Underneath (24 page)

I turn back around, letting the curtain drop. I have to tell Auntie Mina. I've almost reached the far end of the hall when the study door opens and she comes out. I stop short and stare at her, my fists clenched at my sides.

“He's here,” I tell her. “His car is parked down the street. He's coming.”

I swallow, and fight back hot tears that I refuse, refuse to cry.

“I know,” Auntie Mina says. She smiles gently, sadly.

I don't even question how she knows. I don't know whether he told her or whether she found out some other, more unusual way, if somehow she sensed it when I was hoping with everything in me that she could be strong. Does it even matter? All of a sudden my fingers and toes start to tingle and I feel like I'm going to pass out. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and I lean against the wall for support.

Auntie Mina puts one hand on my cheek, then draws me into a fierce hug. I can feel myself tremble slightly.

What now? I don't know what to do. I look up at her questioningly.

“We wait,” she says.

twenty-six

Auntie Mina puts her arm around my waist and we walk into the kitchen together. My dad is already on his feet. In one glance he takes in my face, drained of color, and Auntie Mina's, smiling unconvincingly. Dad comes up to us and puts a hand on each of our shoulders.

“What's happened now?” he asks, sounding more re-signed than I expected.

“Uncle Randall's here,” I say weakly. “I saw his car parked down the street. He's coming.” I feel dad's hand tighten.

“I didn't realize he was planning to come here,” Aunt­ie Mina says in a quiet voice. “He said—well, he thinks he deserves a face-to-face conversation before we decide to finalize the separation. He's said it before.”

“What? That's ridiculous,” my dad says.

“Maybe we should call the police,” I start saying, but nobody's listening.

“You talk about respect, Ali,” Auntie Mina says, her voice strained now. “You always tell me that Randall needs to show me respect. If I show him this one small courtesy, I expect him to respect my space in return.”

“He's
never
shown you enough respect.” My dad's face is tight with tension.

Auntie Mina looks up at him, stubborn. “I know you've never liked him. But this is right for
me
. I'm comfortable just letting him have his say, and then we take a little time away and think about it. If it gets uncomfortable … ” She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.

Dad makes an exasperated noise and starts pacing around the kitchen.

“You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with,” I say forcefully. “If we have to, we can call the police.” Auntie Mina glances at me. I look down at my hand; my phone is still in it from when I was going to call Mikaela. That seems like a year ago now.

My dad brings his fist down on the kitchen counter, rattling a few dishes in the dish drainer. We all jump.

“I'm sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “But I don't think it's a good idea. If you insist on talking to the man, you should have a mediator. There's just been too much—too much for all of us. I'm going to tell him that. I'm going to tell him it's time to go home and cool off.” He moves toward the doorway to the front hall.

“I wish you'd just let me talk to him,” Auntie Mina says.

“You've
been
talking to him,” my dad points out. “And all it's done is keep you from living your life. You have to move on. Life is better than this, Mina. He isn't good for you.”

For the first time, I notice the laugh and frown lines together on my dad's face, and I wonder if the frown lines were there before all of this happened.

It's changed all of us.

“Mina, listen,” my dad says, his voice softening. “I hate to sound like a domineering jerk, but I can't let you talk to him when he's like this. It's an issue of your safety. We don't want anything to happen to you.”

Auntie Mina looks deflated. My stomach churns with worry. I hope she really understands what a loser he is, and how dangerous he is. All she has to do is remember that bruise on her shoulder, the one on her wrist. I sure can't forget.

But I guess if you've loved someone that long, it's hard to just stop.

There's a sharp, angry knock on the front door. I go cold. My dad strides briskly into the front hall and goes outside, closing the door behind him. My heart in my throat, I start to follow.

“Sunny, no,” Auntie Mina says.

I keep walking to the door. I'm worried about Dad, but even more than that, I'm tired of hearing thoughts, snippets. This time I want the whole conversation. I want to see how Uncle Randall is going to
act
. And I want to be sure Auntie Mina treats him how he deserves to be treated.

What people think is one thing. What they do is another.

My mind flashes onto Spike—uncertain, hopeful, but kissing me as if there was no doubt in his mind what he wanted, no fear of repercussions. And Cody—who always seemed so confident, looking at me with fear, seething with desperation inside. I shake my head and focus.

I open the front door.

I sense Auntie Mina standing behind me, and she grabs my arm, but I pull away. I glance at her; she's holding a golf umbrella. I look down at it stupidly.

“Just in case,” she says, the tiniest wry smile twitching at her lips. “I don't think we'll need it, but you never know.” I show her the phone in my hand, the numbers 9-1-1 already punched in. She squeezes my shoulder, gently this time, and I feel some of the tension, some of the fear for Auntie Mina, release its grip. I feel like we're a united front.

I hope we are.

I turn back toward the open doorway. Dad is talking to Uncle Randall in the driveway. The white Mercedes is parked, somewhat sloppily, at the curb.

“ … doesn't want to see you right now,” my dad is saying. His back is toward me, so I can't see his expression; and he's blocking Uncle Randall, too; standing between him and the cement walk leading up to our front steps.

“Well, at least let her tell me that herself,” Uncle Randall says, his tone polite but brittle. He tries to sidestep Dad, but Dad moves to block him. I take a big step back, my heart pounding, and crash into Auntie Mina.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Dad says coldly. “I think you'd better leave now. You shouldn't be confronting her when you're both angry.”

“Come on. You and Debby are always the ones so into talking and letting it all hang out.” He's standing really close to Dad now, jabbing a finger at his chest belligerently. “Now you've got us going to a counselor, letting a stranger in on all our private family business and telling us how our marriage is supposed to work. All that talk, and you don't want me talking to
her
?” His voice oozes contempt and a dull fury swells within me. It's a good thing I'm not holding the golf umbrella. I feel like smashing the windows of his precious car.

Dad's back stiffens. “This has nothing to do with me or Debby,” he says, practically spitting the words out one by one. “It has to do with my sister, and the fact that you've been bullying her.”

“Oh,
bullying
,” Uncle Randall says. His face is red now. “If I were going to bully my own wife, would I have brought flowers?” He waves a wilted bouquet in the air. “Would I be standing here right now arguing with someone who has no right to interfere?”

“Listen carefully,” my dad says, enunciating every syllable. “I'm asking you very politely now to please leave our property. Mina will talk to you whenever and however she's comfortable doing so. Just
not now
.” His voice is quiet and dangerous. But Uncle Randall doesn't leave.

I glance behind me. Auntie Mina looks pale and tight-lipped. Where's my mom? She should be home by now.

“I just want to talk to her for a minute,” Uncle Randall says, his voice changing to a wheedle. “Can't you just give me a minute?”

“Whatever it is, you can say it over the phone,” my dad says, standing his ground. I reach out to grasp Auntie Mina's hand.

“I
need to see her.
We can't accomplish anything over the phone.”

“You mean, you can't dole out bruises over the phone,” my dad says flatly. I close my eyes for a moment and sigh quietly. Auntie Mina starts to tremble, just a little. I don't know what to do, so I hold her hand tighter.

Uncle Randall says something very softly, so softly I can't make it out, and then, to my horror, my dad brings his balled fists up from his sides.

“I'm giving you one more chance to leave,” Dad says, “before I call the police.”

Uncle Randall stands taller, trying to see past him. “I'm giving
you
one more chance to let me see my
wife
.”

My mouth drops open in disbelief as he shoves Dad in the chest. Dad takes a step backward but he doesn't give up any more ground.

And then Auntie Mina somehow slips away from me, and she's standing in front of us, in full view of Uncle Randall, the golf umbrella clutched to her chest like she's hanging on for dear life.

“Here I am,” she says—in a different tone of voice, one I haven't heard. She sounds stronger. She sounds angry. “You've seen me. Now you can go.”

“This is ridiculous,” Uncle Randall says, his face almost purple. “I'm not leaving.”

I take a deep breath. I can't leave Dad alone out there for one more moment, but even more, it's Auntie Mina who still needs me. Who needs us. But I'm terrified, my mind and heart are both racing, and I don't even have a golf umbrella.

All I have in my hands is my phone. All I have is me.

I step up to join Auntie Mina, standing just behind her and Dad.

“Yes, you are leaving.”

The voice that comes out is strong, and hardly even sounds like me, somehow. Somehow it doesn't betray that my insides could shatter like glass.

I sound confident; I sound like my mother.

Uncle Randall looks at me like he's never seen me before, but he's still standing there.

“
Get off my property
,” Dad hisses. He grabs the collar of Uncle Randall's shirt before he can even react; he gives it one hard shake before letting go.

I suck in a startled breath. Uncle Randall stumbles backward a step, his eyes first widening with shock and possibly a little fear, then narrowing again as he regains composure. Moving forward again, he opens his mouth to say something, visibly enraged.

The automatic garage door opens. It's Mom. Her car pulls into the driveway.

Uncle Randall stops short. He says coldly, “We'll settle this later, then,” and stalks back to his fancy car and drives off. I know he'll hire the best lawyer money can buy, and he might win that battle, but we're not going to let him win the war. I'm sure of that now.

I let out my breath, shakily. The house, the neighborhood, feel quiet again. Safe.

Mom, Auntie Mina, and I rush to meet Dad as he comes up the front steps. He looks bent, tired; he looks ten years older. Inside, he walks into the living room and sinks down on the couch with an explosive sigh. His eyes are sad, not angry like I expected.

“So, you heard,” he says lightly.

I sit down next to my dad and hug him, leaning my head on his shoulder like when I was a little kid. I feel drained. At the same time I can't help feeling foolishly proud of my dad. I know it's all old-fashioned, and my mom would probably call it pre-feminist idealism and say she and Auntie Mina should have been the ones to go out there in the first place, but I like it that Dad's willing to fight to defend his family. And we were right there, ready to back him up.

“Dad, you were like our guard dog,” I say, knowing it's inadequate to what I'm really feeling. But I have to say something. “You were great.”

“Grrrr,” he says, a little weakly.

“If it's all the same to you,” my mom puts in with a small smile, “I'd rather be married to a lover, not a fighter.” All of us, including Auntie Mina, laugh a little louder than is strictly necessary.

“Now I think we need some chamomile tea,” my mom continues, steering Auntie Mina ahead of her toward the kitchen and yanking my dad up from the couch. “We all need to unwind after that. And then, I think I'd like to talk about restraining orders.”

My mom is kind of a fighter herself. She doesn't usually show it—her days of protesting ended, she claims, when she graduated from college—but if she thinks injustice is involved, she can't help herself. It's just the way she is. She starts bringing up advocacy and civil rights, equality and respect, and we all roll our eyes and say she must have lived in Santa Cruz too long, but she's right.

My parents might be bizarre, but at times like these, I really do love them.

After all, I'm a little bizarre too.

From Shiri Langford's journal, September 25th

It's all arranged. By next weekend, I won't have to worry about any of this. Or about THAT.

Sunny, if you're reading this, I wish I could explain everything, but I can't. Just know that it wasn't anyone's fault, it was me. I just couldn't do it anymore. Any of it.

I'm afraid of what you'll think of me. I'm afraid you'll think I'm a coward.

I am. I'm sorry.