all smiles.

A little girl with long strawberry-blond hair stops at our table to stare at the painting. I don’t blame her. I give her a mini-wave, but her mom tells her to keep moving and pulls her toward the bathroom.

“
Lady in Red
. Dad, why couldn’t you just tell me you were having her reframed?”

Helga and Dad both take their seats again. Dad reache
s across to me. “There’s more to this painting than you think. Look at the woman’s face.”

I pause and stare at it. “You want specifics? Okay, first off, she’s beautiful. She’s wearing sunglasses, has a long nose. I don’t know.”

Dad purses his lips. The words flow from his mouth in slow motion. “It’s … your … mother.”

I don’t even try to hide my confusion. “Huh? That’s impossible.”

“When I first met Bianca, she’d dyed her dark hair blond. This is your mother, and you look very much like her. That’s why I wanted you to have it, because you’re also my lady in red.”

I run my finger down the slope of my nose. My long nose. I wish I too had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind, because my eyes are welling up again and I don’t know how long I can keep the tears from spilling out.

“But why give it to me now?” I gulp back the tears.

“I was going to surprise you with it on Thursday. Her birthday. But I didn’t think it could wait. And when I told Helga about it, she offered to have it reframed.”

“It’s so beautiful. Thanks so much, Dad.” I get up and hug him. “And you too, Helga. I’ve always thought the frame kind of sucked.”

She smiles, then says, “You truly are the lady in red. That wrap is amazing on you.”

“My mother made us dresses out of it. This is the leftover cloth.”

Suddenly Helga rises from her seat. “You know what, I really ought to run. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you two here.” She takes some bills out of her wallet and tries to
hand them to Dad, but he pushes them back at her.

Dad plants a kiss on her cheek and whispers, “Thanks.” I watch as she walks away. The sun gets smaller and smaller, then disappears out the front door. But I can still feel her warmth, especially the glow she left on Dad’s face.

I stare at the painting. At my mother. “Dad, I can’t wait to bring her home.”

His eyes are wet too, but his smile is what really powers his face. “She would be so proud if she could see you now. Cassia, you’ve grown into an amazing young woman. So smart. So talented.”

“But not like you, Dad.” I shake my head. “You’ve been painting since you were three. I only started ceramics this summer.”

“It doesn’t matter when you start something, or if you start it and hate it six months later. Passion comes from within.” He points to his chest. “It just takes different forms. I only wish I was as gifted as you.”

I screw up my face like a jigsaw puzzle. “Yeah, right.”

“To be able to pick up a basketball, then work your hands at the wheel.” He takes my hands in his. “Look at the power you ho
ld.”

“Yeah, I have large hands.” Great for gripping the basketball, not so good for finding a pair of gloves that fit.

“Just like your mother.” He smiles.

“She had big hands too?” I look down at the painting. Her hands are at her sides.