“Um—”
“What are you, a four?”
“Six,” I corrected her.
“Okay, well, maybe some of my stuff will be a little small.” She was careful to mask disapproval. Libby was probably a size two at most. She had an annoyingly petite body to go along with all the other perfect things in her life. “But I have some billowy styles that would look just lovely on you. And don’t take this the wrong way, but your wardrobe could use a makeover. Which is totally understandable,” she clarified, glancing at my old Levi’s and Detroit Lions hoodie. “I didn’t learn how to dress myself until I was about twenty-two. And anyway, you can’t believe what they say. Looking good does take money. At least a little of it.”
I felt embarrassed for about a second, until I realized that she was right. It wasn’t that big of a deal that I dressed somewhat slovenly. Most kids my age did. And now she was offering me the chance at her castoffs, which would probably make me the best-dressed girl at SFSU. Castoffs from Libby, moreover, would probably be the nicest clothes I’d ever be able to afford. Despite myself, I found that realization somewhat thrilling. I had never been above taking an interest in fashion; I just could never really indulge it before.
While Libby went down to the wine cooler to refill her glass and pour me one—they had a temperature-controlled cupboard as big as a refrigerator just for storing wine—I threw my course catalog in the Whole Foods tote I’d found bunched up in a ball under the kitchen sink. I hoped she might possibly have some old bags to pawn off on me, too.
• • •
AN HOUR LATER, I was officially intoxicated. Not just from the wine—from the whole experience. I sat on the floor of Libby’s “closet,” which was actually an entire unused room devoted to storing her clothing. She’d had custom-made shelves installed, and it struck me as odd that the room was even bigger than Zoe’s nursery. One entire wall was lined with shoe cubbies all the way up to the ceiling, which must have been ten feet high, if not higher. It was dizzying. There were at least a hundred pairs of shoes, some of them by designers I’d heard of but never seen up close—Kate Spade, Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik—and a bunch of the red-soled kind that I knew signified wealth. Then there were some by designers I’d never heard of at all. Those ones had Italian- and Spanish-sounding names and high-number sizes like 39. Also, I was pretty sure Libby wasn’t a member of PETA. Half her shoes and handbags appeared to be snakeskin, and the section of fur coats in the far right corner had to be real. Libby wasn’t the type to wear anything synthetic.
“So, any idea what you’re going to major in? Here, try this.” She flung a white silk peasant top my way.
“Not really,” I sighed. “I mean, I’ve always been kind of interested in art. But I’m pretty bad at it, so I guess that’s just a fantasy.”
“There are lots of types of art,” Libby remarked offhandedly, her head buried in a long row of color-coded sundresses. “I’m assuming you’re talking about fine art—painting and drawing and sculpture and all that? Did you know there are actually some types of art that generate profit?” She dropped an armful of designer dresses on the floor with the sort of care one might give to a moldy orange.
“Um . . .” I racked my brain for a tactful thing to say. “No?”
“Being young and idealistic is all well and good,” she remarked, “but you’ll be leagues ahead of everyone else at school if you operate on the fact—and it is a fact—that you can’t build a life on dreams. You need money. I realized that early on, and look where I am now,” she said sagely. “Believe me, I was just like you at one point.”
“I doubt it,” I mumbled, annoyed despite myself. There was no way Libby—who looked barely out of college herself—had ever had it as tough as she’d been claiming. She looked like she was born in the satin she was wearing. Even if I won the lottery, I’d never move among luxury with the confidence she did. I’d always feel like an impostor. Also, it just felt wrong, this extravagance. I couldn’t help thinking what my family could have done with the value of two pairs of Libby’s expensive shoes. Not that I was complaining, now that she’d decided I could be the recipient of her hand-me-downs.
“Listen,” she said in a serious tone. “Don’t doubt anything I say. I believe in being frank, and I’ll always be frank with you—if you screw up, if you deserve praise, or if you’ve got a chip on your shoulder like you do now. Oh yes, I did,” she said in response to my startled look. “I called you out on it. There’s nothing I’ll tell you that’s false. I promise. And I’m telling you now that I’m not like my daughter.” She rolled her eyes with what seemed like a hint of bitterness.
“She won’t ever know what it’s like to worry about anything other than her own emotions. All her basic needs will always be met. All her wants will always be met, if she just extends herself ever so slightly. She’ll never know what it’s like to truly worry, to wonder whether she’ll make it until tomorrow or the day after.” Libby placed her wine glass on one of the shelves and turned to me quickly, the silk sash on her dressing gown unraveling as she did. She knelt down and clutched both my hands in hers, and it was so unexpected that I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t react at all other than to let myself fall into the intensity of her gaze. “But I have, Annie. I’ve been there.” She paused, as if deciding whether she wanted to continue.
“I was adopted,” she said finally, choking out the words from between twisted lips, like they tasted bad. “I was the daughter of a drug addict. Apparently it’s a miracle I turned out normal,” she told me, laughing bitterly. “Do you know what drugs do to a baby? Anyway, I was adopted into a middle-class family that later became poor. Hence the trailer. And there you have it. Suffering all around.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my throat constricting. By now Libby had settled herself on the plush carpeting beside me.
“Honestly,” Libby told me, “I’m not. It may sound corny, but it made me tougher. It taught me how to fight for the things I want. And besides, even if we were poor, my parents were loving. But anyway, the point is, you shouldn’t worry about your past. It’s who you are now that matters.”
But who was I now? I was still the girl who let her little sister drown. And Libby deserved to know the truth.
“I had way too much wine,” she said. “I’m usually not such a blabbermouth. Here, try these things on before I pass out altogether.” She gestured toward an enormous mound of clothing that took up most of the floor.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Absolutely! It’ll be good to see these things get some use. Lord knows I don’t need them. Go ahead, try them.” I stood up, stumbling awkwardly. I was feeling a little tipsy too—I wasn’t used to drinking. I hardly ever had. I grabbed as many of the items as I could hold and stood there awkwardly.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Is there . . . is there a bathroom I could use?”
At this, Libby burst out laughing. “Oh come on,” she said between fits. “Seriously? We’re both girls. Plus, the bathroom is in such a state. Molly doesn’t come ’til next week—she’s the cleaning lady. Just try them on. I promise I won’t try anything.” She held up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. My cheeks flamed, and she dissolved in giggles again. There was something about it, though, that I liked. I hadn’t had many close girlfriends in high school. I had been part of a group, but sort of on the fringes. With Dean and my mom, I’d never felt comfortable enough to invite anyone over.
I pulled off my shirt and slipped the first article of clothing, a breezy blue sundress with a paisley print, over my head. I could feel Libby’s eyes on me, intent. I slipped my jeans off from under my dress. There was an extra wide, full-length mirror on one end of the room. It had a dark wood frame and was propped up by a bronze stand. I stared at my reflection, framed by the polished wood. I looked pretty in the dress. I could tell. It was a wraparound style that clung just right to my chest and cinched my waist with a tie, making it look smaller than ev
er.
Libby stood and came up behind me, tugging at the dress’s waist. She reached toward my head, and I cringed, but she was just going for the black elastic that held my hair in a messy bun. She pulled it out and my hair tumbled down my back in a mess of unruly waves. “Beautiful,” she said, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “If it weren’t for our hair, we could be sisters.” I laughed at that; Libby was far prettier and more glamorous than I was. I tried to ignore the tingling moving up my spine and over my shoulders. This is it, I heard the voice inside me say. This must be how it feels to be close to someone. What had come naturally to other girls but never to me—at least ever since Lissa died—was happening now.
“It’s a little tight,” I said, blushing. I was being so awkward; I was never this awkward. But I was tired, and tipsy. In the mirror, the clock hanging from the opposite wall read midnight.
“Baby fat,” Libby said with a smile. “Nothing to worry about. I can show you how to shed a few pounds quickly.” I smiled back uncomfortably. I’d never thought of myself as overweight. Libby yawned, a big sigh that made her look more vulnerable than I’d seen her.
“I’d better let you get some rest,” I told her. “I can try on the others tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Here, why don’t you just take them to your room? You can throw out whatever doesn’t fit.”
“Is there a donation center nearby? Maybe I can just do that.”
“Sure,” Libby said carelessly. “Whatever. We’ll look one up in the morning.” It was odd, the way she’d so easily forgotten how it felt not to have enough. How something cute from the thrift store could be enough to light up a whole afternoon.
Libby turned from the closet room, waiting to flick off the overhead light until I’d gathered up all the clothes. She didn’t offer to help. But why would she? I chastised myself. She was being so generous. And I was being critical. Too critical. Just because she knew a little more about me than I felt comfortable with? I took a deep breath and followed her into the hall.
Libby turned to me, a strange expression on her face. “Is everything okay, Annie?” I had to tell her about Lissa.
“There’s something you should know,” I said to her.
“Okay.” She waited. We’d reached the end of the hall that led out of the master wing; it was now or never. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I had a sister,” I said finally, my words spilling out in a rush. “She died.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How could you know?” Her words stung me. I felt a cold panic sweep over me; my legs were suddenly weak. “What do you know?”
“Annie, relax.” Libby’s voice was all honey, warm and soothing. “Lissa’s obituary popped up during an Internet search, when I was researching you. It was right there; it wasn’t that hard to find. I’m so sorry,” she told me, pulling me into a hug. She wrapped her arms around me, and she felt strong and protective in a motherly way I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I didn’t want to bring it up, because I know how difficult it must be for you.”
“But you don’t know everything,” I said into her shoulder, struggling out of her grasp.
“Then what?” She looked at me expectantly, her eyes bright and concerned.
“It was my fault,” I whispered. I’d never said the words out loud. “She asked me to come play with her, and I brushed her off. I wanted to keep reading. And then fifteen minutes later, she was dead. If I’d gone, it never would have happened.”
“It’s not your fault,” Libby said. I nodded, swallowing hard. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t make Libby think I was weak or unstable or anything other than capable. I couldn’t ruin the best thing I had.
“No,” she said, more sharply then. She tilted my chin up, forcing me to look directly at her. “It is not your fault. And if I think you’re thinking otherwise, I’m going to be very angry. Self-pity is a vice, Annie. It will only weigh you down.” I blinked. I’d never expected this reaction. It was something like anger, but not the kind I was expecting. I was weak and drained. My whole body felt limp and feverish. All of a sudden I craved sleep with every ounce of me.
“Don’t you see how wonderful this is for you, Annie?” Libby asked, her hands still resting on my shoulders. As the kindness in her voice wrapped itself around me, I felt my panic subside, little by little. I felt the blood returning to my brain, my vision clearing. I registered her face, perfect even in its concern, in my line of vision. She gently placed one palm on my cheek. “Walk and I know all your worst things,” she said, “but we still thought you’d be a great fit for our family. That should be a relief to you. You have nothing to hide.”
“I want to leave all that behind me,” I managed finally. “That stuff—I didn’t want to bring it here.” I felt tears welling up in my eyes despite my efforts to keep them in. I didn’t want to cry—I was making such a mess of things, such a horrible mess on only my second day. I couldn’t trust myself for even twenty-four hours not to screw things up.
“And you will,” Libby said firmly. “We are very discreet, Walker and I. You can trust us with your secrets. We would never say anything about your family—about what happened to Lissa”—she paused—“to anyone. So quit crying, darling. This is a very good thing.”
“Okay.” I nodded, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie.
“You don’t wear crying very well,” she noted critically. “Some girls look all vulnerable and sweet when they’re crying, but you look pretty horrendous.” I choke-laughed into my sleeve, blotting at my eyes.
“Good thing Zoe’s out cold,” I said through my sniffling. “Wouldn’t want to freak her out.”
“No, definitely not,” Libby said with a smile, tightening her sash. “Now go ahead, you’ve got to get some sleep! We both do. By the way, did you finish picking your classes yet?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “I’ll have to get up a little early tomorrow to do it.”
“No way. Let’s get it done now. We can do it quickly if we work together. Where’s the catalog?”
“It’s in my room,” I told her.
“Great. Let’s get moving then. So what do you think of interior design?” She followed me down the hallway until we reached my room, settling herself on the white comforter that covered my elevated bed frame. I brought the catalog up beside her, and she rifled through it until she found what she wanted. She tapped at a black and white course description with her pointer finger. “That’s what I studied, and I loved it. You know I run my own business, right?”
“Yes, from home. You mentioned that in your letters.”
“Well, if you’d researched us as well as we researched you,” Libby said with a grin, “you’d know that my business is incredibly lucrative. Plus super fun. I basically read House Beautiful every day and dillydally on my sketchpad. I mean, okay, there’s a lot more to it than that. But it’s pretty great. And talk about the perfect career with kids. Not that you’re there yet, but someday,” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “I could definitely mentor you, if you wanted. That would be huge on job apps later on.”
“I’d love that,” I told her, genuinely touched. “I really would.”
“Okay then, sign up for your freshman requirements and any interior design courses that leave you free in the late afternoons and evenings; remember, I need you here. It’ll be fun!” she said happily, a glint in her eye. “I’ve never had a protégée. Makes me seem pretty important, right?” I laughed at this—it was fun to see Libby let down her perfect veneer. She was sitting rumpled and cross-legged atop my bed, her hair falling messily from its knot on her neck. I imagined she didn’t let herself relax very often. It felt good to be let in so early.
“Thanks, Libby,” I said carefully. “I really don’t know how to thank you. For all of this.” I gestured toward the pile of clothes that completely covered the arm chair in the corner of my bedroom.
“Don’t mention it,” she said. “Every now and then, you need s
omeone to believe in you. I had someone like that when I was your age. She saved my life. She gave me opportunities. . . .” Libby trailed off then, her face darkening. “Otherwise you wilt. I’m not going to watch you wilt, okay? Not under my roof.”
I couldn’t help it then; I leaned in and hugged her, gripping her awkwardly over our cross-legged perches.
“All right, all right, I’m outta here,” she laughed. “It’s got to be one o’clock by now.” And then she swept out of the room grandly, as if I hadn’t just been snotting all over her shoulder. As if she hadn’t just told me that the biggest secret of my life, the thing that had weighed on me every day for four years, was forgivable. Something about what she’d said had made me feel lighter. And that was the best gift I’d ever received.
CHAPTER
FOUR
THERE WAS A PARTY my first night at SFSU. “Disorientation” is what they called it, a joking play on the seven-hour freshman orientation we’d had that morning. Normally my weekends would be spent working for the Cohens, but Walker had convinced Libby that I needed a night off to “assimilate.”
“What about assimilating here?” she’d asked a little petulantly, but Walk just smiled a little and kissed her on the forehead, and she let it drop. I was grateful for Walker’s laidback attitude. I was grateful for the way he wrapped his arms around Libby until her type-A tenseness visibly melted away, shedding itself under her husband’s salve. I thanked him inside my head every single time he did it, because it meant more for me than just a night off with my would-be college friends; it was a promise that these relationships, these happy couplings, did exist and might exist for me.
So there were Libby and Walker, nested up in domestic happiness, and there I was, setting off toward the first party of my college career.
“Be careful,” Walk had said when he dropped me off near Main Circle. “Just make sure you take a taxi home, no crashing on campus, okay? We need you in the morning by ten.” I nodded and waved as I stepped out of the car, wiggling the fingers in my right hand in a semiflirtatious manner that surprised even me. I heard a long whistle behind me as he pulled away, and I turned to meet the sparkling eyes of a girl I vaguely recognized from that morning—she’d smiled broadly at me from near the coffee booth outside the enormous seminar room where orientation had been held.
The Ruining Page 3