Amanda right now was not thin, she had put on weight at boarding school. She wasn’t fat, but she moved heavily, sluggish and reluctant. Peter hoped that this month would be a release for her, a chance to get away from whatever kept her so unhappy, so unwilling to move. The year at boarding school might have begun that process, he thought, made her not quite so solipsistic, opened her eyes a bit to the world. He wanted for her to unclench herself, release her good mind, to give up being so angry, so withdrawn, so stuck in that closed hostile room. He thought that this summer could be the beginning of that, he felt sure of it.
There had been some cautiously optimistic comments from her teachers. It was too bad that she had dropped field hockey, as she had dropped so many things, but field hockey itself was not so important. And her art teacher said she had made some very provocative comments. He was sure that this was the beginning, that Amanda was starting to blossom. He wanted her to unfurl her fragile petals, to turn toward the light, to turn toward him. He longed for her to turn to him.
The house would make a difference to her. He had told her all about it, he had showed her the plans, he had sent her photographs of it during the building. He had explained her room to her. In New York, when Amanda spent the night with them, which was seldom, she shared Tess’s room. Here she would have her own pretty room, which Emma had done up for her carefully. The house would be a place that they all shared. There were other kids her age; she would make friends, have her own world here. He saw her riding her bike around the island with the others, part of a big swooping crowd, wheeling along the narrow roads in the sun.
He and Emma had tried to think of everything to make it happy for her. The main thing was a teenage tennis clinic at the club, three mornings a week. “All the kids her age will be in that,” Emma said. “Once she’s in that she’ll meet everyone. And from then on it will be easy, she’ll be part of everything. And I’m going to go on excursions with the girls. I’m going to take them on separate outings, alone, on different days. We’ll find things to do.” She smiled. Emma seemed so eager about this, so certain, so full of anticipation. And she had showed him with such pride the room she had prepared for Amanda—the flowered bedspreads, the white curtains, the bright rugs.
“It’s pretty, don’t you think?” she said shyly, standing in the doorway. “I hope she’ll like it. I tried to make it more grown-up than Tess’s.”
Emma had cut her hair differently that summer, with heavy bangs. In back it was very short, like a boy’s. She looked like a teenager, with her cropped hair, and wearing clogs, khaki shorts and a T-shirt. Her tanned legs were slightly bowed, and she stood with her hands in her pockets, her feet set neatly together like a good child’s. Peter had been touched by her shyness, her eagerness. He hoped Amanda realized how much Emma was doing for her. He put his arm around Emma, fervently. Please, he thought, please.
“Ow,” Emma said.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m thinking how much she’ll love it.” Amanda would love it, he thought, he would make her love it.
Now Peter and Emma began to shift in the front seat, unbuckling, collecting themselves for the passage. Amanda, behind them, was already collected. As Peter turned off the engine she was sliding across the backseat, and as he set the brake she was opening the door as far as it would go, nudging against the glossy curve of the gray Mercedes next to them. She slid through the narrow opening, not looking back, and pushed the door shut behind her, or at least tried to. A strong uneven resistance made her turn: Tess’s face was poised in the doorway, tense, pleading.
The two girls had barely seen each other that year. Tess was still living at home in New York, but Amanda had moved on to a new world. On the drive up that afternoon they had sat in the backseat together, as they had always done, but had barely spoken. As soon as they were under way Amanda opened her knapsack and took out her new Walkman. She untangled the cords and put the metal arc over the top of her head. Leaning back against the seat, she settled the speaker pads over her ears with relief: she could hardly wait for the sound to seal her off from the world. Tess watched respectfully.
Emma turned around, leaning over the back of the seat with a book in her hand. She spoke, smiling; Amanda could not hear the words but knew she was offering to read aloud. Emma always did this in the car; they had gone through all of the Madeleine L’Engle trilogy on long trips, with Peter listening too, at the wheel. Amanda wondered what book Emma was now holding—what book she thought was appropriate for a fifteen-year-old, an adult. It didn’t matter. Amanda leaned back, the music sealing her off against the world. She was safe.
Emma waited, smiling, for an answer. Amanda stared at her, frowning slightly, as though Emma were speaking gibberish. Tess, her face unhappy, answered. Amanda didn’t hear what Tess said, but Emma’s face changed. She turned around and closed the book.
Amanda leaned further back and turned the sound up. She closed her eyes: the music rose, bold and intimate, inside her head. She felt as though the music itself were a room she had entered, full of dark pounding motion, dangerous and metallic, a demonic machine shop in full swing. She imagined herself standing inside this wild dark room, standing right in front of Sting, watching him as he sang, his wild hair, his urgent eyes, his electrifying movements.
During the whole trip Amanda sat still, remote and absorbed, the vibrant music deep in her head. Tess sat silent beside her, staring at the roadside rushing past. Amanda said nothing to Tess, she no longer had anything to say to her. She felt changed, adult.
Now, her hand still on the car door, Amanda looked briefly at Tess’s face, poised urgently in the opening. She could see what Tess wanted—to be partners again—but the gap between fifteen and eleven was too great. Amanda turned away, not bothering to speak. Tess, uninvited but not prohibited, scrambled after her. Behind them Emma called, “See you upstairs!”
Neither girl answered. Amanda pretended that Emma was calling Tess. Tess pretended she hadn’t heard.
The girls threaded their way across the deck, through the maze of tightly packed cars, clambering awkwardly over the nearly touching bumpers. By the time they reached the stern rail, the ferry was under way. In the time it had taken them to park, to climb out of their car and make their way to the rail, everything in the world had changed.
When they had driven onto the ferry, the deck had seemed only an extension of the dusty landing. Not even a mild defining bump had marked the frontier between land and sea. But now the ferry was revealing its true nature. Without even a preliminary lurch it had begun, disconcertingly, to move. Slow, calm, the ferry’s motion was so majestic that it seemed at first as though the dock itself might have quietly disengaged and begun a retreat from the stationary boat. But now it was clear: the ferry was under way, setting out for Marten’s Island, eight miles offshore.
Already a widening stretch of gray-green water lay between the ferry’s broad stern and the dock. On land, figures, so recently large and important—the ferryman among them—were becoming miniature and insignificant. Already, the whole center of things, the vivid, immediate stage of the world had shifted to here—seagoing, transient, unstable—instead of there, where it had just been—landbound, fixed, known.
The girls leaned in silence against the rail as the ferry passed the shabby factories, the low rooflines of abandoned warehouses. At the river’s mouth the ferry skirted the government submarine works, its nuclear secrets submerged in the cold shifting waters, between huge metal stanchions. Then the land gave way altogether, and the ferry headed out into the open sky and expansive reach of Long Island Sound. To the west, the sun was lowering behind a dark mass of clouds, their steamy centers truculent, muscular, their scalloped edges light-shot.
Amanda rested her forearms along the metal rail, her weight on one hip, the opposing knee cocked. Beside her, Tess, inches shorter, strained upward to strike the same casual pose, glancing sideways at Amanda for comparison, carefully setting her arms along the rail like Amanda’s, cocking th
e same knee. Noticing, Amanda irritably shifted to the other knee. Silently, frowning steadily out to sea, Tess did the same.
Amanda turned to her. “Tess,” she said, in reproof.
“What?” Tess widened her eyes, disclaiming, disingenuous.
But Amanda only shook her head, scornful. It didn’t matter what Tess did, or how she stood: Tess was eleven years old. She looked it. She still wore the clothes Emma chose for her—bright-colored jerseys, well-washed jeans, clean sneakers. She had Emma’s mournful slanted eyes, her pointed chin. Her glossy honey-colored child’s hair was in two neat ponytails. Tess looked tended, glowing, like someone’s beloved child.
Amanda did not. She wore blue jeans, faded and baggy, a wide fraying hole across each knee. Her black T-shirt was worn to a grayish sheen, partly covered by a thin black sweater, buttoned halfway down. Her black shoes were thick soled and clumsy. Even her hair was now dyed black, glintless matte, with a pale green streak along one temple. She wore it short and messy, tucked behind her ears.
Standing next to Tess, Amanda could feel the pull from her, her mute request, a plea for Amanda to return to the life they had shared. It was not possible. For Amanda, all that was now blurred and unimportant, like someone else’s dream. She could hardly believe her memories of the things they had done with such intensity, the complicated games they had created. Remembering them now made Amanda cringe. It was hardly credible, and she rejected it. All that was like the time before she was born.
Amanda stared out at the retreating shoreline and the darkening afternoon. The shore was now no longer a real place but an abstraction, a somber band on the horizon. She felt hope ebb, her heart slowly sinking, her spirits darkening with the afternoon. Amanda had not wanted to leave the mainland. It would be a long month before she was permitted to make this trip back across the water, to return to her own real life. She was a captive here, on this boat, on her way to an unknown place: At school she had been wholly in charge of herself, and in the city, with her mother, she was independent. Caroline seldom asked where she was going, or gave her a curfew. She was on her own now, but no one had asked her about this month with her father, no one had asked if she wanted to go to his new house on Marten’s Island. She resented being told by her parents she was going, she resented this involuntary visit, this exile. She was being treated like a child, forced back into an earlier part of her life. She felt now infinitely remote from that life, from her father and from Emma. She felt light-years away from Tess. She resented the idea that she and Tess were peers, playmates, She turned on Tess.
“So,” Amanda said, her voice languid, unkind. “What’s it like, at Marten’s? Do you like it there?”
Wary, Tess nodded, shrugging her shoulders. She was used to coming here. Marten’s was where she was. It had not occurred to her to wonder if she liked it.
“What do you do all day?” Amanda sounded challenging, derisive.
Tess shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she said, guarded. “Bike. Go to the beach.”
The beach: under no circumstances would Amanda go to the beach. It meant revealing her body, and she would not do that. Amanda hated her body. She never undressed near a mirror. Glimpsing herself naked was excruciating, she hated every angle of herself. She felt as though she were under a terrible curse, trapped in an alien form.
“What else?” asked Amanda.
“Well, tennis,” said Tess, casting about.
“Tennis,” said Amanda. “Clinic?”
Tess nodded.
Amanda squinted out at the Sound. “Clinics,” she said. She closed her eyes. Clinics were almost worse than the beach. The jaunty little pleated white skirt that showed off your white thighs, and the heavy boatlike tennis shoes, and the little white socklets. Worse than the clothes was being there, in the clinic itself. Standing in the full blast of the midday sun, the heat all around you, bearing down on your head, radiating up from the gritty gray-green court. You stood at the back of the court, waiting in line for your turn, staring at the pro but bored and stunned by the sun, so that when your turn finally came you didn’t notice. “Next! Let’s go! Amanda, that’s you! Let’s go, now!” The pro bawled out your name, and you made a clumsy scramble across the court, up to the net as the yellow ball floated toward you in a low, insulting curve. You rushed at it, your racquet stretched out as you tried to swing, though you were too late for that, you simply lunged and you heard, as you struggled to swing anyway, the pro’s voice, “Punch, don’t swing, Amanda! Remember what I’ve been telling you. Don’t swing, punch.” But it was too late, you had already swung, and you were off balance, so you hit the ball on the rim of your racquet, and it bounced into the net and then rolled into the court so that you nearly tripped on it as you moved off.
“Better,” called the pro shamelessly, “much better, Amanda.” You turned and jogged off; once out of the alley you slowed, carrying your racquet head-down and tapping it with your foot, kicking it, actually, with every step you took. You returned to the back of the court, where you waited, sweating, enervated, for your next turn.
Tess watched Amanda’s face intently. “I hate clinics,” she offered.
“You do not,” Amanda said, scornful.
Tess nodded energetically, but Amanda shook her head. Tess was lying. Tess was a goody-goody, who liked everything her mother told her to. Amanda changed the subject.
“How often do you see your dad?” she asked, unfriendly.
Tess’s face altered. Wary again, she shrugged her shoulders.
“How often?” repeated Amanda, bullying. “Every weekend? Every month?”
“I don’t know,” said Tess, twisting her head to one side. “Not every weekend. Sometimes they take me on vacations with them.”
“Is it fun?” asked Amanda, curious, not kind.
Tess looked at her and did not answer.
“Is it?” Amanda persisted.
Tess turned her head and looked out at the Sound. “Yes,” she said, not turning.
“What’s your stepmother like?” Amanda asked.
“Mimi,” Tess corrected.
“Mimi,” said Amanda. She waited.
Tess shrugged again, not looking at Amanda. “She’s pretty.”
“Does she like you?” asked Amanda, relentless.
Tess glanced at her but did not answer. She looked out at the water, intent, her eyes narrowed, her mouth set. She now seemed deeply preoccupied, her gaze shutting Amanda out. Amanda could see that the question was one Tess had never considered. She could see that Tess still believed the world was safe for her, everyone in it kind.
“Does she?” Amanda said, pursuing. “Does she like you?”
Frowning, not looking at Amanda, Tess nodded.
Amanda stared at her boldly, but Tess would not look back.
The ferry churned steadily seaward, leaving a broad flattened path of subdued water behind it. Seagulls had gathered in a ragged band as the boat moved out into the sound, and they now made irregular circles over the wake, screaming, accusatory. They drifted slowly over the boat, past the rail, their wings motionless. The girls could see, close up, their polished black heads, the hard curved beaks with their hooked tips, the merciless yellow eyes.
The new house stood on a wooded rise. The driveway made a circle before it, and wooden steps led up to a long deck. The shingles were still golden, the trim bright white.
Peter and Amanda, carrying bags, were the first to climb the back steps. Peter set down his things and put his arm around Amanda.
“So what do you think?” he asked. “Pretty neat, don’t you think?”
He was excited: in spite of herself, Amanda smiled.
“Come out with me and see the view.” They walked along the side porch to the back. Below, a golf course spread smoothly down a gradual slope, disappearing and reappearing as it made its way to a distant beach, beyond that blue water, now barely visible in the gathering darkness.
“That’s the Atlantic down there, not the Sound,” he
said, proud. Amanda wondered why this made a difference. She could feel her father’s pride in everything here: the ocean view, the house he had built, even the ferry ride pleased him. She felt his pride in the whole island. But Amanda felt a stranger here; she would not share in any of this. It all excluded her, she was not part of this life. Peter stood next to her, his hands in his pockets. Smiling, he turned to her.
“I’m so glad you’re finally here, Nanna,” he said, putting his arm around her. Amanda felt suffocated.
“Ow,” she said, pulling away.
“Ow,” Peter mocked, good-naturedly, “ow, ow, ow.” He released her. “Sorry, Nanna. Didn’t mean to torture you. It was meant to be a hug.” He kissed her on the top of her head.
Amanda didn’t move. She hated this, the spotlit glare of his attention, the demand for response. She raised her shoulders slightly and craned her neck, freeing herself from his presence.
“Peter!” called Emma. “Do you have the key?”
She stood by the back door, holding two big white canvas bags. “The key!” she repeated.
“Hold on,” said Peter at once, feeling in his pocket.
He hurried off, leaving Amanda alone on the porch. She could see indistinctly the white wicker chairs, pots of white geraniums at the bottom of the broad railing. In the near-dark, Amanda could feel the ocean in the distance, beyond the sloping green mat of the golf course. The air, rising from it, was chill and damp against her face.
Suddenly the house was radiant. Amanda found herself in the dark, invisible. The porch window gave into the living room, clean and new looking. It glowed with bright colors, flowered furniture, framed posters on the wall. On every table were photographs: Amanda wondered who the people in them were. All this was new to her.
This Is My Daughter Page 28