A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  “Migraines. Well, cluster headaches, to be more accurate. I don’t get them often, but when I do they drop me hard, and they come for consecutive days. Thus, the name.”

  “I know. Finn used to get them. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to go sit for a while.”

  Eli glances down at my leg, which my robe has opened enough to reveal. He parts it even farther, touches a spot just above the offending joint. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” I admit.

  “Maybe you should try some weed.” His fingers tiptoe upward.

  I allow them to linger on my thigh, then back away, cinch my robe closed. “Yeah, probably not. But thanks for the suggestion.”

  He doesn’t move to let me by, so I push past him and can’t help but notice how he’s bulked up in the past couple of months. He must be lifting weights or something. He also wears the musk of sex. “You should take a shower.”

  “What for? I like how it smells. Besides, we’ll do it again when we go to bed.”

  Why does that bother me?

  I wander back to my own bed, toss both robe and gel pack, and shake my husband from whatever dreams he’s wandered into. “Fuck me.”

  Like he has a choice.

  nine

  D ESPITE THE PHARMACEUTICAL AID and a luscious round of semideviant lovemaking, sleep did not come easily last night. Cavin rolled over and dove straight back into the Land of Nod, but all I could do was lie there listening to his pillow-muffled breathing, envious of his ability to switch off whatever voices live inside his head. I probably dozed off around three. Even so, when the bed stirs at six a.m., so do I. Three hours isn’t much sleep, but it will just have to do.

  Cavin kisses me, goes to shower before work. I throw on an oversize shirt and some shorts, hustle into the kitchen to make coffee. I’m enjoying a cup on the deck, listening to the squawk of jays and chatter of squirrels, when Kayla comes out, sipping her own steaming mug. She sits on the next bench over. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You may always ask.”

  “Is something going on between Eli and you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She considers her approach. “He’s attracted to you.”

  “Think so? Well, I guess I should be flattered.”

  Wrong answer. Her body stiffens and I swear something dark shadows her eyes. They take on the color of a gathering tornado. “Is the attraction mutual?”

  The only plausible answer is stern denial. Does she expect anything else? “Why would you believe it was?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if you didn’t wear slinky lingerie around the house . . .”

  Cat and mouse with my niece. Honey, the cat always wins. “Um, look what I’m wearing, Kayla. But if you’re referring to last night, I woke from a bad dream and couldn’t go back to sleep. Rather than disturb my husband, I threw on the nearest robe and went to read. I had no clue anyone else was awake, let alone smoking pot in the nude on the deck.”

  Her face flares scarlet, but she doesn’t apologize. “Weed lowers inhibitions. I was trying to be more adventurous, remember?”

  “Yes, well, I can understand that. But it’s not my fault I happened to catch the tail end of your little adventure. If you’re expecting privacy, a bit of caution might be prudent.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her voice is cool. “Though I might say the same thing to you, considering Eli plans to live here for a while.”

  “Kayla, this happens to be my home. How I dress or behave here is totally up to me. If that worries you, it’s your problem, not mine. I certainly don’t have to defend myself to you.”

  She doesn’t answer, but her grim expression tells me she’s stewing.

  “Listen, Kayla. Jealousy is a quick path to implosion. You and Eli haven’t been together long enough to build much trust, but it’s something you’ll have to work on if you want this thing to last. Believe me, I have no desire to come between the two of you. My husband takes exceptionally good care of me, and I don’t tolerate infidelity within my committed relationships, on either side of the marital bed.”

  Her demeanor tempers. “I’m not sure monogamy is a human trait.”

  I have to smile at that. “It requires superior intelligence.”

  “Is that the secret? I thought it took sobriety.”

  “So if it’s important to you, why do you keep hooking up with stoners?”

  “Good question.”

  Inside, her latest stoner crests the stairs into the living room, carrying a large suitcase. He clomps into the kitchen, where Andrew joins him a few seconds later.

  “Looks like they’re getting ready to leave. Shall we go in?”

  “We’d better. Eli will want breakfast.”

  Wait. What? “You do realize he’s been feeding himself for years, right? In fact, he’s quite the talented cook.”

  “I know, but I don’t care, and he kind of expects—”

  “Screw that, Kayla. If you want his respect, don’t beg for it. Demand it. Subtly, of course. Tell him you’ve heard he’s amazing in the kitchen, and you’d love it if he’d cook for you. In fact, you’d reward him. It’s all in the way you play the game. Eli’s used to winning. Turn the tables. If nothing else, it would be fun, and you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “I could lose him.”

  “You could.”

  Choices. Brutal honesty or tempered guidance?

  Eli eliminates the decision, yelling, “Hey, K-K, would you please come in here?”

  My hackles lift. “K-K?”

  “Cute, huh? I’ve never had a nickname before.”

  “Cute? You realize it makes you sound about three years old, right?”

  And God help the person who tries to nick the name Tara.

  Kayla pouts. “I like it. It makes me feel special, like he made it up just for me.”

  Ridiculous. “Ask him to make up your breakfast. If he does, you’re special.”

  But when we go inside, as Kayla predicted, Eli requests, “Could you whip up an omelet? We should be out of here in twenty minutes or so.”

  I glance at Kayla, who shoots me a helpless look in reply, then starts toward the kitchen. “Hey, Eli. Did something happen to your hands?” I ask.

  He actually studies them. “Uh, no. Why?”

  “I just wondered because I’ve personally witnessed your culinary expertise. Is there a reason you can’t whip up your own omelet?”

  As always, he’s got a ready answer. “Why would I want to, when I have someone who’ll do it for me?”

  Temper.

  Inhale.

  Temper.

  Exhale.

  I force my voice low and cool. “Eli, your utter lack of respect for Kayla disheartens me. You are quite capable of cooking your own damn breakfast, and I don’t appreciate you treating her like hired help.”

  “It’s okay,” interrupts Kayla. “I don’t mind.”

  “Fine, K-K. If you insist on being a doormat, I won’t tell Eli to quit wiping his feet on you. But when you’re choking on the dirt, remember it was your choice and don’t come crying to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need caffeine.”

  I push past both of them and stomp into the kitchen, where I pour a second cup.

  When I turn, I find not only the offending couple but also Cavin and Andrew staring at me as if assessing whether or not I need a ride to the nearest psych ward.

  The only one I look in the eye is Eli. “What?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing.”

  “Then scrub that stinking smirk off your face or give serious consideration to boarding school.” Now it’s Cavin whose eyes mine meet, but he has nothing to add, so I take my coffee back outside, pausing only to tell Andrew, “Please come say good-bye before you leave. I’ve enjoyed spending a little time with you and hope we will find an excuse to do so again in the near future.”

  I sit in a wide patio chair, facing the forest so I don’t have to watch Kayla play housewife. Then again, what would I ex
pect, considering Melody is her example? Mel, who bakes bread for her family before embarking on ski trips, despite the fact that they’ll all exist on fast food diets while she’s gone. Mel, who roasts both a turkey and a ham for Christmas dinner because her kids love turkey and her husband claims it makes him queasy. Wonder what she’s got simmering lately.

  The sliding glass door opens behind me and even without turning I know it’s Cavin by the sound of his footsteps and the soap scent lifting off his skin. “I’ve got to go. Can I do anything for you first?”

  “Yes. Could you knock a little sense into your kid?”

  “Hey, if I thought violence could accomplish it, I’d break out the nunchakus. Unfortunately, the kind of sense you’re talking about needs to be programmed in childhood. I’m afraid it’s much too late for Eli.”

  A huge sigh escapes me. “Oh, well. There’s always poison.”

  Cavin lifts my hair, kisses my neck. “Just don’t get caught. I like having you around. Life imprisonment would be a colossal waste of an exceptional woman.”

  “First, I’d die before I’d rot in prison. Second, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone actually say ‘colossal’ before.” Good word, if a bit unwieldy, and that is an even better word. In fact, colossal things tend to be unwieldy.

  “Enjoy your day, stay off that leg, and I’ll see you anon. Anon—how about that word, huh?” He starts to leave, hesitates, then adds, “I might be late. Lots of catching up to do. Are you okay with making dinner, or should I bring something?”

  “No worries. I just elected Eli to handle dinner. In fact, would you ask him to come out here, please?”

  It takes a few minutes for the boy to comply, but finally he wanders out onto the deck. “Dad said you wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes. I’d like you to stop by Whole Foods while you’re in Reno. I miss having one close by. If you don’t mind, I’ll make a list. Oh, and I’m expecting you to cover dinner tonight, with or without Kayla’s help. Your father’s working late and he ordered me to rest my knee as much as possible until we get a verdict back. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  I dare him to say no.

  But he doesn’t even look consternated, so I guess he’s forgiven or forgotten my earlier outburst. “I guess. I mean, sure, if you need my help. So, you know, I was planning on stopping by Guitar Center, too, so Kayla and I will be gone most of the day.”

  “Guitar Center?”

  “Yeah. My guitar’s been calling to me lately, but the strings are shot.”

  “That’s right. You told me you played. Why the renewed interest?”

  “I’ve got ladies to impress.” He inches closer. “Hope you were impressed last night.”

  I look him directly in the eye. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  He shrugs. “No problem. I don’t mind an audience.”

  The conversation is disrupted by Andrew’s appearance. He glances at his watch.

  “We should probably hit the road, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, we should,” agrees Eli, backing away. “Wanna just text me your list?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Oh, there will be perishables, so be sure to come straight home.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  I wince at the word.

  He smiles at the wince.

  Turns and goes inside.

  Andrew comes over and gives me a hug. “It was a pleasure getting to know you. I promise to be kind to your car.”

  “Your car,” I correct. “The two of you will make quite the pair. Be sure and bring her for a visit sometime.”

  “Will do. Take care of yourself, and my son and grandson, too.”

  “That’s okay.” It’s Eli’s turn to interrupt. “I can take care of myself. But here”—he hands me my phone—“text me, and keep icing that knee. Hard to keep up with us young’uns with a limp.”

  Eli winks.

  Andrew laughs.

  And I laugh, too, because what else is there to do?

  After everyone leaves, I send a substantial grocery list to Eli via text message, then decide to read on the deck. I’m currently between books, so I randomly pull one off Cavin’s bookshelf. It’s Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes. I generally don’t choose genre fiction, but for some reason this one calls to me, and I find myself sucked in immediately.

  Having perused the jacket, and being somewhat familiar with Bradbury, I understand that the approaching carnival has sinister overtones. The foreshadowing is excellent, and the characters very well drawn. I’ve just reached the part where old Tom Fury peeks in the shop window, to see the woman made of ice, when something feels off.

  I realize I’m ridiculously on edge from this silly book, which I put down so I can survey my surroundings. What was it that bothered me? I see nothing out of the ordinary beyond the railing. I listen intently but can hear only the chatter of birds and the chuff of wind in the treetops.

  It was only something sensed. Intuited. But I could’ve sworn someone was watching me.

  Trust your instincts.

  I’m not sure where that sentiment rose up from, but it’s good advice. I retrieve the book and go inside where invisible eyes can’t find me.

  ten

  E LI AND KAYLA MANAGE to get Andrew to check-in with plenty of time to spare. They conquer the extensive shopping list I sent, delivering everything home before possible spoilage. They shuttle in bags, put everything away, and refuse to let me help. If they had any personal problems between morning and late afternoon, it’s not obvious beneath the ridiculous grins plastered to their faces. I begin to suspect it wasn’t just guitar strings Eli picked up in Reno.

  I left it to him what to do for dinner. He’s a genius in the kitchen—says he taught himself as a means of survival, since neither of his parents was around much when he was a kid—and, in fact, I suspect it’s his one marketable skill. At the moment, he’s got Kayla playing sous chef, dressing an impressive salad while he flash sears some beautiful ahi steaks. “You might use a little soy sauce to season them,” I suggest, watching him from my bar-stool perch.

  “Hey. You appointed me cook. I’ve got this covered, unless you decided you want the job after all.”

  He leaves the soy sauce in the cupboard, and instead chooses a squeeze of fresh lime, chili powder, and a pinch of salt, plus garlic and cilantro to flavor the olive oil in the frying pan. It doesn’t take long to cook tuna rare, and he’s slicing it when my phone rings.

  “Tara?” It’s Mel. “I wanted you to know we’ve moved Mom into hospice care. Her cancer has metastasized and she doesn’t have much time. I’m driving down to visit her and want to take the girls. You’re welcome to come, too, if you’ve changed your mind about saying good-bye.”

  “I haven’t.” I hated being around my mother when she was healthy. Seeing her all chewed up by radiation and pretty much helpless? Wait. Maybe. “I still can’t believe how fast this happened.”

  “Neither can she. She’s in total denial. But if the doctors have given up on her, I think we have to as well. There’s a steep monetary incentive to keep treating her.”

  “So why did they stop?”

  “I told them to.”

  Boom.

  “But how is that even possible?”

  “Mom signed a durable power of attorney, naming me as her agent. I couldn’t find one good reason to continue radiation. Her few possessions will have to be liquidated to handle the insurance deductibles, which would’ve just kept piling up, regardless of the imminent outcome.”

  My sister is full of surprises. Rarely have I heard such resolve in her voice.

  “She has medical insurance?”

  “Seems so. She’s not quite old enough to qualify for Medicare, but Medi-Cal—that’s California’s Medicaid system—covers her.”

  “And she agreed to hospice, even though she doesn’t think she’s dying?”

  “Truthfully, she’s so doped up, she’s in no condition to agree or disagree. Tara,
you know if I thought treatment would give her more quality time on this earth, I wouldn’t have made this decision.”

  “It’s okay, Mel. I’m positive you’ve done the right thing. Not like it’s easy to pull the plug on someone.”

  At that, Eli and Kayla put the brakes on the kitchen prep. “Who’s Mom pulling the plug on?” asks Kayla.

  I offer the name our mother requested her grandchildren call her, “June.” It’s matter-of-fact, but it’s not like Mom is close to Mel’s daughters, or any of us.

  I wrote her off decades ago. She was never a real mother. More like an incubator for my sister and me, one who resented every single minute she was forced to spend with us. If her brain was wired for love, I never saw a hint of it. The last thing I needed in my adult life was a psychotic parent draining my money and energy.

  Mel, I guess, has kept in touch, but with Mom living in Rialto with her trucker-of-the-month, it’s mostly been by e-mail or phone, with the occasional drop-in visit from Mom, who has always insisted Mel’s girls call her June rather than Grandma.

  “Oh,” says Kayla. “Right.”

  I return my attention to the phone in my hand. “I thought you wanted me to help with the paperwork.”

  “Honestly, it would have been a waste of your time. I just went to one of those online legal services and printed out what we needed. It was a no-brainer. She made a living will, which I haven’t seen yet, but how complicated could it be?”

  Very true.

  “So, when are you leaving on this pilgrimage?”

  “I’d like to go tomorrow, and I’ll need to pick up Kayla. Is she around? Can I talk to her?”

  Oh, this should be good. I hand over the phone and observe the emotions in Kayla’s expressions, which change with Melody’s responses to her short bursts of dialogue:

  “When?”

  Disbelief.

  “Why do I need to go?”

  Puzzlement.

  “But I’ve only got a few weeks until school starts.”

  Irritation.

  This time, whatever Melody says takes a while. Finally, Kayla spits, “Fine!”

  Full-blown rage.