Seashell Season (32 page)

Chapter 91

“W
hat an ass!” Gemma cried after she'd slammed down the receiver and come stomping out of her room earlier and into the kitchen, where I was answering a few e-mails on my laptop.

“Don't call your father an ass,” I said.

Gemma laughed. “What? Seriously? You of all people are telling me not to call my father an ass? The man who ruined your life for seventeen years?”

I winced. “Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction. I was channeling The Spirit of Parenthood. So, what happened?” I had never asked her what she and Alan had discussed during their scheduled phone call. But now it seemed the right thing to do.

“He won't take the plea bargain,” Gemma said, yanking out a chair and dropping into it. “I've been arguing with him about it for weeks. Me and his lawyers. He's such an idiot! Do you know what this means? This means he'll have to serve the full sentence the judge eventually gives him. He could be in prison for, like, ten years! Maybe more, I don't know!”

The news didn't come as much of a surprise to me, I'm sorry to say. Alan's lawyers, I thought, must be ready to wash their hands of him. “I'm sorry,” I said. And to myself I added:
I'm sorry you wasted your time trying to make Alan see reason.

Gemma bent over and put her elbows on her knees, hands clasped in front of her. “It's just that I thought . . . Forget it.”

“You thought what?” I asked gently.

A long moment later Gemma said: “Even after what Marion told me about his past, I guess I still thought I could
maybe
rely on him to be smart. That maybe the thought of having to spend even more time in jail away from me would set him straight. I was wrong.”

I wanted to agree with Gemma that Alan is an ass, but nothing will ever make me change my policy of maintaining a neutral public attitude toward her father. I don't believe in feeding the hate. I can't afford to, especially not now with Ellen and Richard vying for my child's . . . what? Her love?

“Alan,” I said carefully, “never really understood his own best interests. We all have moments when we make decisions that are bound to hurt us, but some people, and Alan is one of them, can't seem to make the other sort of decisions, the ones that will benefit him. I don't think he can help it. I don't think we can really blame him for what he's done.”

But Gemma was having none of it. “
I
can blame him,” she said, looking up at me with an expression of fierce determination, “and I do. In fact, that's it. I'm cutting off all communication with him. The next time he calls, I'm going to refuse to take the call. I'll let the prison people know I don't want anything more to do with him.”

“Are you sure it's really what you want?” I asked gently, and I reached over and put my hand on her arm, for just a moment.

“Yeah. I guess you're happy about that.”

I felt a tiny sting of hurt, but I reminded myself that she was upset. Disappointed. Angry. She wasn't in full control of her emotions. And it was clear to me that she was wrestling with self-pity, something alien, I think, to her personality.
Well,
I thought,
if anyone deserves to feel self-pity, it's Gemma.

“Actually,” I said, “my feelings are complicated. On the one hand, I'm glad you want to put some space between you and your father. I can't see what real benefit it's been, keeping in touch with him. Then again, I'd be expected to say that, wouldn't I? But on the other hand—don't doubt me, here—on the other hand I'm genuinely sorry it's come to this. I'm sorry it's come to your feeling it's best to put Alan aside for however long you need to. No child of whatever age should be put in the position where she has to choose to break away from a parent.” Frankly, I thought, it's heartbreaking. And then I thought of my own father and felt. . . uncomfortable.

Gemma shook her head. “I don't understand why you're being so . . . so generous! He's an idiot. You're sorry I'm rejecting an idiot. That doesn't make a lot of sense, Mom.”

Mom
. “It doesn't have to,” I said, carefully hiding my elation. “Feelings usually don't.”

“Yeah. That's the truth.”

“Do you want to get out of here for a while? Drive to the beach.”

Gemma rubbed her forehead. “No. Wait. Yes.”

I got up from the table. “I'll get my keys.”

Chapter 92

T
he day Alan got arrested and I learned who I really was felt like the absolute worst day of my life, a total end to something, to everything. But now, I don't know. Now it feels even more final, like every last stupid little half hope I had of Alan's doing the right thing, the smart thing, of his not letting me down, has been stomped on. Completely shattered. I have no faith in my father anymore, none.

What if, I wondered, by some weird chance, some flaw in the legal system, he was released from prison tomorrow? Would I want to go back to him?

The answer to that is no.

Nothing and nobody can work miracles for you, I figured that out a long time ago, but I wonder if going to Greyson Academy would somehow really, completely stop me from ever going downhill like my father, from being such a total loser and screwing up the lives of the people he had loved, the lives of the people who had loved him.

Ellen said I had nothing to do with my father and that he had nothing to do with me. But that's not right, and she knows it. Everyone knows it. Bad shit is inherited just like good shit comes down through generations.

I think I called Verity Mom when I was telling her about Alan refusing the plea bargain. I'm pretty sure I did. If I did, it just slipped out. She didn't comment on the “Mom,” but that's like her. She wouldn't embarrass me by making a big deal out of it.

I never really thought about it like this, but if I go to live with Ellen and Richard, there's a chance Richard might become a sort of replacement father or a father substitute.

Do I want that, someone taking over where Alan left off?

Or David. If Verity marries David someday, he'll be my official stepfather.

But it's ridiculous to think about father figures. I have one father, and he's more than enough trouble. Besides, I'm too old to be influenced by some new guy, too old to be positively affected by his attitude toward me. What Alan did to me is what I'm stuck with, right?

I'm so freakin' confused. I'm thinking like an idiot.

For all I know, Richard doesn't really want me to live with them. He could be just putting up with Ellen's whim or fantasy of a happy family or whatever it is she really wants to make us into. And if Richard is just tolerating the idea of the three of us living under one roof, that could be really miserable for me in the end.

How can I know what's really going on?

How can I really know the right thing to do?

Chapter 93

I
wonder if Gemma realized what she'd called me after she'd gotten off the phone with Alan. Mom. I wasn't going to point it out to her at the time, and I'm still not. For all I know, it was both the first and the last time I'll hear that word from her.

Once is better than never.

We drove to the beach after that last call from prison. I keep an old cotton blanket in the trunk, and we spread that out on the sand and sat for a long time, just staring out at the water. And thinking about this strange place in which Gemma and I find ourselves. I know I was.

I wondered if Ellen and Richard had spent a good deal of time at Gemma's Phony Birthday (it's what she calls the birthday Alan gave her) celebration, selling her on their plans for her. She was pretty quiet on the subject of that dinner at Aquamarine, except to say that she likes the Gascoyne family's restaurant better. And when Gemma came home from her spa outing with Ellen the other day, all she talked about was how the pedicure was great. And how the tiramisu was fantastic. She said nothing at all about what she and Ellen had talked about. She did ask if I knew how to make tiramisu. I told her I would find out.

Anyway, Gemma and I haven't outright discussed Ellen and Richard's offer in days. Some moments my heart is in my mouth, thinking she'll accept (lured by the call of a more certain future, pedicures, and tiramisu) and how I'll have to let her go even if I don't want to and I don't. I want her to stay with me. At other moments I feel certain Gemma will turn them down, not so much because she loves me (I don't think she does, not yet), but because she sees Ellen and Richard for what they really are. Not criminals like her father, not evil, but . . . opportunistic. Attention seeking.

I don't think Gemma takes Ellen and Richard's offer very seriously, at least not as seriously as I do, because for her it certainly doesn't represent a threat to anything, like it does to me. Or maybe it
does
represent a threat to her in some way I can't understand. I wish she would talk to me about it, how she feels, what it might mean, her moving away. The few times I've suggested we hash it through, she's said she doesn't want to, plain and simple. I can't force her to talk. But when she does talk, I listen.

“What do you think is going to happen to my father?” she asked, after we'd sat quietly on the sand for almost an hour, surrounded by the laughter of children, the screaming of gulls, the strains of competing pop music.

I looked over at her, my daughter. In profile, I can see Alan in her. I looked back out to the ocean.

“I think,” I said, “that he's probably going to be in jail for a long time.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I think so too.”

Chapter 94

E
llen told me she and Richard were giving a party. Another one. I wonder if when they're back home, they give parties all the time, or if it's only a thing they do on vacation.

It doesn't matter.

Verity was invited to this party, and this time she told me straight out she didn't think it was a good idea for her to be there. I can see her point. I mean, I don't think Ellen really wants her to be at the party, and Verity must know that. Still, I bet she'll spend every moment I'm at Ellen and Richard's wondering what they're saying to me about their fabulous life in Lexington, Massachusetts, and the trip to Paris they're planning on taking next spring. A trip I'm invited on. I hope Verity won't sit around, wondering and worrying, but she probably will.

Honestly, I'm not even sure why I went to the party. I thought about asking Ellen if I could bring a friend—Cathy; yeah, okay, I guess she's a friend—but then I didn't ask. Cathy's made it clear, even if she hasn't said it in so many words, that she thinks I'd be making a big mistake if I went to live with Ellen and Richard. She'd be polite and all with them, but I don't think she'd be very good at keeping her opinion to herself. I decided it would be best if I went to the party alone.

Verity dropped me off at the McMansion.

“Have fun,” she said.

I kind of smiled and got out of the car.

Richard offered me a beer the minute I got up to the veranda, as if it were no big deal to offer alcohol to someone underage, and honestly, back in my old life, it wasn't a big deal. Maybe it's not considered a big deal in Ellen and Richard's life back in Massachusetts. Anyway, I took it. It was some craft beer I'd never heard of, something made in Maine, Richard said. It was pretty good, and when I was done with the first bottle, I had a second.

Like the first time I'd been at the house, the guests were all adults, a lot of them way older than I am. Richard was sitting at one of the tables with three other men. It looked as if they were talking about something serious; not one of them was smiling. One guy was smoking a cigar. I hate cigars. Ellen was standing by the bar, talking with three women who all looked a lot alike. I mean, they were all blond and slim and wearing white blouses tucked into skirts that came to their knees. The skirts were different colors, at least. Bright pink, bright green, and bright yellow. I wondered if they were members of a club, like a ladies' golf group or something. Ellen was wearing the kind of pants she always wears. All four women were drinking some pink cocktail with a piece of fruit, lime, I think, stuck on the edge of the glass. All four women had sparkly rings on their left hands.

I looked at the almost empty bottle of beer in my hand and wondered if I should get a third one and if anyone would notice or care if I did, when someone put a hand on my shoulder from behind. I was totally surprised and spun around to find this seriously good-looking guy standing there. He was built like Ryan Gosling, slim but with a lot of muscle. I thought he was probably in his twenties somewhere, maybe twenty-six or seven. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and a pair of black Converse high-tops. I love those, but they're pretty expensive.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry if I startled you.”

I shrugged. “No worries. I'm Gemma.”

He told me his name was Brett and that his parents were friends with Ellen and Richard and that they suggested he look them up while he was staying in Ogunquit with some friends.

“Ellen and Richard are my friends too,” he said. “I mean, I'm an only child, and I pretty much grew up around adults, so I've got lots of older friends.” He smiled. “It helped when I wanted to get into places I shouldn't have been when I was underage.”

“Cool,” I said.

“So, how do you know Ellen and Richard?”

There was no way I was going to tell this guy about my crazy life, so all I said was, “Ellen's a distant cousin.”

Brett nodded. I guess that was enough information for him. “Look,” he said, “you want to get out of here for a bit? I've got a room at the house me and my friends are renting for the week. Nobody here will miss us. They've all had at least two or three cocktails by now.”

For about thirty seconds I thought
, Yeah, why not?
Maybe it was the beer—I hadn't had a drink since coming to Yorktide and the beer had made me feel a bit high and I know all about how drinking beer can lead to bad decisions—and maybe it was also the fact that I thought if I had sex with this guy for a few minutes at least I wouldn't have to think about this huge decision hanging over my head. Sex as oblivion. It used to work, at least sometimes, like when Dad was going through one of his weird phases and driving me crazy with questioning every single thing I did or person I talked to, or like when we had to move on again because Dad had lost his job and I really didn't want to move on because I liked where we were living. At least during sex, even if it was only for a little while, even if it was in the guy's crappy little apartment or his parents' damp basement, you didn't have to
think
.

And honestly? I was flattered. This guy, Brett, was really, really sexy.

And then it didn't seem like a good idea at all, going off with this guy I'd known for, like, five minutes. Not that I was scared. It wasn't that. It was that for some reason I felt like I'd be letting Verity down if I did something so—so stupid. So without meaning.

It was weird. I never felt my conscience poke at me like that, so strongly, and never ever about sex. I mean, maybe it's my generation or something; we grew up in such a sexualized culture that it's, like, no big deal.

But I realized I wanted Verity to respect me. I realized I had never cared if Dad respected me. Not really. And I didn't care if Ellen and Richard respected me either.

Just Verity.

“Nah,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”

Brett didn't look particularly disappointed. He just shrugged, said, “Whatever,” and walked away toward the bar.
He'll probably proposition one of the married women next
, I thought.
Whatever
.

And I wondered what Ellen and Richard would think if they knew one of their friends had come on to me. A minor. I mean, like I said, I wasn't scared and I can take care of myself, but . . .

Would they care?

Soon after that, I asked Ellen to drive me home.

“But the party's still in full swing,” she said. “We haven't even broken out the smoked salmon.”

“I know, but I'm tired. I think I'm getting a cold or something. Anyway, don't worry. If you can't leave, I can call Verity to come get me.”

“No, no, no,” Ellen said, already reaching for her bag. “I'll take you.”

On the trip back to Birch Lane, Ellen went on about some committee she's on, something about trying to prevent some organization from opening a halfway house a few miles from where they live. I think. I wasn't really listening. I did hear this: “We don't want those people anywhere near us. Do you know what it would do to property values?”

Mostly I was thinking. And what I was thinking was:
I don't think I'm going to take them up on it, Ellen and Richard. I don't think I could stand living under the same roof with this woman—Richard's not too bad—and having to eat dinner with her every night and listening to her talking about her country club or her hairdresser or her grilling me on what happened at school and if I'd finished my homework and if I felt like a success yet.

Wanting to know if I hated my father. Was hating him going to be one of the rules of the Burns-Cassidy house?

“I'm so glad you were able to come to the party,” Ellen said when she'd pulled up outside our bungalow. She seemed to have forgotten what I said about coming down with a cold. It was a lie, an excuse, but she probably should have said something like,
Make sure you take some aspirin,
or
Eat some chicken soup
.

I got out of the car. Before I could close the door, Ellen leaned over. “You probably shouldn't tell Verity about the beer,” she said with a wink. “It'll be our little secret.”

And, I thought, I won't tell Verity that you had a cocktail before getting behind the wheel. Really, what had I been thinking? Oh. Right. I'd been drinking too.

When I got inside—Verity had left a note saying she was at David's and would be home by eleven—I fired off an e-mail to Tom in response to an e-mail he had just sent me. It included a picture of him and Valerie at some wildlife park, posing in front of a fence behind which there was a male lion lounging on the ground. I told him about Ellen and Richard's offer. I'm not sure why I did. It's not like I thought he was going to influence my decision.

He responded almost immediately. This is the important part of what he said:

My first instinct was to show Verity the e-mail. I mean, who doesn't like to hear nice things about themselves? And it's pretty clear her father isn't holding a grudge. Then I considered how she had been estranged from him for so long, and realized she might not be ready to believe her father meant the nice things he'd said. At least not without a lot more evidence. In a way she's being like Alan, not trusting, suspicious.

Adults are weird. Something happens to them along the way. They get a bit—inconsistent. I hope it doesn't happen to me, but it probably will. Why should I be special?

Anyway, I figure I can show her Tom's e-mail some other time. After all, I'm not going anywhere in the fall.