His words hit me like blows. I leaned back in the chair. It was almost as though the sea goblin stared out through my father’s eyes, spoke through his mouth. Was Father’s kindness an act, or was the sudden cruelty forced on him by the gremhahn?
Father blew a harsh breath out of his nose, then reached out and gently touched a strand of hair that had escaped from under my hat.
“You’re right,” he said. “I did break my own rule.”
“Good,” I said, and hoped it would be good. Hoped that Mother would recover. That medicine and love were stronger than dark magic.
*
Outside in the hallway, Father slumped against the wall, worn out and exhausted. He’d never let Mother or me see him this way before. He had always come home at the end of the day and gone straight to his study for thirty minutes. No one was to disturb him during this time. Decompressing, he called it. Exactly thirty minutes later—I could have set my watch by it, and Mother did in her way, timing dinner so that it was set on the table exactly one minute before—he would emerge and we would eat together. She’d said people didn’t need to say “I love you” all the time if they showed it every day.
But he was tired now. He ran a weary hand over his face again, as if he could rub fatigue away with his palm and fingertips.
“You love her,” I said quietly.
He nodded. “Always have. Always will.” He glanced my way. “Always loved you, too.”
“Then why?”
He sighed. “I don’t know, Cassie. At the time, when your mother told me she was determined to look for Jimmy, I suppose I went a little insane. It was the futility that made me crazy, the heartbreak I knew would come to her.” He paused then, and sucked air over his teeth thoughtfully. “No. It started before then. Since right after I had influenza, I suppose. Anger buzzed in me like bees swarming around the hive. I couldn’t name a reason for it, but it was there every day and night. Over time it grew and grew until that day—” He looked away from me. “The day I hit your mother and abandoned you both.” He paused again, then said, “After, later, when the anger went away as quickly and with as little reason to go as it had had to come, I was embarrassed. My behavior was unacceptable, but I was too proud to apologize and ask for forgiveness. And now, here we are.”
I put my hand gently on his arm. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “With your mother ill, you shouldn’t be alone at the beach house. You don’t even have Molly anymore. You’re completely by yourself there. You should come stay with me.”
My heart leapt and then fell. “Isn’t . . . she there?” More words followed in a rush. “Don’t be angry. Moira told me about your girlfriend. That she lived at the house. Lives there.”
He nodded. “Belinda, yes. She’s there, but you’re my daughter. You come first.”
Would he kick her out for me? Did I want that?
“I’m fine at the beach house,” I said. “And I am nineteen. I can live where I please.”
“True,” he said. “I hoped it would please you to come stay with your father.”
I saw then how lonely he was, even with Belinda. Saw that in some way he thought my being at the house would bring Mother back to him, too. That he wanted what I’d wanted—for us to be a family again.
“I’ll bring my things tomorrow,” I said.
*
My stomach was tight as I walked past the sentry line of Spanish firs that hid the house from the street. The taxi driver lugging my trunk whistled through his teeth when the house and the large yard studded with tall queen palms came into view. The house itself was no grander or more impressive than others nearby, though it might have seemed that way after the rather dramatic entranceway. Father had designed the house himself as a scaled-down version of a mansion he’d seen in Spain while on a respite from the war.
To me, the house looked as it always did—the two-story, white stucco walls with red roof tiles in the Mediterranean style, tall windows on the first floor, with red damask drapes, large swaths of the front wall hidden by purple-red bougainvillea and the white oleanders I’d been warned never to touch.
I paid the cabbie at the door, thanked him, and tipped him extra for helping with the trunk. I opened the front door and called out a tentative “Hello.” The woman who came from the direction of the kitchen wasn’t Sophie, who’d been our housekeeper for as long as I could remember, but a stranger. My shoulders tensed, wondering if this tall, stern-looking blonde was Belinda, my father’s live-in girlfriend.
The woman’s face remained unmovable as stone as she approached me.
“You must be Cassie,” she said in a strong Swedish accent. “I’m Inga.”
Not Belinda, then. My shoulders relaxed.
“Mr. Goodlight said you’d be arriving,” Inga said. “I’ve prepared your room.” She glanced at my trunk. “Someone will come later to bring that up.”
Seeing a place you know well but haven’t seen in a while can be odd. My room looked the same and yet foreign. The canopy bed and white eyelet lace bedspread I’d loved as a young girl seemed childish now. Why was my plush zoo and wooden horse collection still on display? It had been five months since I’d last stepped into this room, but it seemed decades.
The thump-thump of my trunk being dragged upstairs startled me. A blond about my own age appeared, though I could only see him from the back as he lugged the trunk into my room. He stood and turned around.
“This is my boy, Franz,” Inga said, and frowned at me.
Franz was handsome, no denying that, and I thought Inga’s frown was a warning to stay away from him. Unconsciously, I reached up and touched the spots where, under my hat, stars glittered in my hair. Inga didn’t have to worry about me.
Where was Belinda? Waiting downstairs to ambush me? To tell me how sorry she was about my mother but that she was sure all would be fine in the end? Or to complain how my father was spending much too much time at the hospital? The spacious room felt suddenly hot and close.
“I’ll put my things away later,” I said, edging toward the door.
Inga nodded, and she and Franz moved aside so I could flee. I went down the stairs and out the front door, turned left and walked fast toward Moira’s house.
Moira welcomed me into her house with a quick hug.
“Are you moved back in?” she asked when we’d settled ourselves in the parlor. I hadn’t been here in a while, either, but the sameness of the brown leather couch that had adorned this room for ages, the two club chairs upholstered in blue brocade, and the old, marble French clock on the mantel that had been there for as long as I’d known Moira were comforting.
I shook my head. “My trunk is there, but I can’t do it. I want to, for my father’s sake, but—
Moira tilted her head, a few of her springy red curls falling over her forehead, waiting for me to go on.
“Everything looks the same,” I said, “but nothing is the same.”
“Is your father home now?” Moira asked, smoothing her curls back from her face.
“Still at work.”
“So you could make a quick getaway, if you wanted.”
The thought was tempting. “I can’t do that to him. I said I’d come stay. I want to run, but I can’t.”
“His house is closer to the hospital,” Moira said, as if trying to find the silver lining. “How’s your mother?”
“The same,” I said. “Father has ordered some special medicine for her. It’s being flown here from Boston.”
Moira jumped to her feet. “I have an idea. Go tell Inga to tell your father you forgot a few things and are going back to the beach house overnight to get them. That’ll buy you another day at least. I’ll drive you.”
I thought it over. Father would understand one more day.
“There’s something creepy about Inga,” I said. “Have you met her?”
Moira laughed. “Oh yes. And the handsome Franz, who she claims is her son but the neighborhood is sure is
her lover.”
“Moira!” I said, not as shocked as I should have been, I supposed.
“Belinda brought Inga in after Sophie quit in disgust over your father settling his mistress right in his home,” Moira said.
Telling Moira I didn’t want to hear any more about Belinda had meant I’d cut myself off from knowing what was going on in my own family. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Another night in Hermosa would be welcome,” I said. “More time to get used to the new arrangements.”
“Excellent,” Moira said, sweeping a warm shawl over her shoulders. “Give me a moment to tell my mother, and then we’re off.”
*
I dreamed of Molly that night, tucked up in my bed at the beach house. A short dream, Molly crawling into bed with me the way she used to, her warm furry self stretched out next to me, my arm around her body, her chin on my chest. She gazed at me with her deep brown eyes and whimpered. In the dream I asked her what was wrong, tried to comfort her, but it was no use. She whimpered and cried, cried and whimpered, and then the dream was gone.
*
The morning broke sunny and beautiful, the cold rain evidently banished until real winter would set in. Even before I got out of bed I heard beachgoers passing the house, their chatter and laughter as they headed toward their day’s outing.
Moira had left before eating, needing to get to her job. Over breakfast I wondered how much more to pack. I couldn’t know how long I would be with Father—until Mother was well? After Mother was well? Mother and I both with Father for the rest of our lives? I should have thought of these questions yesterday.
I was still thinking when the phone rang and I got up to answer it. A woman was sobbing on the other end.
Oh no, I prayed, not Mother. But no one calling from the hospital would sob, no matter how bad the news.
“Ma’am,” I said. “Ma’am, are you all right? You’ve reached the Goodlight residence. Can I help you?”
“Is this Cassie?” she managed between sobs.
“Yes,” I said. “How can I help you?”
There was more sobbing. Clearly this woman had meant to call me, but I had no idea who she was or why she was carrying on so.
“Ma’am,” I said again. “Ma’am?”
“He’s dead!” The woman screamed at me. “He’s dead and I don’t know what to do. Your father is dead.”
For a long moment I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only listen to her sobs.
I thought now this must be Belinda. I tried out the name.
“Belinda, what happened?”
“Hit by a car,” Belinda said, not screaming now, but her words tumbling out as if they might trip over each other. “Run down. I was right there beside him. He was dead before the ambulance came.”
My mind froze. It wasn’t possible that he was dead. Not Father. He was big and strong and would live forever. But he was dead. Molly had tried to tell me it was coming.
I shook the thought away. I had to think.
“What am I going to do?” Belinda wailed.
That was the question, wasn’t it? So many, many things to do suddenly.
“Belinda,” I said, using her name again to make her focus, “where is he now?”
I could hear her swallowing, trying to get control of herself.
“They took him to McCormick’s funeral home.”
I nodded, but of course she couldn’t see that over the telephone.
“My mother, his wife,” I emphasized the word to make our positions clear, “is in the hospital.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m very sorry she’s ill.”
She sounded sincere, which made what I’d say next a little harder.
“Belinda, I know you live at the house. I don’t want to leave you immediately homeless. Take two days. Pull your things together. Find a place to live. Do you have a key to the house?”
“Yes,” she said, shock clear in her voice.
“I will meet you there Thursday morning to get the key. Do not take anything of my father’s. If you do, I will know. Mother and I will take care of everything. Do you understand?”
“Y-y-yes,” she stammered.
“Thank you for the call,” I said. “I know this is hard for you.”
“Yes,” she said again. There was a long silence, and then the sound of the receiver being put back on the hook.
I held the phone in my hand a moment longer, then set my own handset in the cradle. I sank into a chair and stared into space. Tears filled my eyes and a sob rose in my throat. I let them both break free.
*
I stood staring into my wardrobe. Mother had always said I was too young for black when I’d spied some black blouse or dress I felt drawn to in a store. Nothing in my armoire was appropriate—all pastels and jewel tones. A girl’s wardrobe, not a woman’s.
I sighed and went into Mother’s room. We were nearly the same size, though I was a little taller. I chose a black, drop-waist dress with cap sleeves and only a moderate amount of bead decoration. I might look more like I was headed to a party than a funeral, but at least the color would be right.
I held the dress a moment, thinking this was probably the first big decision I’d made without benefit of counsel from one or both of my parents.
No, that wasn’t true. I’d made the decision to give Belinda two days to get out of my father’s house. I’d fired Inga and Franz. I’d dealt with the funeral home, made all the arrangements, and gone to the bank and convinced the manager to give me access to my parents’ accounts. I’d notified the hospital, my father’s nurse and office manager, his personal friends and important business acquaintances. I’d gone to the hospital and told my mother that her husband was dead. I guessed I was old enough to wear black now.
*
The turnout for Father’s funeral was more than I expected. Nearly a hundred people came. Some I knew—doctors, nurses, orderlies, business acquaintances, Father’s best friend since grammar school, our longtime housekeeper, Sophie—and many more whom I didn’t. Belinda had the good sense to stay away, though I thought I’d spotted her, a bouquet of white lilies in her arms, lurking at the back of the church and then later at the cemetery.
Pastor Timmons, whom I’d known nearly all my life, led the service. John Gilbert, Father’s oldest friend, gave a eulogy full of funny stories from their youth. Two gentlemen Father had served with in the Great War spoke of his compassion and his bravery under fire. In a way, it was death that finally, fully restored to me the father I’d known and loved.
As I walked out of the National Cemetery onto Sepulveda Boulevard, the last person to leave the graveside, a man stopped beside me on the street.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” he said.
“Father,” I said. “Were you a friend or business acquaintance of his?”
“Parents,” the man said again.
In that shocked moment as I realized what he meant, I saw a cab coming and hailed it. Inside the taxi, I looked out the back window just in time to see, where the man had stood, a seagull rising into the sky.
“First and Hill Streets. The Receiving Hospital,” I said to the driver. “Hurry please.”
We raced down Wilshire Boulevard, past the Ambassador Hotel and Cocoanut Grove, past MacArthur Park, the cabbie swerving around automobiles and trolley cars. We turned on Figueroa, and then onto Second Street, and finally, finally onto Hill. All the while my mind spun with only one word: Mother.
Eight
Los Angeles, California
November 1923
I burst into Mother’s hospital room, my heart pounding and my hands shaking. The smell of bleach used for cleaning was faint but distinct in the air. My eyes swept around the small room, taking in the white walls, the small dresser, silver radiator, and the slim bed with iron head and foot rails in which my mother was resting. She looked at me from the bed and smiled.
Not dead. In fact, sitting up and looking better than she had
in weeks. For a moment I couldn’t grasp it and felt more shocked than relieved. Why had the man made me think Mother, too, had died or was dying? What was the point?
Panic, I supposed. The man, whoever or whatever he was, wanted me frightened and worried. To feel the horrible pain of believing I’d lost both parents.
I was sure it had been the sea goblin who’d made her ill. Why would he frighten me with intimations of her death but let her regain her health? Did he have some other, worse plan in mind for making sure his curse came true and Mother never saw her son again?
“Cassie,” Mother said, her voice strong and cheerful. She held out her hand. “Come help me to my feet. The doctors say I can go home today. I’m completely cured, practically overnight. The doctors say they’ve never seen anything like it.”
My heart shuddered in my chest. How could she be so quickly and miraculously cured except by the gremhahn’s sorcery—the same way Father had been cured, years back? This miracle was no gift, I was sure of that. Had we paid in advance with Father’s life?
Maybe the sea goblin wasn’t responsible for her illness or her recovery. If the gremhahn hadn’t made her sick, maybe he also hadn’t addled her mind so that she stood in the rain and got sick. Maybe that was worse. It was better that the sea goblin had made Mother unhinged than that she’d become unhinged on her own.
“Was it the medicine that Father sent to Boston for that did it?” I asked, taking the hand she held out to me.
Mother nodded. “Dr. Johnson said it was. He’s sent to Boston now for more. Evidently I wasn’t the only person to come down with a very bad pneumonia this year.” She held out her hand.
I helped her to her feet, thinking I was glad it was the medication and not the sea goblin that had saved her. Though that didn’t mean it wasn’t the gremhahn who’d sent her out into the rain to get sick in the first place.
Mother leaned against me, still weak from her illness and the long period in bed. I braced myself to support her and wrapped my arms around her, happy that she was alive and gaining back her health, whatever the cause.
The Girl with Stars in her Hair Page 7