“And whose fault is that?”
Elise’s leaden words sinks any hope Ann may have had about hiding how different Piper was to her than the other girls. This week, this week I’ll go to confession and say the words she’s never wanted to say out loud and into the ear of the priest and he’ll tell her what she can do to be forgiven. After he judges her. Her jaw tightens, imagining the worn cushion beneath her aching knees, wading through the weighted silence of the confessional. She hasn’t stepped back into church since her divorce. She can’t.
But this week she’ll go and then she’ll be able to look at Piper without that aching pull of guilt that rides just beneath the surface. She loves all of her children, without question, without fail, but every time she looks at Piper she remembers. Remembers that she was weak. Remembers that deserves no forgiveness, no mercy. Remembers that she doesn’t deserve the happiness that her family brings her.
One word. One word and they’ll know the truth and her whole world will collapse, pieces of clay that once held a beautiful life now shattered, crushed underfoot as the wheels spin above.
But still, cupping her hands around the slippery clay, she knows that she’ll never walk into that confessional. Not this week. Probably not ever.
“Hey, look, that was harsh, sorry.” Elise sighs and crosses her legs, whacking the wheel with her knee and sending pottery tools jumping in their trays. “Did you hear that Piper has a job interview with the Chicago Sentinel?”
“Really?” Ann keeps her eyes on the clay, pushing her thumbs into the center and methodically pulling them back towards her forefinger to create the center of the pot. “Did you know that panty-hoarding Derek works for the Sentinel?”
“Ceramic beaver boy?” Elise cackles and draws a few looks from the studio monitor over at the glazing table. “No way. Maybe we should get the kid to take some self-defense classes if she gets the job. Wait, Annie, you still talk to the guy?”
“Not really. He joined sex addicts anonymous or something and had to write a letter to all the people that he’s wronged over the years. Got it just a few weeks ago, actually.”
Derek had broken her heart. Well, maybe not her heart, exactly, that was an exaggeration, but he had upset her greatly at the time. It was the summer after their father’s accident. At fifteen, Ann had always been a good student, but after her father’s death, all she wanted to do was study, to bury herself in books and not ever have to come up for air, to face a reality that didn’t have her father’s wide smiles and rolling laughter. If she was a perfect student, a devout catholic, an all-round good person, then maybe God wouldn’t take anyone else away from her.
The death sent Elise on a dizzying spiral or depression. Elise had always been better at she had about saying prayers before meals, before bed, but by that summer Elise would wait until their mom pulled away from the parking lot of the church and then wander off, skipping catechism and campaigning against anything that she felt perpetuated the lie that there was anything other than the here and now. She viewed the world with a skepticism that Ann simply ignored. Why look too critically at things that she couldn’t change? It brought nothing but disappointment.
When their mother found them a scholarship to a catholic summer camp, Ann was excited about the change of scenery and Elise, predictably, was over it before it even began. Derek was an assistant camp counselor and in charge of sports. He was an all-star baseball player at struck Ann as the type of guy that she should be interested in. Passably handsome, charming in a jockish sort of way, and best of all, interested in her.
He was a bit grabby when they made out in his cabin, which was a drag. She had always thought older guys would know what they were doing with that sort of thing, but he was okay enough. Best of all, the other girls in camp were seething with jealousy over their relationship.
So imagine her surprise when one day when they were making out she knocked over a ceramic woodchuck and watched it crash, spilling brightly colored clothes all over the floor of his bunk. She pushed her feathered bangs back around her face and shouted. “Oh my gosh! Your woodchuck!”
As she bent to the floor to pick up the pieces, she noticed that they weren’t just any kind of clothes that had spilled onto the floor, but panties. Womens’ panties. Including a pair of her own which he must have taken from her things when she wasn’t around. She screamed in horror.
“It’s a beaver, actually.” Was his only explanation. She had run to find Elise as fast as her Keds could take her, avoiding Derek as best she could for the rest of the summer.
It’s maybe Elise’s favorite story from their teens. At dinner parties, poker nights, she’s always asking people if they’ve heard about Annie’s ex the panty-stealer. At least she hasn’t told the girls.
Not yet, anyway.
“Do you know what Derek does at the Sentinel?” Elise asks as Ann pulls up the side of the cup and grabs a sponge.
“No clue.” She sighs and spares a brief glance at her sister. “But I guess I should find out.”
Chapter 7
Fun with Fantasy
Piper
When I arrive at work in the morning there is no one around except Abigail, who is occupied screaming at some hapless soul on the far end of her phone line.
I take the opportunity to sneak into the copy room and frame my newspaper clips for the Sentinel using the copy machine. Yes, I have the files on my computer, of course, but it just looks more professional to have the actual clippings. My hands shake as I strain my neck to check for Abigail around the door of the copy room.
Great, still screaming. Just a few more to go.
My stomach flips as I copy the last one, a copy of one of my more demure Miss Behave columns:
Dear Miss Behave,
My daughter is obsessed with her phone. She comes home from school and locks herself in her room with her phone. I just returned home from the first parent-teacher conference and apparently she is not completing her homework.
I was never a nerd, either, but at thirteen I still did most of my homework, what do I do?
-Monster Mom
Dear Momster,
Oh darling! Don’t ask Miss Behave parenting questions, as it’s patently not recommended. That being said, it’s not nerdish at all to do homework! A little misery is good for the soul.
You must take that phone from your sweet little cherub’s hands and smash it with all of your motherly rage. Or, if you feel that is too hostile and may incur years of therapy, I suggest “accidentally” running the phone through the washing machine. Yes, a week spent in a bag of rice will most likely dry the thing out, but she’d have to do some kind of homework to figure that out. She will kick and scream and cry about how horrible and wicked you are, but soon all of that will turn to boredom.
And boredom, as we all know, may lead to extreme measures, like the completing of homework.
Love and Xanax,
Miss Behave
Hmm, I wonder if the Sentinel would notice if I white-out the Love and Xanax line? I grab the bottle of white-out from the shelf just as I hear Abigail scream and throw something. Whiz-bang goes my heart and I just copy the thing as-is. It’s reasonable to assume that they won’t have me doing any kind of advice column at the Sentinel, anyway. They probably run one of those serious syndicated ones.
Snatching the clip from the photocopier, I place it into my application folder and poke my head out of the door of the copy room. I sigh. Good, the coast is clear. Rushing back to my desk, I shove the folder in my bottom desk drawer and take a sip of water.
I bet dad never had to sneak around an office to avoid his news editor. It would be so great to get to be able to do what dad does, traveling all over the world, seeking out great adventures in jungles and things.
How much bug-repellant do you need to wear in the jungle, though? I bet it would be tons. I shiver.
Maybe not the jungle, then. I’d go, well, other places, like Paris. I hear the food is marvelous. Or Madrid! I’m certain
there are important stories in Europe, right? I would love to cover something about that European Football League. And the chances of contracting malaria strolling down the Champs-Elysees are decidedly slim.
My phone buzzes and I see a text, from Hunter. Well, that’s unexpected. I read it:
Is it wrong that I am purposefully trying to avoid my mother today? Hungover moms are the worst.
That’s oddly personal. What does that say, exactly? My heart does this flippity-flop thing and I mentally tell it to cut it out.
I type back:
If it makes you feel any better, I am scurrying around the office trying to avoid my news-editor. Who is not hungover.
He responds:
That does make me feel a bit better.
Not knowing what to say next, I sit at my desk, thumbing through my post-its. After a few minutes of textblivion, I sigh. Right, well, I better check my email.
Opening my inbox, I see an email from Aunt Elise:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Quick Question
Piper,
Is it the Chicago Sentinel that you are applying to? You should talk to your mother. She dated a guy who is now some big-wig at the Sentinel. If you ask her nicely, she might call him and put in a good word for you.
But of course this would mean returning your mother’s phone calls. If you don’t, she’s going to whine to me about those freaking breast shields again and I just can’t take it. Please, call your mother. For me.
-Auntie E.
Mom dated a guy that works for the Sentinel? My heart does this wham-pow sort of thing and my fingers shake as I write back:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Wow
Aunt Elise,
No way! Can you remember his name? Wait, did she leave it on good terms or will he hate me forever for being related to the woman that broke his heart?
And breast shields? What are you talking about? Is it like magic underwear or something?
-Piper
It takes all of a minute and a half for me to get a response:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: What’s With This Family And The Boobs?
Piper,
This isn’t about the breast-shields, dammit! And she left it on well-enough terms. Mostly. Kind of. Just call her.
Now.
Love,
-Auntie E.
Ugh.
I have to call my mother and grill her about an ex from a thousand years ago. That should be fun. Like stubbing a toe.
Best to do it now rather than put it off and fret over it for the rest of the day. I do want this job, I do, and if it means talking to mom and asking her to call in a favor, I can do that. Right? Isn’t that like networking or something? Completely legit.
I look at the clock. Ten A.M. Perfect! That’s when mom is at the gym. My next opportunity to call and have a good chance of voice mail won’t come until she leaves for the food pantry.
Dialing, I wait, heart beating up into my throat. Yes! Voicemail! I wade through Mom’s recorded message and leave a quick message after the beep explaining that Auntie Elise told me about her ex at the Sentinel and how I’d love it if she could contact him.
Hanging up, I smile and take a sip of the coffee that’s been cooling on my desk.
This is wonderful, just wonderful. An “in” at the Sentinel.
Things aren’t going so well at home when I get back. Dad’s on the lawn smoking a pipe and staring off into the woods. I walk by him and he doesn’t even blink.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as I shrug my backpack up on my shoulder, ready to make a quick change before heading out for the rest of the day. “I might have an “in” at the Sentinel! Pretty cool, huh?”
He huffs, his eyes not leaving the woods on the other side of the street. “Good.”
My chest turns to lead and plummets through the crust of the earth, leaving the rest of my hollow like an empty shell casing. This is silly, of course he’s not really paying attention to my potential in, it’s not like it’s something solid. He’s just saving his enthusiasm for when something really great happens.
I stare out into the woods, too, wanting to see the world the way he does, the way a real journalist would.
A car drives by, a bit on the slow side, and men with dark sunglasses stare at us through the windows.
Dad gives the men the bird, saying, “There’s nothing going on in this town. It’s so quiet, empty, a town where people come to fade away.”
Geez, now my dad’s going all casual, bird-flipping philosopher on me? He should maybe try philosophizing with a tad less offensive gestures.
I ask, “Are you sure that’s just tobacco?”
He smiles. “Yes.”
“Not all of your assignments have been in big cities, you told me yourself. There’s a lot to be said for small towns, ones with awesome lakes and sweet downtowns especially.”
“No, but the places I traveled that were isolated were full of some kind of action, even if was remarkable by its inaction, if you know what I mean.” He sucks in the sweet tinged smoke from the pipe, making a cloud in the frosty morning air. “This place is too saccharine, too dull-“
“It’s a lot like the town I grew up in. It was good enough for you then.” My voice sours, throat tight.
His face pales and he looks down at his feet tucked into a pair of leather moccasins. His sweatpants hang off of him and I wonder how well he’s been eating. The complexion on his face would probably best be described as rather gray, and hurt creases the lines of his eyes. “It seemed like a good town then. Not like where I grew up, having to scrape and scramble for every meal. I wonder what harm I’ve done to you by wanting you to grow up someplace so dull. Where everything is just handed to you. How will you ever survive if things get tough?”
“Mud wrestling. I plan to be quite the talent.” I say and nudge him in the arm.
He smiles and takes another pull off the pipe. “Ah. Every father’s dream.”
“So, you want to come to Aunt Elise’s picnic?” I ask.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“But Betty and Mags and-“
“I’m busy.”
I ball my hands into fists. Why doesn’t he ever talk to my sisters? Guilt pools low and oh wow miserably in the base of my stomach. So now I get to once again be the one to tell my sisters that yes, Dad is less than half an hour away and no, he doesn’t want to see them.
Again.
I can’t understand it.
I’ve never been able to understand it.
“What did they do to you? Why don’t you ever talk to them?”
He stares off into the woods. “Ask what you really want to ask, Piper.”
What the hell does that mean? Anger pools in the base of my stomach, coiled in slimy tendrils, encircling my intestines and I ball my hands into fists. I did ask what I wanted to ask! Wanted to-
“Why didn’t you take me with you when you left?” I stomp the ground with my foot.
The words fly from my lips and I want to grab them, stuff them back inside. How could I ask such a terrible thing? My stomach ices. I’d never leave my sisters, they’ve been there for me, they’ve never let me down, how could I-
He takes a long drag from his smoke, hollowing his cheeks, his eyes distant and glassy. “I wanted to. Your mother threatened to call the police and I backed down. Left you there to rot in that den of suburban platitudes. You deserve a life of adventure, Piper. A better life. And I didn’t give it to you. For that I’m sorry.”
There are some statements, some truths that have no responses.
No comebacks.
So I don’t give him any, I turn and walk into the house.
Going straight to my room, I lie down on the bed and kick off my shoes. It’s not like Dad is the
only one to ever break my heart. When he left I thought I’d never recover, and that pain eventually led me into the arms of someone who was oh-so-wrong for me, but at least he had a job that meant he wouldn’t be able to move for years and years.
Professor Hicks. I was in love with my college professor. I know, I know, it’s something of a cliché, right? The cute co-ed and the hot young professor. I should have known it was doomed.
But I was young and he was amazing. His reputation was as a ruthless intellectual, mocking those he deemed not worthy of his time or consideration. Getting an A in his Constitutional Law class was supposed to be impossible, it was one of those required classes that everyone just prayed to get through without scarring their GPA too badly.
I was terrified of him, of the damage he could do to my grades, to my dreams of a future. He held the balance of my status as cum laude or magna cum laude in his hands. So when he called on me in class that first time, I was terrified. But shockingly, my answer impressed him.
That was the beginning of the end. I lived to impress him after that, and each class I’d think of some brilliant talking points beforehand just to awe him with my maturity.
When he invited me to his office hours to discuss the possibility of his becoming my thesis advisor, I shouldn’t have been surprised when the session ended with me losing my virginity on his desk. I was in love. He knew I needed that A and would never say anything to the Dean about our affair.
Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1) Page 7