Spectacle (A Young Adult Novel) (24 page)

Marjorie raised her brows at Trix and mouthed, “Sa-weet!”

“So you’re going to art school?” Jamie asked, passing a bong her way.

Taking a hit, she said, “The sooner the better.”

“That’s cool. I like artsy girls.”

She was in that perfect buzzed state, floaty and warm. She hadn’t begun the descent that always came, when she felt dizzy and sick and exhausted.
Please let this last. It’s my one Christmas wish.

The Puget Sound was so dark that, without the lap of the tide coming in or the salty smell drifting up and down the beach, you’d never know it was there.

The year before, Trix and Fiona had gone to Emily’s family’s house for Christmas dinner and it had been dismal. Bob Lucas couldn’t stop working, even on that one day, and he kept disappearing into his office. Melissa burbled around, overcompensating for everyone else’s lack of enthusiasm. She played retro holiday songs and served vegan eggnog and wheatgrass cookies.

This, what she was doing now, was how Trix wanted to spend every Christmas.

The music played, a psychedelic, slow drumbeat with a crooning violin and deep male voice. In the brackish midnight air, Trix found herself dancing, her feet digging into the sand, warm on top but cold underneath. She went in circles around the fire, laughing with the others who’d joined her.

Someone threw a piece of driftwood into the flames and sparks flew, causing excited screams to erupt. Trix kept dancing. She would dance and party so hard that night, she wouldn’t notice the crash when she fell.

61. Welcome?

S
LOWLY,
E
MILY OPENED
the gate. It squealed and she almost bolted. She didn’t know if she could walk right up to Marilyn’s house and knock on the door.

Gingerly, she closed it behind her and continued on.

Her hands were shaking and she wanted to whimper, to run. Instead, she knocked.

A small dog barked. Someone told the dog to be quiet. Footsteps. The crack of the door loosening from its frame. A giant man’s face, then body. He had scant gray hair, a thin beard. He was far taller than Emily. Winslow, she thought.

Clearing her throat, Emily asked, “Is Marilyn home?”

“Well, yes. But she’s indisposed at the moment.” He looked at Emily curiously, probably thinking she was some Greenpeace volunteer who’d whip out a clipboard at any moment and ask him to sign a petition.

“I, um, I’m not selling anything. I’m an old friend.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Emily.”

The name didn’t seem to ring a bell with him. This annoyed her, but she continued to stand there with the pleasantest look she could muster plastered across her face.

Winslow turned and behind the door shouted, “Marilyn! Someone named Emily is here to see you!”

Now she knew. Now Marilyn could choose not to come to the door at all.

But there was shuffling. The dog yipped again. Through a window, Emily spotted a small, potted palm, adorned with white lights and a few decorations.

Then there she was. Marilyn stood eye-to-eye with Emily, her brow furrowed, her coral lips parted in confusion. She pulled the lapels of her ivory blouse together, as if she were in a bathrobe. Her hair was long and frizzy, her face thin, just like in her picture. “You’re Emily?”

“That’s me.” Already, Emily knew coming was a mistake. No one had been pining for her or thinking about her. She wasn’t welcome.

What could she do though? She was there. “Merry Christmas!” she chirped and forced herself to smile.

“Why, I—”

“I know, I know. It’s a shock. Your long-lost daughter shows up at your door on Christmas Eve. Uninvited. I just … I brought you something.” She set her backpack on the step and dug through it. She pulled out a photo album she’d hastily put together the day before, swiping old pictures of her and Kristen from albums Melissa had constructed over the years.

“I don’t have anything for you,” Marilyn said brusquely.

“That’s okay. You didn’t even know I’d be here.” Though in her heart of hearts, Emily had fantasized about her mother pulling her inside and showing her the gifts and trinkets she’d been collecting for her since she’d left so many years ago, she knew that wasn’t realistic. She already understood her mother was an unsentimental sort.

Marilyn took the album, wrapped in spangly red and green paper, and acted like she didn’t know what to do with it. Finally, she tucked it under one arm. “Well, I suppose … do you want to come in?”

“Sure!” Emily crowed. She wanted to weep.

Watching her mother’s body move, a replica of what Emily would probably look like in the distant future, fascinated and saddened her. There she was, the woman who’d birthed Emily and raised her for the first four years, and yes, she was tall. But she wasn’t especially graceful or inspiring.

Jazzy Christmas music played. Emily set her backpack down at the front door, took off her shoes on a woven straw mat, and followed Marilyn and Winslow inside.

The walls were stucco, painted a color Emily remembered from her crayon box: burnt sienna. A fire crackled in a rounded fireplace. Mugs half full of coffee sat on TV trays. The palm tree winked at her, mockingly. How could Marilyn Wozniak be having such a homey holiday with her new husband while her former family plodded along up north?

She pushed her anger down again. She didn’t come here to fight with her mother.

Marilyn set her gift on the arm of a denim sofa. She asked, “Would you like some cocoa, or … ?”

“Coffee’d be great.”

“Really? Oh, yes. Winslow?”

He bustled off to the kitchen, having to duck, Emily noticed, through the doorframe.

“Have a seat,” Marilyn said. She may as well have added,
Since you’ve barged in on my Christmas Eve
. She was as warm and welcoming as a tree trunk.

“Thanks.” Emily perched on the edge of a plaid chair.

“You’re a smidge taller than me,” Marilyn said. “Taller than I expected.”

“I’m taller than everyone expected.”

“Ah well,” she said. “There are worse things.”

That may be the case, but Marilyn, stealing quick glances at Emily, seemed to regard her as an alien life form.

Winslow came back with the coffee. He never asked how Emily took it (with cream and sugar), so she just sipped it black.

Emily had a million questions. None of which seemed appropriate to ask.

“So, your father is doing well, I trust,” Marilyn asked.

“Yeah, he’s fine. He works a lot.”

Marilyn’s mouth twisted. “He always did. Too afraid of not having a hundred thousand dollars in the bank at all times.”

Emily’s father and Marilyn certainly seemed like the ultimate mismatch: conservative, money-obsessed Bob Lucas and this eccentric woman.

“Can I ask you a question?” Emily said.

“I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”

“How did you and my dad meet?” As she asked, she wondered why she hadn’t had this conversation with her father. Ever. What was wrong with them that they hadn’t even discussed such a simple but important fragment of the past?

Her eyes darted toward Winslow, then settled on the snapping fire. “At a bar.”

Somehow, this didn’t surprise Emily. She couldn’t imagine another scenario where Marilyn and her dad would’ve been in the same room.

“You may as well know,” Marilyn said. “Your sister was the product of what was supposed to be a one-night stand.”

Winslow retrieved a fire poker, his face a placid lake. He must already know this story.

“Really?” Emily’s face burned. The idea of her father and mother drunk and groping was not at all appealing. “But you had me, too.”

Peripherally, she saw Winslow jabbing at the fire, adding a log.

“For a while I thought I could do the family thing. I tried. I did. But it wasn’t right for me.”

Then Emily did what she swore to herself she wouldn’t. She said, her voice low with fury, “What about what was right for your daughters?”

Marilyn yanked a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed the inner corners of her eyes. This heartened Emily the tiniest bit. Remorse. “I thought about that. Of course, I did. But I’m just not meant to be a mother.” She didn’t come right out and say
I’m selfish
, but that was what Emily took away from Marilyn’s confession. It was what she’d always known about her mother.

Emily’s coffee had cooled, but for something to do, she drank it anyway. “He remarried,” she said, hoping to hurt Marilyn the same way Marilyn had hurt Emily and Kristen. “To a great person. Melissa. She’s just … amazing.” She realized she meant it. Melissa had overcome so much. She’d come through her miscarriage. She lived with Emily’s dad and still managed to love him. She gave more attention and time to Emily and Kristen than most actual mothers would. She was ten times the person Marilyn Wozniak was.

“I’m sure he’s very happy,” Marilyn said.

Emily would not tell her that
happy
and her dad were mutually exclusive. So she just muttered, “Yep.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, Winslow turned from the fire he was compulsively prodding and said, “So what brings you this way, Emily?”

“Oh,” she said. “You know. I’ve always wanted to meet Marilyn, here. And I had a break from school, so I figured this was as good a time as any. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming. I was just … afraid you’d say no if I asked.”

He nodded, his gray mustache scrunching up under his nose.

“Well, do you have anywhere else to go? Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Truthfully, no, she didn’t want to stay for dinner. She wanted to beam herself back to her bedroom where she could ruminate over this whole thing. But meeting Marilyn and getting to know her were the reasons she’d come to Bisbee at all. “Um, sure. That’s really nice of you. I’m staying at a hostel in town, but a meal would be great,” she added, so they’d know she wasn’t hoping for a bed later. She purposely didn’t look in Marilyn’s direction. She couldn’t handle seeing an expression that held even a hint of reluctance.

“All righty. We’re having duck confit with pear salad and rustic rosemary dinner rolls. Think you can choke that down?”

So, Winslow was a foodie. She’d never eaten duck before, but all she’d consumed that day was a snack pack of almonds, a few Oreos, and a bag of chips. “Yeah, no problem.”

Oddly, her mind lurched to Trix. What was she doing on Christmas Eve with darkness falling? Were she and her mom at their annual movie, planning a pancake house brunch for the next morning? Or was Trix hanging out with Marjorie, trying to pretend Christmas didn’t exist?

Emily shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Trix then. She had enough going on.

Winslow shuffled to the kitchen and there was much clanging of pots and pans.

Marilyn, instead of using the time to chat with Emily one-on-one, said, “I’ll go see if he needs help.”

Emily called after her, “Is there anything I can do?”

“No! No, that’s all right. You just … relax.”

Emily leaned her head back against the rough stucco wall and let out a long breath. This was horrible. Worse, she decided, than being turned away at the door.

62. Joy to the World

“
M
Y TRUCK’S PARKED
just over there in the lot,” Jamie said.

The music had quieted. The fire only smoldered. Almost everyone had left. Trix, Jamie, Marjorie, Isaac and a few others sat on cold driftwood, smoking. Trix shivered and tried to figure out how to get back to her dad’s. It was late and the buses were operating on a holiday schedule. It’d be hours before one would come by.

Suddenly, she badly wanted to see her cat, to bury her face in his fur and sleep.

Jamie asked, “Need a ride somewhere?”

She stood, depressed that her perfect buzz was on the downslide, and tugged her jacket around her waist. “Let’s go.” She gave Marjorie the peace sign and strode across the asphalt, which was lit with yellow streetlights. She only stumbled once or twice.

“Careful, sister,” Jamie said, catching and righting her.

In the distance, sailboat lines clanked on masts and water sloshed against docks.

Jamie’s truck was an old Ford with a cap on the back. She expected him to unlock the cab doors, but instead he popped open the tailgate to reveal a foam mattress and several paper grocery bags full of clothes, CDs, and other miscellaneous stuff.

“This is my setup,” he said.

“Wow,” she said, not sure if she was sarcastic or sincere.

“You wanna test it out?”

“I’m not stupid.” She knew what he would try if she crawled in there and lay down.

“I never said you were.”

On the other hand, the mattress looked soft and she was weary. “Okay,” she agreed and climbed in. She reclined and, in a moment, the truck creaked and the tailgate slammed shut. Jamie was next to her, already breathing heavily. Jeez. She really didn’t need this tonight of all nights. “So, I’m assuming you won’t be giving me a ride in the near future.”

“You’ll get your ride. Just relax for now. You were doing a lot of dancing.”

She sighed loudly. She went to sit up, and then realized she was still quite drunk. Dizzily, she put her head back onto the mattress.

Jamie said, “I love how you move.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

She had a feeling she’d heard this before, yet she ate it up. He was making her feel special and less lonely. He was giving her what she thought she wanted.

“Tell me about art school,” he said, as he nibbled at her neck. It felt good. His lips were soft and warm, his body taut next to her. It was too dark to see him, but she remembered his black hair and burnished skin. She reached up and felt his ropey arms.

As they kissed, his hands went up her shirt.

63. Unwanted

T
O TAKE HER
mind off the horribleness of being somewhere she was not wanted, Emily pulled out her phone and checked her messages. There were three from her father, which she skipped. Her heart leapt when she saw one from Ryan. As fast as her fingers would work, she connected to voice mail.