by E. Lockhart
“And Liberty.”
“God.”
“You told me you weren’t a drug addict, but you have pills on your dresser.” Taft is petulant.
“Tell them to stay out of my room,” I say.
“If you’re a drug addict,” says Taft, “there is something you need to know.”
“What?”
“Drugs are not your friend.” Taft looks serious. “Drugs are not your friend and also people should be your friends.”
“Oh my God. Would you just tell me what you did last summer, pipsqueak?”
Will says, “Taft and I want to play Angry Birds. We don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“Whatever,” I say. “Go and be free.”
I step onto the porch and watch the boys as they run down the path to Red Gate.
35
All the windows in Cuddledown are open when I come down after lunch. Gat is putting music on the ancient CD player. My old crayon art is on the refrigerator with magnets: Dad on top, Gran and the goldens on the bottom. My painting is taped to one of the kitchen cupboards. A ladder and a big box of gift wrap stand in the center of the great room.
Mirren pushes an armchair across the floor. “I never liked the way my mother kept this place,” she explains.
I help Gat and Johnny move the furniture around until Mirren is happy. We take down Bess’s landscape watercolors and roll up her rugs. We pillage the littles’ bedrooms for fun objects. When we are done, the great room is decorated with piggy banks and patchwork quilts, stacks of children’s books, a lamp shaped like an owl. Thick sparkling ribbons from the gift-wrap box crisscross the ceiling.
“Won’t Bess be mad you’re redecorating?” I ask.
“I promise you she’s not setting foot in Cuddledown for the rest of the summer. She’s been trying to get out of this place for years.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh,” says Mirren lightly, “you know. Natter natter, least favorite daughter, natter natter, the kitchen is such crap. Why won’t Granddad remodel it? Et cetera.”
“Did she ask him?”
Johnny stares at me oddly. “You don’t remember?”
“Her memory is messed up, Johnny!” yells Mirren. “She doesn’t remember like half our summer fifteen.”
“She doesn’t?” Johnny says. “I thought—”
“No, no, shut up right now,” Mirren barks. “Did you not listen to what I told you?”
“When?” He looks perplexed.
“The other night,” says Mirren. “I told you what Aunt Penny said.”
“Chill,” says Johnny, throwing a pillow at her.
“This is important! How can you not pay attention to this stuff?” Mirren looks like she might cry.
“I’m sorry, all right?” Johnny says. “Gat, did you know, about Cadence not remembering, like, most of the summer fifteen?”
“I knew,” he says.
“See?” says Mirren. “Gat was listening.”
My face is hot. I am looking at the floor. No one speaks for a minute. “It’s normal to lose some memory when you hit your head really hard,” I say finally. “Did my mother explain?”
Johnny laughs nervously.
“I’m surprised Mummy told you,” I go on. “She hates talking about it.”
“She said you’re supposed to take it easy and remember things in your own time. All the aunties know,” says Mirren. “Granddad knows. The littles. The staff. Every single person on the island knows but Johnny, apparently.”
“I knew,” says Johnny. “I just didn’t know the whole picture.”
“Don’t be feeble,” says Mirren. “Now is really not the time.”
“It’s okay,” I say to Johnny. “You’re not feeble. You merely had a suboptimal moment. I’m sure you’ll be optimal from now on.”
“I’m always optimal,” says Johnny. “Just not the kind of optimal Mirren wants me to be.”
Gat smiles when I say the word suboptimal and pats my shoulder.
We have started over.
36
We play tennis. Johnny and I win, but not because I’m any good anymore. He’s an excellent athlete, and Mirren is more inclined to hit the ball and then do happy dances, without caring whether it’s returning. Gat keeps laughing at her, which makes him miss.
“How was Europe?” asks Gat as we walk back to Cuddledown.
“My father ate squid ink.”
“What else?” We reach the yard and toss the racquets on the porch. Stretch ourselves out on the grass.
“Honestly, I can’t tell you that much,” I say. “Know what I did while my dad went to the Colosseum?”
“What?”
“I lay with my face pressed into the tile of the hotel bathroom. Stared at the base of the blue Italian toilet.”
“The toilet was blue?” Johnny asks, sitting up.
“Only you would get more excited over a blue toilet than the sights of Rome,” moans Gat.
“Cadence,” says Mirren.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What?”
“You say don’t feel sorry for you, but then you tell a story about the base of the toilet,” she blurts. “It’s seriously pitiful. What are we supposed to say?”
“Also going to Rome makes us jealous,” says Gat. “None of us has been to Rome.”
“I want to go to Rome!” says Johnny, lying back down. “I want to see the blue Italian toilets so bad!”
“I want to see the Baths of Caracalla,” says Gat. “And eat every flavor of gelato they make.”
“So go,” I say.
“It’s hardly that simple.”
“Okay, but you will go,” I say. “In college or after college.”
Gat sighs. “I’m just saying, you went to Rome.”
“I wish you could have been there,” I tell him.
37
“Were you on the tennis court?” Mummy asks me. “I heard balls.”
“Just messing around.”
“You haven’t played in so long. That’s wonderful.”
“My serve is off.”
“I’m so happy you’re taking it up again. If you want to volley with me tomorrow, say the word.”
She is delusional. I am not taking up tennis again just because I played one single afternoon, and in no capacity do I ever want to volley with Mummy. She will wear a tennis skirt and praise me and caution me and hover over me until I’m unkind to her. “We’ll see,” I say. “I probably strained my shoulder.”
Supper is outside in the Japanese garden. We watch the eight o’clock sunset, in groups around the small tables. Taft and Will grab pork chops off the platter and eat them with their hands.
“You two are animals,” says Liberty, wrinkling her nose.
“And your point is?” says Taft.
“There’s a thing called a fork,” says Liberty.
“There’s a thing called your face,” says Taft.
Johnny, Gat, and Mirren get to eat at Cuddledown because they aren’t invalids. And their mothers aren’t controlling. Mummy doesn’t even let me sit with the adults. She makes me sit at a separate table with my cousins.
They’re all laughing and sniping at each other, talking with their mouths full. I stop listening to what they are saying. Instead, I look across to Mummy, Carrie, and Bess, clustered around Granddad.
There’s a night I remember now. It must have been about two weeks before my accident. Early July. We were all sitting at the long table on the Clairmont lawn. Citronella candles burned on the porch. The littles had finished their burgers and were doing cartwheels on the grass. The rest of us were eating grilled swordfish with basil sauce. There was a salad of yellow tomatoes and a casserole of zucchini with a crust of Parmesan cheese. Gat pressed his leg against
mine under the table. I felt light-headed with happiness.
The aunts toyed with their food, silent and formal with one another beneath the littles’ shouts. Granddad leaned back, folding his hands over his abdomen. “You think I should renovate the Boston house?” he asked.
A silence followed.
“No, Dad.” Bess was the first to speak. “We love that house.”
“You always complain about drafts in the living room,” said Granddad. Bess looked around at her sisters. “I don’t.”
“You don’t like the décor,” said Granddad.
“That’s true.” Mummy’s voice was critical.
“I think it’s timeless,” said Carrie.
“I could use your advice, you know,” Granddad said to Bess. “Would you come over and look at it carefully? Tell me what you think?”
“I …”
He leaned in. “I could sell it, too, you know.”
We all knew Aunt Bess wanted the Boston house. All the aunts wanted the Boston house. It was a four-million-dollar house, and they grew up in it. But Bess was the only one who lived nearby, and the only one with enough kids to fill the bedrooms.
“Dad,” Carrie said sharply. “You can’t sell it.”
“I can do what I want,” said Granddad, spearing the last tomato on his plate and popping it in his mouth. “You like the house as it is, then, Bess? Or do you want to see it remodeled? No one likes a waffler.”
“I’d love to help with whatever you want to change, Dad.”
“Oh, please,” snapped Mummy. “Only yesterday you were saying how busy you are and now you’re helping remodel the Boston house?”
“He asked for our help,” said Bess.
“He asked for your help. You cutting us out, Dad?” Mummy was drunk.
Granddad laughed. “Penny, relax.”
“I’ll relax when the estate is settled.”
“You’re making us crazy,” Carrie muttered.
“What was that? Don’t mumble.”
“We all love you, Dad,” said Carrie, loudly. “I know it’s been hard this year.”
“If you’re going crazy it’s your own damn choice,” said Granddad. “Pull yourself together. I can’t leave the estate to crazy people.”
Look at the aunties now, summer seventeen. Here in the Japanese garden of New Clairmont, Mummy has her arm around Bess, who reaches out to slice Carrie a piece of raspberry tart.
It’s a beautiful night, and we are indeed a beautiful family.
I do not know what changed.
38
“Taft has a motto,” I tell Mirren. It is midnight. We Liars are playing Scrabble in the Cuddledown great room.
My knee is touching Gat’s thigh, though I am not sure he notices. The board is nearly full. My brain is tired. I have bad letters.
Mirren rearranges her tiles distractedly. “Taft has what?”
“A motto,” I say. “You know, like Granddad has? No one likes a waffler?”
“Never take a seat in the back of the room,” intones Mirren.
“Never complain, never explain,” says Gat. “That’s from Disraeli, I think.”
“Oh, he loves that one,” says Mirren.
“And don’t take no for an answer,” I add.
“Good lord, Cady!” shouts Johnny. “Will you just build a word and let the rest of us get on with it?”
“Don’t yell at her, Johnny,” says Mirren.
“Sorry,” says Johnny. “Will you pretty please with brown sugar and cinnamon make a fucking Scrabble word?”
My knee is touching Gat’s thigh. I really can’t think. I make a short, lame word.
Johnny plays his tiles.
“Drugs are not your friend,” I announce. “That’s Taft’s motto.”
“Get out,” laughs Mirren. “Where did he come up with that?”
“Maybe he had drug education at school. Plus the twins snooped in my room and told him I had a dresser full of pills, so he wanted to make sure I’m not an addict.”
“God,” said Mirren. “Bonnie and Liberty are disasters. I think they’re kleptomaniacs now.”
“Really?”
“They took my mom’s sleeping pills and also her diamond hoops. I have no idea where they think they’ll wear those earrings where she wouldn’t see them. Also, they are two people and it’s only one pair of earrings.”
“Did you call them on it?”
“I tried with Bonnie. But they’re beyond my help,” Mirren says. She rearranges her tiles again. “I like the idea of a motto,” she goes on. “I think an inspirational quote can get you through hard times.”
“Like what?” asks Gat.
Mirren pauses. Then she says: “Be a little kinder than you have to.”
We are all silenced by that. It seems impossible to argue with.
Then Johnny says, “Never eat anything bigger than your ass.”
“You ate something bigger than your ass?” I ask.
He nods, solemn.
“Okay, Gat,” says Mirren. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Come on.”
“Okay, maybe.” Gat looks down at his fingernails. “Do not accept an evil you can change.”
“I agree with that,” I say. Because I do.
“I don’t,” says Mirren.
“Why not?”
“There’s very little you can change. You need to accept the world as it is.”
“Not true,” says Gat.
“Isn’t it better to be a relaxed, peaceful person?” Mirren asks.
“No.” Gat is decisive. “It is better to fight evil.”
“Don’t eat yellow snow,” says Johnny. “That’s another good motto.”
“Always do what you are afraid to do,” I say. “That’s mine.”
“Oh, please. Who the hell says that?” barks Mirren.
“Emerson,” I answer. “I think.” I reach for a pen and write it on the backs of my hands.
Left: Always do what. Right: you are afraid to do. The handwriting is skewed on the right.
“Emerson is so boring,” says Johnny. He grabs the pen from me and writes on his own left hand: NO YELLOW SNOW. “There,” he says, holding the result up for display. “That should help.”
“Cady, I’m serious. We should not always do what we are afraid to do,” says Mirren heatedly. “We never should.”
“Why not?”
“You could die. You could get hurt. If you are terrified, there’s probably a good reason. You should trust your impulses.”
“So what’s your philosophy, then?” Johnny asks her. “Be a giant chickenhead?”
“Yes,” says Mirren. “That and the kindness thing I said before.”
39
I follow Gat when he goes upstairs. I chase after him down the long hall, grab his hand and pull his lips to mine.
It is what I am afraid to do, and I do it.
He kisses me back. His fingers twine in mine and I’m dizzy and he’s holding me up and everything is clear and everything is grand, again. Our kiss turns the world to dust. There is only us and nothing else matters.
Then Gat pulls away. “I shouldn’t do this.”
“Why not?” His hand still holds mine.
“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s—”
“I thought we started over. Isn’t this the starting over?”
“I’m a mess.” Gat steps back and leans against the wall. “This is such a cliché conversation. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Explain.”
A pause. And then: “You don’t know me.”
“Explain,” I say again.
Gat puts his head in his hands. We stand there, both leaning against the wall in the dark. “Okay. Here’s part of it,�
� he finally whispers. “You’ve never met my mom. You’ve never been to my apartment.”
That’s true. I’ve never seen Gat anywhere but Beechwood.
“You feel like you know me, Cady, but you only know the me who comes here,” he says. “It’s—it’s just not the whole picture. You don’t know my bedroom with the window onto the airshaft, my mom’s curry, the guys from school, the way we celebrate holidays. You only know the me on this island, where everyone’s rich except me and the staff. Where everyone’s white except me, Ginny, and Paulo.”
“Who are Ginny and Paulo?”
Gat hits his fist into his palm. “Ginny is the housekeeper. Paulo is the gardener. You don’t know their names and they’ve worked here summer after summer. That’s part of my point.”
My face heats with shame. “I’m sorry.”
“But do you even want to see the whole picture?” Gat asks. “Could you even understand it?”
“You won’t know unless you try me,” I say. “I haven’t heard from you in forever.”
“You know what I am to your grandfather? What I’ve always been?”
“What?”
“Heathcliff. In Wuthering Heights. Have you read it?”
I shake my head.
“Heathcliff is a gypsy boy taken in and raised by this pristine family, the Earnshaws. Heathcliff falls in love with the girl, Catherine. She loves him, too—but she also thinks he’s dirt, because of his background. And the rest of the family agrees.”
“That’s not how I feel.”
“There’s nothing Heathcliff can ever do to make these Earnshaws think he’s good enough. And he tries. He goes away, educates himself, becomes a gentleman. Still, they think he’s an animal.”
“And?”
“Then, because the book is a tragedy, Heathcliff becomes what they think of him, you know? He becomes a brute. The evil in him comes out.”
“I heard it was a romance.”
Gat shakes his head. “Those people are awful to each other.”
“You’re saying Granddad thinks you’re Heathcliff?”
“I promise you, he does,” says Gat. “A brute beneath a pleasant surface, betraying his kindness in letting me come to his sheltered island every year—I’ve betrayed him by seducing his Catherine, his Cadence. And my penance is to become the monster he always saw in me.”