by Luanne Rice
“I have a huge part in a huge film,” Elizabeth said, starting to cry. “And no one cares… I'm having such a hard time, Rue.”
“But why?”
“Marriage is nothing like I thought it would be. Especially to Zeb. He's in a bad mood all the time. Nothing I do makes him happy—all he ever wants to do is go to work or ride around in his car with Michael. The two of them go off on these long drives, and I'm here alone.”
“You work a lot, Elizabeth,” Rumer reminded her. “Seems like you're always getting a new role.”
“Yes, and I made sure most of them were for movies filming here in California, so I wouldn't have to go far away from home. But now, I swear to you, Rue—next year I'm going to Istanbul, Kenya, Bangkok—as far away as I can get.” Taking a big sip, she started to cry, choking on her drink.
“Don't drink that,” Rumer said, trying to take the glass away from her.
Elizabeth tugged it back, spilling vodka on both of them. “You don't understand…”
But then she put the glass down and went to Michael. Picking him up, she clutched him to her chest. Although he struggled, wanting to go back to his horse, she held on. Carrying him across the room, she stumbled on a pile of his building blocks.
“Watch out!” Rumer called, but it was too late.
Mother and baby went crashing to the ground. Rumer heard the bump of Michael hitting his head, his loud screams and cries: Terrified, she ran over to make sure they were both okay—no blood, no bruises. Luckily their fall had been partially broken by an armchair.
Taking Michael into her arms, Rumer examined his head. It looked fine, not even a small bump. She kissed him, handing him his horse, rocking him in her arms as he cried.
“Give him to me,” Elizabeth said, holding out her hands. But Michael just pressed his mouth against Rumer's neck and sobbed.
“Let him be,” Rumer whispered. “Just for a minute.”
“How dare you?” Elizabeth snarled. “How dare you act so high and mighty? Don't you think people ever trip and fall? Are you trying to make me feel bad about how I mother my child?”
“No, Elizabeth,” Rumer said, knowing nothing she said would get through anyway but frantic about Michael's safety.
“The hell you're not!”
“We shouldn't even be talking like this in front of him.”
“You're jealous, that's what it is,” Elizabeth said. “It's because Zeb married me, not you. Because I have his child…”
“Mama?” Michael asked, looking up with worry in his tear-stained eyes. He began to cry harder, reaching from Rumer to his mother.
“Look! Now you've upset Michael even more. Come here, sweetheart…”
Rumer turned and quietly left the room. She wanted to pull her sister's hair out, slap some sense into her. Going to stand on the wide balcony overlooking the mountains, she forced herself to breathe. The worst part was, Elizabeth's words were true: She was jealous. What if Elizabeth sent her away, preventing her from seeing Michael?
Looking through the window, she saw Elizabeth hunched over, crying. Michael had left her to grab his horse, pull the big toy over to the plate glass window. He put his hand on the inside of the glass; Rumer put hers on the outside. At that moment, trying to touch each other's hands through the window, she knew she would do whatever it took to stay close to him.
Sliding open the door, she walked inside.
“I want, I want you to…” Elizabeth said, sobbing.
To leave, Rumer was sure she was about to say.
“Listen,” Rumer said calmly, being very careful. “What can I do to help you? Do you need to talk? I'll listen. I love you; I love Michael.”
“You love Zeb…” Elizabeth whispered through hot tears.
“No,” Rumer said sharply, never taking her eyes off Elizabeth's for a moment. “He's your husband. He's my brother-in-law, that's all.”
“You're sure?”
“Positive. What can I do to help you—right now?”
Elizabeth clutched her hand, crying silently.
Holding Michael, Rumer just rocked back and forth, trying to comfort him with her movements. Did he have to see his mother like this often? Her stomach turned. His eyes were wild, and his breath was coming in gulpy little sobs.
“Will you run into the kitchen?” Elizabeth asked finally, sniffling. “Get me some tissues and an ice pack—I have to go on camera later this afternoon, and I don't want my eyes to be puffy.”
“Of course,” Rumer said—and, swearing under her breath, did it. The nanny and the housekeeper, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, watched her without a word.
She stayed with Michael while Elizabeth had her photo session, and again, the next day, while Elizabeth went to Century City to meet the press to promote a new movie. That afternoon, when the producer on her next project had called to talk to Elizabeth, Rumer lied for her. She said Elizabeth was swimming laps in the pool. Her sister was in truth passed out drunk. Rumer lost a little more of herself with every call, with every lie. But she got to be with Michael.
Night after night, Rumer had lain awake, thinking.
Finally, one day, while Elizabeth slept, Rumer called Zeb in Houston.
“Mayhew,” he said into the phone.
“Zeb, it's Rumer,” Rumer said, her heart kicking at the sound of his voice.
The silence was long and uncomfortable, but finally he cleared his throat and spoke. “Are you still in California?” he asked.
“What's going on here?” Rumer asked, ignoring his question.
“You mean because I'm not there? It's just work, Rumer. I would have been there to see you, but—”
“That's not what I mean!” Rumer interrupted. “You're as self-centered as Elizabeth—you both assume it's always about you. I'm talking about Michael.”
“He's fine,” Zeb said defensively. “He's the best baby who ever—”
“He's not fine,” Rumer said. “He's in a tug-of-war. I don't know what's going on between you and Elizabeth, and honestly, I don't care. But if Michael has to suffer, I swear, Zeb, I'll take him away.”
“You what?”
“You heard me—I'll take him away.”
“Put Elizabeth on the phone right now.”
“See, I can't,” Rumer said. “She's asleep. Passed out.”
That got Zeb's attention. He fell silent, and Rumer tried to breathe as waves of emotion passed over her.
“You know about her drinking, don't you?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And what do you do about it?”
“Christ, Rumer! I can't do anything about it! I've tried hiding her bottles, breaking her bottles, emptying her—”
“Zeb! Not about her! I'm talking about Michael! How can you leave him alone with her when she's like this?”
“He's never alone with her—Maria lives in. Before her, Katherina did. They don't last very long, but there's always someone.”
“And you think that's enough?”
A long silence stretched out, Rumer's blood pounding in her ears. “No, it's not enough,” he said. “I'm usually there. I gave up a chance to train on a new simulator last month so I could stay home. But I left thistime because I knew you were coming…”
“Me?” she asked hotly.
“Yeah. Rumer—”
“You mean you left because you knew I'd be here with Michael?”
“That,” he said, “and other reasons.”
“ ‘Other reasons’?”
“You think I'm made of stone? I didn't want to see you,” he said, “any more than you want to see me.”
“You're right there.”
“So, then—you get it. I'm in a difficult situation with Elizabeth. I can't force her to stop, and I can't always be there. But I feel safe when you're with Michael—whether she wants to admit it or not, so does Elizabeth. So the answer, I guess, is for you to see him as much as you can.”
“I'd see him every day if I could.”
“You could practice in L.A.; vet to the stars,” Zeb said.
“I live in Hubbard's Point,” Rumer shot back.
“Don't be defensive. I know, you're the new generation Dame de la Roche”
“Like our mothers.”
“Yeah.”
Rumer had held the phone cord, her eyes squeezed shut.
“What about Elizabeth?” she asked, steering the conversation back where it belonged.
“We're not making it… we never—” Zeb began, and Rumer cut him off.
“Stop!” she said. “That's not what I mean! What about getting her help so you don't have to worry about leaving Michael with his mother. Because I swear, Zeb, if she stays like this, I'll try to get him away.”
“I'd fight you till I die,” Zeb said.
“Then don't let it get that far. Find a rehab for her, Zeb. If you need me to take Michael while she goes, I will. I'll take care of him….”
“Okay, Rumer. I'll try. She's stubborn—she won't want to go.”
“I'm stubborn too. I won't let Michael be hurt like this.”
“I hear you, Larkin,” Zeb said grimly. “I'll make it happen, okay?”
“I hope you do,” she said, breaking down at the craziness of it all—at the layers and layers of memory and emotion among them all. “She's my sister, and no matter what, I want her to be okay….”
“I know, Rumer,” Zeb whispered. “I know that…”
The years had gone by. Michael would fly east; Rumer would fly west. Elizabeth would stop drinking for a while, then start up again. When Elizabeth felt too much pressure, she'd go away and detox for a few days. There was a rehab in Phoenix; a twenty-eight-day program in San Francisco.
Michael had drawn pictures of Hubbard's Point and told Rumer he'd rather live there than in California. He'd ridden Blue, holding on for dear life, begging her not to send him away. The idea had broken Rumer's heart—”I'd never send you away,” she had promised. “Mommy will get better, and you'll go home, but you can always come visit me and Blue. Always…”
But he hadn't. Elizabeth had never allowed him to visit again. She'd never given a reason; it was just never the right time. When Rumer wanted to fly west, Elizabeth was always too busy. Michael was growing up; he had activities, and if Rumer were to come, he would be too occupied to break away and spend time with her.
Rumer didn't often think these thoughts, but standing by the white rail fence that late summer afternoon, she was overflowing with them. When the kids rode over and dismounted, they said they had to get home to do their school work. Rumer asked if they'd mind waiting a few minutes.
“Of course not, Aunt Rumer,” Michael said, giving her a leg-up onto the horse they'd both loved so much.
When she smiled down into his almost-grown-up face, her heart cracked. She thought his did too; she could see it in his eyes, in the way they blinked and then held her gaze.
“Do you know…” she began, the warm breeze blowing his brown hair, tossing it around his face, “that I'd never purposely break a promise to you?”
“Yes,” he said, standing very still. “I've always known that.”
“I'm glad,” Rumer said.
Quinn just watched, but she knew: Rumer could see in her young friend's eyes that she understood the depth of love between them. As Michael petted Blue's strong neck, Rumer rode away.
“Booooooo,” she heard Michael call after her, as she rode the old horse into the green field. Perhaps Edward and Annie were watching from the porch; it didn't matter. Rumer cantered along the stone wall, over the rise, down to the river.
She watched the river flow as she rode Blue along its banks, and she still heard Michael's voice in her ears, the baby boy and the nearly grown man, calling their horse. And Rumer pictured Zeb, the only boy she'd ever loved, as she let her horse carry her along, the feeling growing in the summer heat.
That night, Michael and his father had dinner at the fried-clam stand. They hit golf balls at the driving range, and Michael told him about riding Blue. When they got home, his father went for a swim on the rocks, and Michael sat down to study. The telephone rang. Thinking it was Quinn, he ran to pick it up. The connection crackled: a cell phone.
“Michael?”
“Mom?”
“Yes, it's me. We have an absolutely terrible connection. I'm in my trailer on the set in the most godforsaken place. Can you hear me?”
“Barely.”
“Well. We'll do our best. This is the first chance I've had to call you since you landed in suburbia. Are you surviving? Are you dying of boredom?”
“I'm fine,” Michael said.
“Do tell all. I got a message saying that your grandfather left on his trip. I couldn't bear to call back and hear the details… you know how I am with good-byes. Did he get away safely?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. He's crazy as a loon, going off to sea like that, sailing up here to Canada, but there it is. That's your grandfather. He believes in almighty literature. If Melville and Joseph Conrad wrote about sailing the ocean blue, your grandfather wants to join the tradition. How's Aunt Rumer?”
“Fine.”
“Probably lost, right? Absolutely lost without him. She can't be alone.”
“She's okay.”
His mother laughed. “You don't know her. She's spinning, I tell you. Positively off kilter. I love her dearly, you know that, but she has never cut the apron strings.”
“Huh,” Michael said. He pictured Aunt Rumer driving her truck to work every day. He thought of the animals she treated, of her saving the osprey And he pictured her galloping across the field on Blue. “She's keeping pretty busy,” he said.
“Well, she has to,” his mother laughed. “To keep from mooning over your father.”
“What?”
“Don't tell me you haven't noticed her swooning over him.”
“I haven't.”
“She was in love with him, you know. We never talked about it to you, but you're old enough to know now. It was really kind of a joke… shy little Rumer carrying a torch for Zeb. I mean, can you in a million years see them together? The veterinarian and the astronaut?” his mother asked, laughing again.
“Why not? You didn't want him.”
“That's not nice, Michael,” his mother said. Was she upset? Michael couldn't tell, but the laughter was gone from her voice.
“It's true.”
“Truth is very subjective,” his mother said. “It depends on who's telling it. You don't know the whole story. But the fact is, we outgrew each other. It's sad, but it happens. You'll learn someday when you fall in love. Have you heard from Amanda?”
Amanda Johns, the daughter of his mother's friend, the famous producer Buster Johns. Amanda was what people called “an exquisite beauty.” She was a porcelain doll who'd already appeared in two movies and three music videos. She could sing, dance, act, and model. Michael had dated her during the spring, and his mother had been jumping up and down for joy.
“Not for a while,” he said.
“Keep her on the string,” his mother said. “She is perfect for you. When you've lived the life you have, you must remember that not everyone has. You'll meet many other girls in your life, but none with a background as similar to yours as Amanda.”
“Background?”
“Yes. It's key, Michael. As you get a little older, you'll understand.”
“What's the difference if we'll just outgrow each other anyway?”
His mother cracked up. “Touche!” she said. “Don't shoot me, I'm just the messenger. These are the true facts of life. You already know about sex… this part is much harder. So keep Amanda close—you don't want to lose her.”
“Yes I do,” Michael said, thinking of Quinn.
“What?”
“I don't care about Amanda Johns.”
“Sounds to me as if you're fooling around with someone out there. Are you, Michael? Because listen to me—it's wrong for you. You're not a Hubbard's Point
person, and you should be glad of it. It's small time. Have your fun, but let it go at that. Who is she?”
Michael was silent, holding the phone cord. Something told him not to reveal the truth about him and Quinn to his mother. She would try to crush it, he knew. Feeling protective of their love, he knew he had to say something else to throw her off.
“You and Dad had the same background. I've seen the houses you grew up in—right next door to each other.”
“Yes, you're right. Background isn't everything, but it's important. If background was all that counted, I suppose your father might have married Aunt Rumer instead. Now, who is this girl? Go on, tell me.”
“I think they'd have been happy,” Michael said quietly.
Silence on the line. For a moment he thought the connection had been broken, and then his mother asked, “What did you say?”
“I think they would have made each other happy.”
“They?”
“Dad and Aunt Rumer.”
“Why in the world would you say something so ridiculous?”
“Because they look nice together.”
“Together? When are they together?”
“They danced on the dock,” Michael said. “At Grandpa's going-away party. And she's had us over for dinner.”
“Your father's polite,” she said. “That's all it is.”
“Whatever.”
“What do you mean, they danced?”
“Just what I said. Music was playing. They danced.”
“How cute,” his mother said. “What was it—one in the afternoon? Typical Hubbard's Point. I'm telling you, Michael—it's the most sentimental crap I've ever heard. Leave my father his dignity, you know? Let him sail away without every old woman out there waving gingham hankies… and Rumer leading the pack.”
“It was fun,” Michael said.
“Oh, forget I said anything. Listen. Just have a good time, and call your mother once in a while. The filming is interminable, and I need a distraction.”
“Where are you?”
“I'm sitting in some Canadian fishing village at the end of the world. Nova Scotia, of all places—meeting your grandfather when he gets here. Fishing boats going in and out of the harbor all day long… the smell of lobster is enough to make me sick. Even my hair, my clothes, smell of lobster—it's appalling.”