She rolled her eyes. “That’s your thing, Mom. Not mine.”
I flinched at the disapproval in her voice, forcing myself not to take it personally. She was a teenager, acting out. I walked over to the sofa and sat down next to her. “Maybe we should talk about that,” I said.
“What? The fact that I’m directionless?”
“You didn’t used to be, Reece. What’s happened?”
“Maybe I just realized one day that I will never be able to live up to your standards, so why try?”
“Reece. That’s not fair,” I said. “I’ve only tried to help you figure out what you want to do with your life.”
“I’m doing it.”
“Not going to college. Disappearing for days at a time. Showing up here like this?” I fought to keep the anger from my voice. And I was angry. It felt as if Reece was simply throwing away every advantage she had been given. Advantages I never had.
Reece jumped up from the couch, staggering and hitting the edge of the coffee table.
“Reece!” I said. “What did you take?”
“Do you really think I would tell you that?” she snapped in a sharp voice. “All you need to know is that it was enough for me to find the courage to tell you what I needed to tell you.”
I had never heard her sound so cold, so without feeling. I suddenly felt the blood leave my face. “What is it?”
She stared at me for several long moments before answering. “I’m pregnant. And I want to have an abortion. The only reason I’m telling you is that I don’t have the money.”
I literally sank back onto the sofa as if my legs had given way beneath me. “Reece.”
“I know. You’re so disappointed, right?”
I looked up at my daughter, feeling as if I did not know her at all. The disdain in her voice felt like a slap in the face. “You can’t do that,” I said. “Why would you—”
“It’s my body, and I can do what I want,” she said tightly, as if she had rehearsed this speech over and over again.
“You’ll regret it,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll figure something out.”
“How would you know? Like you ever messed up when you were my age?”
“Reece,” I said, “sit down, please.”
Arms folded across her chest, she glared at me, but sat down on the far end of the sofa. “I do know,” I said, my voice shaking.
“What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me as if she didn’t know me.
I stared down at my hands, my fingers laced tightly together. “I was your age when I became pregnant with you.”
“But you were married to my father. That’s kind of different.”
I couldn’t say anything for a bit, struggling to find the right words. I made myself say them, even though doing so made me a liar. “I know I told you that your father and I were married for a short time. But—we weren’t, sweetie.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her defiant posture from a few moments before disappearing altogether.
“We were dating, and when I told him I was pregnant with you, he said he wasn’t ready to be a father. He wanted me to—”
“—have an abortion?” she finished for me.
I couldn’t say it. Not in front of her. “Reece—”
“Did he really even die in a car wreck? Was that a lie too?”
“No,” I said, even as I knew she had no reason to believe me. “He did. We were just never married.”
“Why would you lie about that?” she asked, shaking her head, disbelieving.
“I didn’t want you to feel unwanted,” I said. And it was true. For a brief time, I had considered doing what her father, Rick, had wanted me to do. He’d said it was the only thing that made sense. Neither of us had money. I was still living with a foster family and hadn’t finished high school.
“Even though it was true?”
“It wasn’t true, Reece. I was very young and had no means of supporting myself, but somehow I knew that wasn’t a choice I could live with.”
“And you never regretted it?”
“Not even for a minute,” I said.
And for a moment, just a single moment, I had seen in Reece’s eyes the little girl who had once loved me with complete openness. A child who thought I could do no wrong.
I reached for her, wanting to pull her into my arms and hug her until she could believe that everything would be okay. It felt as if she wanted me to do exactly that, but then she pulled away and jumped to her feet, grabbing a jacket from the back of the sofa.
“I’m not you, Mom. I don’t want a baby.”
She ran out the door then, and I followed, running outside and trying to stop her before she backed out of the drive and pulled away.
But she was gone in an instant, and I stood there watching after her, fear for my child a choking knot in my throat.
I haven’t seen her since that night. She’d come to the house one day when I was at work and Evan was in school, packed some of her clothes and taken them with her. She’s cut me out of her life completely, and I have no idea how to get her back.
I close the photo album now, pressing my hand to the cover, wishing I had never opened up this door to the past. Grief hits me in the chest, and, for a few seconds, I feel as if I can’t breathe.
I put the album back in the box and close the lid. These can wait until later. They will have to wait.
IT’S AFTER FIVE when I head down the two-lane state road for a run. Evan had made plans with someone he’d met at the dock earlier and rather than wait around to watch him leave, I decided running might help clear my head.
There’s little traffic on the road, but I still run facing cars, stepping into the grass a couple of times when a vehicle passes in both lanes.
I notice Bowie’s truck parked at the top of his driveway just as I round the curve before his house. He’s standing at the mailbox, flipping through envelopes when he looks up and spots me.
I lift a hand to wave, and he waves back. He waits until I reach his driveway, and I stop, leaning over to pull in some deep breaths.
“Quite a pace you’ve got going,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, still winded. “Trying to outrun my brain.”
“Is it working?”
“A little.”
Carson sticks his head out the truck window and barks at me. Greeting or reprimand, I’m not sure. “Hi, Carson,” I say.
He wags his tail, which in turn wags his body.
“How far are you running?” Bowie asks.
“Five, roundtrip.”
“Good run.”
“I’m not the fastest, but I don’t mind distance.”
He looks off for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he should say what he’s about to say, and then, quickly, “I was going to cook something on the grill tonight. Care to join us?”
The invitation surprises me. My first inclination is to refuse because maybe he’s just being polite, but then I think about the empty house waiting for me and the box of photo albums. I really don’t want to go back there right now just to be alone. And so I say, “Sure. That sounds great. Why don’t I finish out my run and I’ll swing by on the way back? If you don’t mind me being sweaty?”
“Not a problem. Okay,” he says, “we’ll see you in a few.”
I start to jog off, then turn to look back at him. “Hey, Bowie.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the invitation.”
“Thanks for accepting.”
And with an inexplicably warm feeling in my chest, I run on.
Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity.
– George Eliot
Bowie
WAS INVITING HER over the right thing to do?
I’m cleaning off the grill and putting foil on the racks when the question decides not to leave me alone.
I could try to fool myself into thinking it was a
n act of courtesy and nothing more, but that would be a waste of energy, since I know myself better than that.
I also know that I’m not one to set myself up for false hope. Thinking Keegan Monroe and I could become anything other than friendly neighbors is naive at best and gullible at worst.
I had continued my Netflix binge of her show last night. She’s really good at what she does. Amazingly, I was able to forget for lapses of time that I had met her in person, that she really wasn’t that fairly naughty character she had played on Aimless.
Even so, it had been a bit of a reality jolt to see her running down the road toward me, her dress and demeanor so very different from that character. There had been something in her eyes that prodded me to make the invitation despite my very-grounded belief that we were destined to be friends and nothing more. A sadness that was at definite visual odds with her life as her fans no doubt perceived it.
I wonder now if it had to do with her daughter, and somehow I know it does. I can’t imagine how that must feel. Being rejected by your child.
“Hey.”
I turn at the sound of her voice calling out from the front porch. “Hey,” I say. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Carson runs to greet her. I call him back, but he’s intent on following through, wagging his tail so hard it’s a blur.
She gives him a tentative pat on the head, but I can see that it’s not something she’s comfortable with. “Carson,” I call out again.
This time he returns to my side, staring up at me with a questioning look as if he doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. I rub him under the chin in our no-words-needed signal for “you’re okay.”
Keegan looks uncomfortable, as if she knows she has offended both of us, but doesn’t know how to fix it. I’m struck by my own surge of awkwardness and say, “There’s a bathroom on the main floor just past the kitchen. Plenty of clean towels in there if you’d like to make use of it.”
“I am pretty sweaty,” she says. “I didn’t think about that when I accepted your invitation.”
“No problem. Just make yourself at home.”
“Thank you,” she says and disappears into the house.
Carson whines. “You’re fine,” I say. “You can’t expect to win the entire world over, you know.”
But I have to say, I’m a little surprised by her standoffishness, since she did fix him a special plate last night. It’s like having your child rejected.
In the kitchen, I start slicing vegetables, potatoes, onion, zucchini, and squash. I pull out a large stainless-steel baking sheet and begin piling them on top. I’m drizzling them with olive oil and sea salt when Keegan walks back into the kitchen.
“Much better,” she says. “Thanks for the use of your bathroom. I hope you don’t mind. I ducked into the shower for a minute.”
Her words bring an instant visual to my mind. Keegan Monroe in my shower. Clothes on or off? Off, you dufus. But then the visual is back, evidence of it in the reddening of my face.
“Ah, no problem,” I say, turning away and making a pretense of looking for something to stir the vegetables with.
“Any way I can help?” she asks.
“How are you with brown rice?”
“Outstanding.”
“All right, then. There’s a bag in the pantry there. Pots are in the drawer by the stove. You can get that underway while I put the veggies on the grill.”
“Sounds great,” she says, and I head outside, welcoming the cooling evening air and its ability to lessen the heat licking through my body.
Carson follows me out, as if he knows he won’t be welcome in the kitchen with Keegan. I rub his head again, saying, “You know you’re top shelf with me, right, buddy?”
He wags his tail and flops down beside the grill.
A few minutes later, Keegan sticks her head out the door and says, “Rice is underway. Is this bottle of wine up for consumption?”
“Absolutely,” I call back. “Glasses are in the cabinet above the sink. Corkscrew in the silverware drawer. Bring it on out.”
“Be right there,” she says, ducking back inside.
I’m stirring the vegetables on the stainless sheet when she comes out with the bottle and glasses.
“Want to open it?” she asks, handing me the corkscrew. “I’m terrible about getting cork in the wine.”
“I’m not the best, but I’ll give it a try.”
I insert the corkscrew and pull it out with a pop. She holds out the glasses and I fill them halfway.
“See,” she says. “Perfect. No cork.”
We toast to it, taking a sip of the wine.
“That’s really excellent,” she says. “I love red.”
“I picked it up on a trip to a vineyard in Burgundy. Once you’ve developed a taste for the French stuff, there’s no going back.”
“I’ve never been. I’ve heard it’s beautiful though.”
“Have you done a lot of traveling?”
“Some. Mostly the kind where you go hide for a week or so and try to regroup. I’ve never done much of the adventurous kind of traveling.”
“I love it,” I say. “Although I’ve become kind of a homebody with Carson here. I hate to leave him in a kennel. It represents the end of the world to him.”
“It would be a lot easier if you could explain that you’ll be back.”
“It would,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and wondering again at the juxtaposition of her seemingly empathetic view of dogs and her reluctance to get near them.
“I’m sorry if I’m not as friendly as he’s used to people being,” she says, as if she’s read my mind. “It’s something I’d really like to get past, but can’t seem to do.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I’m kind of scared of them,” she admits, even though she sounds embarrassed by the fact. “Logically, I know there’s no reason to be scared of Carson. He’s obviously a love.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
She swirls her wine around the glass, staring down at it as if she’s not sure how to find the words, before finally saying, “It was something that happened a long time ago.”
I wait for her to go on, almost telling her she doesn’t have to because I can tell whatever it is, it is a painful memory. And maybe it’s something that will be helpful for her to say. So I wait.
“I grew up in foster homes. Several of them, actually. I’m sure there are really good foster families out there, but I seemed to end up in the ones who endured a never-ending revolving door of children because of the check they brought with them at the end of every month. I always wanted a puppy, but I didn’t end up staying long enough with any one family for that to happen.”
Her voice has gotten even, as if finding the will to recite this memory is more than difficult. I want to tell her to stop, but find that I can’t because something deep inside me wants to know, even as I feel sure it’s not something I’m going to want to hear.
“One of the families I lived with . . . the father . . . he was very strict. He came home from work one night, drunk as usual, and the wife told him I hadn’t done my chores after school. I was twelve at the time, and he said I was too big to spank, so he had another punishment in mind for me. He dragged me out to his truck and threw me inside, daring me to get out. I was too scared to even try, but terrified the entire time he was driving us to somewhere I’d never been before.”
Again, I want to stop her, but she’s no longer looking at me, staring out at the lake beyond as if she has slipped back to another time in her life.
“It was this awful place out in the country. A small building where I could hear dogs barking and snarling as soon as we pulled up. He said he was going to take me inside and let me learn a lesson I would never forget. I was crying and struggling to get away, but he just picked me up and carried me to the doorway where I could see two dogs in the middle of a dirt floor being forced to fight each other.
“He dragged me right up to one
of them. The dog that was losing tried to get behind me to get away from the other dog, so I ended up being in the middle of them. I really thought they would tear me apart. He said if I didn’t do what I was supposed to do around the house, he would bring me back out there and make sure that it happened.”
I don’t even know if she’s aware of it, but tears are streaming down her face. My heart feels like someone has tied it up in a knot, and it has lost all ability to pump blood through my body. I set down my wine glass, and even though I am virtually a stranger to her, I want to comfort her.
I reach for her. “Come here,” I say, pulling her into my arms and wrapping her tight against me. “I am so sorry that you ever went through something like that. My God, who could do that?”
She’s crying softly now. I feel her tears seep into my shirt, wet my skin. I rub a hand across the back of her hair. I don’t know what I imagined as her childhood, but looking at the success she’s made of herself, it would never have been this.
She slips her arms around my waist, and we stand there for a long time holding each other. I don’t want to move. I just want to be whatever support she needs for as long as she needs it. I’m not sure how much time has passed when a boat eases by close into the cove, and Keegan pulls away, wiping her face.
“What is it about you that makes me open my soul and drown you in personal details?”
I shake my head a little, saying, “I don’t mind.”
“You should,” she says, sniffing. “All I’ve done since we met is force you into help mode.”
“I don’t see it like that,” I say, wanting to touch her face again, but forcing myself not to. Distance has crept back in, and I can see that she’s embarrassed at how much she’s revealed of herself.
“As for you being scared of dogs, who wouldn’t be after something like that?”
She shrugs, wiping the back of her hand across her face. “The sad thing was the dogs didn’t want to fight. I could see it in their eyes. It was horrible.”
A slow-burning rage ignites in my chest, and I’m reminded of so much of the evil I have seen from people who perpetrate crimes on the innocent. I feel the same helplessness I had so often felt in my work and wish for the ability to turn the tables.
Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2) Page 8