Inside she heard the heavy shuffle of her father’s feet on the stairs, carrying the biggest suitcases. Outside she heard Tess, slowly mounting the back steps. Amanda walked toward her, along the side porch, and saw her appear in the shaft of light from the screen door. Tess took each step carefully, as though she were on a tightrope. She couldn’t see in front of her. Her arms clasped the deep belly of a clay pot; against her face was the palmy foliage of a fern. As she mounted the steps and approached the door her steps quickened, desperate.
“Mum!” she called. “Come get the door!”
“Coming,” called Emma from the interior. She sounded rooms away.
“Quick!” shouted Tess, “I can’t hold it!”
Struggling for balance, she raised one knee, to support the pot’s dead weight, and took one hand away to open the door. With all her weight on one foot, her ankle wavered. Her bare foot swiveled desperately back and forth, reaching for equilibrium. She grabbed for the screen door.
Amanda, coming from the dark behind her, caught at the screen door just as Tess did, pulling it open for her. Tess was leaning forward, bracing herself to pull against the sucking resistance of the door closer. At Amanda’s unseen tug from behind, Tess rocked heavily forward. She tried to catch herself and went down hard, saying in a high voice as she fell, “Amanda!”
The pot hit the sill squarely, shattering. Big terra-cotta shards scattered across the white tiles. The fern lay among them, its webbing of frail roots exposed, its arched fronds now broken into stiff angles. Mealy clumps of black potting soil clotted on the floor.
As Tess raised her head Emma appeared in the doorway. Tess climbed slowly to her feet, raising her hand to her face. Amanda, still holding the door, could see Tess’s face, lit brightly from above. The light bleached all color from her; Tess’s skin glowed, white. In that light the sudden scarlet rush looked dark; near-black: down from her nose, down in a wild swift stain over her mouth, down her throat. It was shocking: the fluid brilliance, the unstoppable rush of it.
Tess stepped, wobbling, over the mess of the shattered fern. “Mum,” she said, her voice quavering. She began to cry. Her hands were covered. It flowed like liquid shadow, glittering, down her throat. Her wrists were coated by it.
“Tessie,” said Emma. She knelt down, “Come and let me clean you off.” Her voice was frightened.
Emma leaned over, hugging Tess as she led her back toward the kitchen. Fat red splotches dropped hotly onto the white tiles, marking their passage. Emma did not once look at Amanda, who stood on the porch, still holding the screen door open.
Amanda heard Peter’s footsteps as he jogged easily down the stairs. He stopped at the fern.
“What happened?” he asked.
Amanda picked up her suitcase and began to lug it over the whole mess, the pot, the broken fern. “Tess fell,” she said.
Peter said nothing, and when she looked up Amanda found his eyes on her.
“How did she fall?” he asked.
“I was behind her. I pulled the door open and she didn’t know I was there,” said Amanda.
Peter waited, but she said nothing more. “Is she all right?” he asked. His face was closed, his voice not friendly.
“She has a nosebleed,” Amanda said. “Emma took her into the kitchen.” She began to climb the stairs, dragging her suitcase.
Behind her she felt her father standing. She felt his anger rising toward her, his will pushing at her. He took Tess’s side, and Emma’s. He blamed everything on Amanda. But she would not yield, she would not apologize. She would not be soft, as he wanted her to. She hated him. Everything that was wrong in her life was his fault. The things he did, the things he said were the things that had ruined her life. Everything was his fault: the school she went to, which she hated, her bad grades, the way her face looked, the small dark apartment where she and her mother now lived, the small dark life she and her mother now had, everything was his fault. Everything, all the dark unhappiness that filled the air around her like mist. It was her father’s fault. He was the source of everything. He could never make up for what he had done.
Looking at her father from the top of the stairs, she felt herself close down, seal herself off from him. Peter stood silently at the foot of the stairs, his hands on his hips, his face threatening. Amanda said nothing, and at last he turned and followed Emma and Tess. Amanda waited. She did not know which room was hers, and besides, she wanted to hear what they said. She could hear low voices, but no words. She would be blamed for this. She didn’t care.
She set down her suitcase and made her way back down the stairs, and down the short white hallway lined with storage shelves, to the kitchen.
“How did she fall?” Peter asked.
Emma’s voice was muted, noncommittal. “I wasn’t there.”
“What happened, Tess?” Peter asked.
Tess sounded scared, sorry for herself. “I was starting to fall, because of the pot. My arms couldn’t carry it anymore. I called for you, and you were too far away. I pulled the door open, and Amanda grabbed the door behind me and I lost my balance.”
There was a silence. Amanda stood in the hall, the shelves beside her stacked with lunch hampers, thermoses, paper plates. She could feel Peter and Emma in the next room, consulting each other wordlessly, confirming something, agreeing.
“It wasn’t Amanda’s fault,” she heard Tess say.
No one answered her.
“Mum?” Tess said. “It wasn’t Amanda’s fault.”
But still no one answered.
Tess would be looking up at them intently, her eyes moving from face to face, watching for clues. She would be trying to learn how to read the world. The three of them would be sitting and looking at each other in silence, like a family portrait.
19
Amanda lay on her bed, reading. It was after dinner, a Thursday night, two weeks after their arrival. Peter was in New York. Emma, Amanda and Tess were alone in the house. Amanda was stretched out on the white bedspread with all her clothes on, including her sneakers, which was against the rules.
Amanda did not look up at the knock on the door. “Who is it?”
“Me.” Tess peered in. “Can I come in?”
“Okay,” Amanda said, “but I’m reading. You can come in but don’t go banging around.”
“I’m not going to go banging around,” Tess said, and slipped inside. She closed the door behind her, eyes roving around the room. Amanda ignored her. Tess stepped away from the door, rocking, heel and toe, her feet stiff. She stood in front of Amanda’s bureau, staring greedily.
The two girls shared a bathroom, but Amanda kept everything interesting, all her private things—bottles, tubes, jars—in here, on her bureau. Tess glanced at her in the mirror, but Amanda did not look up. Tess began to browse among the cosmetics, delicately picking up each jar. Frowning, she read each label, unscrewed each top and carefully sniffed the contents. She squeezed a tube, receiving a pink viscous curl on her fingertip. Glancing again at Amanda, who was still reading, Tess transferred the curl to the tip of her nose. She regarded herself in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. Her face was smooth, slightly tanned, with pallid freckles along her cheekbones. Her upper lip rose into two small peaks. Her green eyes, like her mother’s, slanted down. Tess puckered her mouth self-consciously. Amanda, in the background, looked up. Tess waved ingratiatingly at her.
“Hi,” she said.
“Don’t,” said Amanda.
“What?”
“Don’t go through my stuff.”
“I’m just looking at it,” said Tess.
“You’re using it.”
“Just this. What is it?” She held up the tube.
“It’s for my zits,” said Amanda.
“Oh,” said Tess, respectful. She looked again at her decorated nose in the mirror. “What are zits?”
“Pimples,” said Amanda. “You don’t have any.”
“Oh,” said Tess, gratified. She looked
at herself again, then back at Amanda. “You don’t either.”
“I do sometimes,” said Amanda. In a falsetto voice she added, “I’m a teenager!”
Tess held up a bottle of pale blue lotion. “What’s this?” she asked.
“A kind of mousse,” said Amanda. “Don’t put it on your nose. It’s for after you’ve washed your hair.”
“Just a little,” said Tess, dabbing an oozy dot on her nose. “I’m starting a collection here.”
Amanda shook her head and went back to her book.
Tess held up a black plastic cylinder. “What’s this?”
“Mascara,” said Amanda. “It goes on your nose.”
When she had finished sampling the cosmetics, Tess wandered over to the bed. She sat down quietly next to Amanda’s feet. Amanda did not look up. Tess put her hand out, palm flat, over Amanda’s bare calf, not quite touching the skin. She held it there in an experimental way, as though she were testing for warmth. She looked frequently at Amanda, who ignored her. Tess ran her hand, like a small pinkish hovercraft, slowly up and down Amanda’s leg. Amanda did not shave her legs, and Tess’s palm grazed the furry hair.
“Quit it,” said Amanda, without looking up.
“What?” Tess said, innocent.
“Quit what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re touching my leg,” Amanda said, looking up.
“I’m not,” said Tess. “You can’t feel it. I’m only touching the hair, not your leg.”
“Don’t tell me I can’t feel it, I can feel it. Now cut it out.” Her voice was fierce.
Tess removed her hand and made a face that Amanda could not see. She sat on her hands and bounced twice on the bed, hard, in protest.
“Quit,” said Amanda, not looking up.
Tess stopped. She sat for a moment, restless. She twisted her shoulders violently, then peered at Amanda’s magazine.
“What are you reading?”
Amanda held it up: People.
“Yuck,” Tess said.
“You don’t have to read it,” said Amanda.
Tess bounced again. She saw the paperback on the bedside table.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Look at it,” said Amanda, without raising her head. Tess picked it up.
“What’s it about?”
“A murderer.”
There was a pause. “Is it good?”
“Really good.”
Tess examined the cover. “Can I read it?”
Amanda looked up. “You wouldn’t like it.”
“How do you know?” Tess said.
“You’ll get scared.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. You’ll get scared and go running into your mom’s room in the middle of the night, and I’ll get in trouble.”
Tess put her hands in her lap and shook her head.
“Yes,” said Amanda, reading.
“No,” Tess said. “I won’t, Amanda. Don’t tell me what I’ll do.”
There was a silence. Amanda turned the page.
“Amanda!”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me I’ll get scared.”
“Okay, fine, you won’t get scared,” said Amanda.
There was another pause.
“So,” Tess said cautiously, “can I read it?”
Amanda looked up. “Are you going to go running into your mom’s room in the middle of the night and get me in trouble?”
Tess shook her head slowly, frowning.
“Okay,” said Amanda, looking back at her magazine. “Take it. There’s a whole bunch of them on the shelf. They’re all scary.”
But Tess was suddenly distracted. She leaned toward Amanda.
“Amanda,” she said, “are you chewing gum?”
Amanda glanced up, indifferent. “Want some?”
“We’re not allowed,” said Tess.
“Do you want some?” Amanda repeated.
There was a pause. Slowly Tess nodded.
Amanda stood up at once. The gum was in the bureau. She held it out, offering Tess an open pack.
They heard Emma’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Tess!” Emma called. “Are you ready for bed? I’ll come in and read to you, if you’re ready.”
“I am,” said Tess loudly. This was not true; she was still completely dressed. “I’m in Amanda’s room. I just have to brush my teeth.”
She took a stick of gum from the pack and vanished into the shared bathroom.
When Amanda finished her magazine, she tossed it onto the floor. She lay still for a moment. Tess finished brushing her teeth, and through the wall Amanda heard Emma begin to read. The drone of her voice rose and fell. Tess was too old for this but neither she nor Emma seemed to know it. They would go on interminably; Amanda picked up a paperback and began reading again.
Finally the reading voice stopped, and Emma and Tess began to talk. Their voices were quick and uneven, interrupted often by laughter. Apart from Tess and Emma talking, the house was silent. Amanda could hear their voices, but she could not make out the words through the wall. The voices went on and on, intimate and mysterious. It was as though Amanda were listening to a foreign language, as though Tess and Emma spoke their own private tongue.
Amanda lay on her side, one hand propping up her head. She was reading a Stephen King novel. It was one she had read before; she had read all his books. She would rather read one Stephen King over and over and over, forever, than read, even once, one of the books Emma had left for her. These stood, a bright gaily colored row of hints, in the bookcase near Amanda’s bed.
When Amanda had first arrived at the house, Emma, helping her settle in, had made a fuss over these books. “I’ve chosen these for you, I hope you like them,” she’d said. “I know you’ll like this one, it’s really wonderful. I envy you for not having read it.” Emma gave the book a twinkly look, as though she and the books belonged to a wonderful little club, where they all wore pink and hugged each other. Amanda did not want to join Emma’s club. Emma gave Amanda books year after year, for Christmas and birthdays. Amanda never read them, she never opened them, she never even read the titles.
Now, through the wall, Amanda could hear a different note in Emma’s voice, premonitory. This signaled Emma’s departure, the closure of Tess’s evening. Emma’s voice began to rise slightly. As soon as this happened, Tess’s voice became wheedling, and she pleaded for Emma to stay longer.
Amanda heard the final words clearly. “Okay, good night, now, Tessie.” It was repeated several times. The voice was louder; Emma was leaving, and was near Tess’s door. When Tess’s last-minute pleadings were exhausted the door was shut, though not completely. Tess was afraid of the dark, and her room had a crack of light all night. Even so, she had nightmares, and when she was small, used to appear, terrified, in Emma’s bed.
Emma’s footsteps now sounded briefly in the hall. Amanda tucked one sneakered foot more safely under her ankle and settled herself more deeply into the mattress, as though preparing for a high wind. She heard Emma in her doorway, but did not look up until Emma spoke.
“Amanda? May I come in?”
Emma’s voice had changed again. When she talked to Amanda, there was something hard in it. It was like a bird’s, shrill, unanswerable. Her face looked different, too: guarded and wary, her queer slanted eyes watchful.
Amanda looked up as though she hadn’t noticed Emma’s arrival. At Emma’s question she raised her eyebrows, as though she could not imagine a reason for Emma to come in her room.
“Sure,” Amanda said, her voice indifferent. Amanda had no choice about Emma’s coming into her room, night after night, about Emma pretending they were friends.
Emma advanced, smiling stiffly. “So, how are you?” she asked. She was barefoot, in jeans and a dark red turtleneck. The turtleneck hung loose, just grazing the top of her jeans. She wore no belt. Her new haircut showed her ears. She
stood in the middle of the room, her bare feet together, her arms folded, her shoulders hunched.
“Fine,” said Amanda. She saw Emma’s gaze rest briefly on her sneakers, nestled dirtily against the white bedspread. Every night Emma reminded Amanda of the no-shoes-on-beds rule. Every night Amanda ignored it. Tonight she waited, her own gaze locked on Emma’s face. She saw Emma’s gaze pause, move on. Amanda did not move her feet. Emma smiled at her brightly.
“What are you reading?” Emma asked.
Without speaking, Amanda held up her book for Emma’s inspection.
“Stephen King,” said Emma.
Amanda did not respond.
“Do you like him?”
“He’s my favorite author,” said Amanda.
Emma nodded slowly. “What is it you like about him?”
“The violence,” said Amanda. “I love violence. And being frightened.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh,” said Emma. She glanced at the books she had put on Amanda’s shelf. “Well.”
Amanda waited for her to leave.
“Well,” said Emma again, “I just came in to say good night.”
“Good night,” said Amanda. She smiled for Emma.
Emma did not move. It seemed as though she wanted something else to happen. Amanda stared steadily at her.
“Well,” said Emma, and stopped again. She took a breath. “You know, Amanda, if you’d like to have a party or something, have some friends over for dinner—a cookout, or something like that—I’d be glad to do it with you. We could rent a movie, or something.” She drifted into silence.
“A party,” Amanda repeated. She would never invite anyone here, to her stepmother’s house. Finally Amanda made herself smile. “Thanks,” she said.
There was a pause. Emma seemed to be waiting for more, but Amanda was finished. At last Emma took a breath.
“Well, I just wanted to let you think about it. Or if you have another idea, we could do that. Something on the beach. Or have a bunch of girls here for the night.”
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