Wild Swans (3 page)

I wish I felt that way about something.
Consumed
by it.

My eyes fall on one of Grandmother's paintings. In it, the black sky twists and the waves rage.

I shiver. Maybe it's easier being ordinary.

Granddad pokes his head back into the kitchen. “You all right, Ivy Bear? You were awfully quiet at lunch.”

“Fine,” I mutter, sliding the clean cutting board onto the drying rack.

“You sure?” he presses. “I thought Connor made some good points about Emily Dickinson, but I can't imagine you agreed.”

I dry my hands on the green dish towel. “Didn't think there was any point in arguing. He thinks awfully well of himself, doesn't he?”

As soon as I say it, I want to reel the bratty words back in.

Granddad braces his hands, ropy and twisted from arthritis, against one of the wooden chairs. “He's one of the brightest young men I've taught. I don't find him arrogant.”

I sigh. “Neither do I. Not really. He was nice. I like his tattoos.”

Granddad peers at me. “You look like somebody ran over your dog.”

“You never let me have a dog.” Too afraid it'd pee on Dorothea's carpets and chew on her books. Another price of living in the family museum.

“You know what I mean. You look upset.”

“You sounded upset.” I toss the towel onto the counter. “On the phone. What were you and Erica fighting about?”

“Nothing,” Granddad says
.
“Just trying to figure out the details for the move. We'll get it all straightened out by Saturday.”

He doesn't meet my eyes.

“Was it about me?” Asking is pressing on a bruise.

“What? No. Of course not. Your mother… Erica's not an easy person,” he admits.

“Is she awful?” I ask.

Granddad hesitates. “She can be,” he says. “She's stubborn. Lashes out and doesn't like to admit when she's wrong. Gets that from me, I guess.” He tries a smile, but it falters. “We've always been like oil and water. Her mother knew how to manage her. They were pretty close. When Grace died, Erica was devastated. I couldn't… I didn't know how…”

He stares at the tiled floor. “I didn't know how to help her,” he finishes. “I thought—hoped—that having you would turn things around. That she'd step up to the responsibility. But she didn't. And that's not on you, Ivy. There was something broken in her, and she had to want to fix it.”

“Maybe she's different now,” I say.

“Maybe.” But he doesn't sound convinced. Whatever she said on the phone, it has him second-guessing his decision to let her come home.

I wish he'd tell her to stay away. We don't need her anymore. The days when I wished on every shooting star and birthday candle for my mama are long past, and now I don't want her here any more than she ever wanted me.

My mother was pretty.

As a little girl, she had white-blond hair and chubby, pink cheeks and big, brown eyes. She wore neon dresses and leg warmers and pink jelly shoes as she posed on the brick sidewalk downtown. In one photo, she holds Granddad's hand and a chocolate ice cream cone. In the next, Grandmother pushes her on the tire swing in the backyard.

As she gets older, there are fewer pictures. Teenage Erica is thin as a rail, swallowed up by plaid shirts and baggy jeans. I can tell by her dark roots and eyebrows that her spiky blond hair comes from a bottle. Her smiles are thorny and reluctant. There are hardly any photos of the whole family, just one at the English department Christmas party. Erica's skinny arms poke out of a velvety black dress. Granddad looks mostly the same, still tall and bearded, just thinner and less gray. Grandmother wears a purple dress and pearls, her brown hair tumbling down around her shoulders. She and Granddad stand close but not touching in a way that seems purposeful.

You could write it off as a bad night, a moody teenage girl and an argument, if you didn't know what was coming.

Six months later, my grandmother was dead, and a few months after that, Erica got pregnant with me. It was a one-night stand; she didn't even know my father's last name. I was an accident. A mistake she was glad to leave behind.

I wonder if she's dreading today as much as I am.

“Ivy?” Footsteps clomp up the attic stairs, and Alex's head pokes into my room. “Hey. Professor said I could come up.”

“Hey.” I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, sweat soaked and anxious. Still wearing the red tank top and plaid shorts I slept in, my hair straggling out of yesterday's braid. I haven't been downstairs yet except to grab a blueberry muffin and the photo album. Granddad must be pretty worried if he's sending Alex up to my bedroom.

“I don't know how you breathe in here,” Alex complains.

A fan whirs lazily in the corner, but it's still about a billion degrees. “I'm used to it.”

He makes a face. “Ma said you didn't come down for lunch.”

“Not hungry.” Which isn't like me.
Ivy's healthy as a horse
, Granddad likes to say. He cannot abide girls who pick at their food.

Alex plops down on the bed next to me. “Ivy, you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.” We haven't talked for a couple days—not since the thunderstorm. I've been kind of hiding out. “My mother's coming today.”

“I heard.” He frowns. “I'd ask if you're okay, but…”

I'm fine
, I want to say. But I can't make the lie come out of my mouth. Not to Alex. He's had a front-row seat to all my hurts and heartaches over the last fifteen years. He can tell when I'm lying.

I pick up the photo album and flip a couple pages. “This is what I looked like the last time she saw me.”

Alex glances down at the picture. It's me as a toddler wearing a pair of jeans and a fuzzy orange sweater with a pumpkin on it. My brown curls are pulled into tiny pigtails, and I sit in Mama's lap while she reads me
The Poky Little Puppy
. In the picture, she's smiling down at me. A month later she was gone.

“You were real cute.” Alex pokes me. “Still are.” I don't smile, and he puts a hand on my arm. “Screw her, Ivy.”

“I know.” Claire's been texting me the same thing since she found out, except she doesn't say “screw.”
You don't owe that woman a fucking thing. She left you.
Forgiveness isn't really in Claire's skill set. Since her dad walked out on her mom, Claire has refused to see him. He bought her a car when she turned eighteen, and she sent it back to the dealership. Abby, on the other hand, is the optimist. The peacemaker.
Try to keep an open mind. Maybe she'll surprise you.

I throw myself backward, stretching out on the rumpled blue quilt. It's easier to talk about my feelings without Alex looking at me. “I want her to hug me and say how sorry she is for leaving. That it wasn't my fault. But if she were that kind of person, that kind of
mothe
r
—”

“She wouldn't have left in the first place.”

“Yep.” I sit up again and close the album with a crack. “I'm so mad at her. For leaving. For never once getting in touch. But what am I supposed to do? I can't change what happened. I've just got to suck it up and make the best of things.”

“Do you? Seems to me she's the one ought to be walking on eggshells to make things easier on you, not the other way around.”

“From what Granddad says, she's not the type to walk on eggshells. More like smash them.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “It's so pathetic! I just want her to like me! Since when I do care so much about what people think?”

Alex runs a hand through his dark curls and laughs. “Since always?” He shakes his head. “She's not some random person. She's your mom. Of course you want her to like you. I just think you need to, like, manage your expectations.”

“So I shouldn't have booked that mother-daughter spa day?” I raise my eyebrows. “Trust me, my expectations are set low. Way low. I mean, she never even sent me a birthday card.” My voice drops to a whisper, and I cover my face with my hand. “What did I do to make her hate me so much?”

Alex yanks on my elbow, hauling my hand away from my face. Traitorous tears are gathering in my eyes. “You didn't do anything. You were just a baby. Whatever her deal is, it's with the Professor, not you. You know how he can be.”

I pull away. I do know how he can be. The weight of his expectations is heavy, but that is no excuse for running out on your family. “Don't you make excuses for her. Granddad—he's a good person. A good father.”

Alex puts his hands up. “Hey, you don't have to convince me. He's the closest thing I've ever had to a dad.”

Alex's father died in a car accident a few weeks before Erica left town. Marco and Luisa had just moved from Texas. Marco had gotten a job as an associate professor of math at the college. Once he got tenure and Alex got old enough for preschool, Luisa was going to open up her own bakery. Instead, her husband died, she became our housekeeper, and she and Alex moved into the carriage house. They've been there ever since.

I can't imagine how lonely life would be without them.

“I'm just saying, the Professor can be a little intense.” Alex stands and stretches, cracking his neck in the way that always makes me cringe. “Hey, when's the last time you went for a swim?”

“I don't know. It's been raining all week. Tuesday?”

“No wonder you're in a mood.” He grabs a slim collection of Langston Hughes poetry from my nightstand and fans himself with it. I may or may not have been looking up Connor's tattoos. “Your gills are gonna grow shut.”

“My gills?” I laugh despite myself.

“Professor always says you're part fish. Come on. What's that saying? Nothing salt water can't cure? Besides, we stay up here much longer, I'm gonna melt.”

I check my phone. “They'll be here in an hour.”

“Still time for a swim. Come on. Race me 'cross the channel and back?” Alex winks. “I'll let you win.”

I jump up. “The hell you will.”

He's already on the steps. “That a yes?”

“When was the last time you beat me?” I rummage through my dresser for my swimsuit.

He pokes his nose between the slats in the railing. “Last week at Scrabble. And week before that, I beat you and Ma and the Professor at croquet.”

“Scrabble was only 'cause you cheated and looked up
Z
words on your phone,” I remind him. “That doesn't count. And I meant swimming.”

“It's been a while. I feel like today's the day though. Seeing how you're all sad and shit. Might make you slow.” He grins at me. I've never been able to back down from a challenge, especially one issued with Alex's cocky smile. That's how I sprained my ankle jumping off the sunroom roof into a snowdrift when we were ten.

Mostly it turns out okay though.

“Get out of here so I can change.” I grab a pillow and throw it at him. It misses because I have terrible aim, and he laughs and clatters down the stairs. That boy knows me too damn well.

Right now I'm grateful for it.

I change into my swimsuit: a red one-piece with skinny straps and high-cut legs. It's retro cute but sturdy. Claire and Abby keep telling me I ought to buy a bikini. Claire's got a black one that makes just about every boy in town drool, and Abby's got one with a pink-and-green bandeau top that's so barely there I get nervous for her every time she jumps off the dock. And she's got a lot less up top than I do. Anyway, I keep telling them there is no point in having a swimsuit that I can't actually swim in.

I'm not fat. But it's hard to remember that when I stand next to my friends. Claire's tall like me, but she's got that classic hourglass figure—big boobs, tiny waist, curvy hips. And Abby's five foot nothing and petite, the kind of girl that boys scoop up and toss in the pool. I'm—solid. With strong shoulders and thighs from swimming.

My phone chimes with a text. Speaking of Abby…

bonfire tonight. can you come?

maybe
, I text back.

you deserve a party! summer of fun, remember?!

Right.
i'll try

lmk how it goes with your mom

I glance in the mirror, straightening my freckled, muscled shoulders.

Erica and my sisters are coming whether I like it or not. No matter what happens this afternoon, it's not going to magically make up for fifteen years without them in my life. There's no point in staying up here being all sulky and sad, wasting good sunshine.

• • •

It's pure gorgeous out: a true-blue sky with white cotton-ball clouds and the sun sparkling on the water like diamonds. Why didn't Grandmother paint the Bay like
this
?

As soon I'm in the water, I push all thoughts of mothers and sisters and family curses out of my head. I beat Alex back to the dock by a good three lengths. Alex is first baseman on the varsity baseball team and he'll probably get that scholarship, but he doesn't swim laps up at the college pool seven days a week like I usually do. I tell him next time I'll swim butterfly—my weakest stroke—to give him a fighting chance. He hooks a leg around my ankle and dunks me.

I come up laughing.

“Feel better?” he asks. I nod, and the way he looks at me feels like it did at prom. Like we could be more than just friends if I let us. If I wanted that.

My eyes linger on his mouth. What would it be like to kiss Alex?

Doesn't matter. I'm not willing to risk our friendship to find out.

I splash him instead. “What're you doing tonight? Abby said there's a bonfire. Wanna go?” Abby's been waitressing down at the Crab Claw the last two summers. The parties at the cove nearby are legendary, a boozy mix of townies and college kids.

Alex nods. “Couple guys from the team are going. You think the Professor will let you out?”

It took some convincing for Granddad to let me go out last summer, but I kept coming home in one piece without smelling like a keg, so I think I've earned his trust. “If you walk me and I promise to be responsible.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “You're always responsible.”

I flip onto my back and float. He's right. I'm pretty well behaved, generally. A couple kisses here and there, but nothing serious. Nobody I've wanted to get serious with. It helps that I hate the taste of beer and am therefore less tempted to do stupid, impulsive things. Sometimes I'll have a cup of cheap, fruity wine, but I never let myself get more than a little buzzed.

Probably has something to do with being conceived when Erica—a high school senior at the time—hooked up with a college boy at a frat party. She was messed up and mourning, and I try not to judge her for it, but some days I'm more successful than others. I've grown up without a mother, without even knowing my father's name. I'm not about to repeat Erica's mistakes.

“Ivy!” Luisa is walking down the sandy path. “Honey, they'll be here any minute.”

I flip upright. My stomach tips and tumbles, and I want to dive under the water and stay there forever.

Instead I paddle over to the sun-warped wooden dock and hoist myself up. Grab the gray towel with the college's mascot—a crane, of all ridiculous things—and wrap it around my waist. Wring out my long hair.

“Want me to come with you?” Alex asks.

“Alex, I don't think—” Luisa's kind brown eyes, so like his, dart back and forth between us. “I think it should just be family.”

But Alex and Luisa
are
my family.

I fight the urge to take Alex's hand. I don't want to give him mixed signals. Right now I just want my friend, not this new—
whateve
r
—between us.

Only it's starting to feel like I can't get one without the other anymore.

Alex opens his mouth to argue, but I force a smile. “It's okay. I'll see you later.”

I walk up the path and through the backyard, bare feet squelching in grass that's still soggy from last night's rain. I leave footprints on the gray floorboards as I creep around the porch. A car roars up the driveway. I should've gone inside sooner. Changed into something pretty. Now I'm going to meet them in a swimsuit and towel, with dripping hair and bare feet.

The car engine cuts out and doors slam. One, two, and—after a long pause—three.

No one blows a whistle, but I feel like it's time to dive into the deep end.

I'm about to step around the corner when I hear a voice.
Her
voice. I don't catch the words, just the gravel and honey mix of it, scratchy and slow. I
know
that voice. It fixes me in place. It's been fifteen years, but a tiny part of me still wants to run to her for a hug and a song.
Mama.