I start to say something, but Mom explodes. “Don’t you dare try to take my daughter away from me!”
“Maggie, for god’s sake. That’s not what I’m doing. But you can’t keep hauling that poor girl all over the cape. It’s not good for her.”
“I know what’s good for my daughter. She’s been fine for seventeen years, and she’ll be fine today, too.”
Her words cut through me like a jagged piece of ice.
I know what’s good for my daughter.
She’s been fine for seventeen years.
She’ll be fine.
Is that really how she sees our existence? Doing me good? Fine? I glance around at all the beautiful decorations, the roses, all of it for Eva, and probably on the right day, too. Eva didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell anyone, most likely. But my mom thinks she can fix it. Make it something memorable and good and maybe even therapeutic.
She’s trying to make sure Eva is fine.
And that’s when it really hits me. I’ve thought it all before, the shadow of a truth I never allowed to really take root. I’ve brushed it off, excused it, said yes to the next duplex, tolerated the next boyfriend, but now it’s glaring. It’s in Pete’s worried expression. It’s in Mom’s overreaction and overconfidence. It’s in every single one of those purple roses.
I am not fine.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WE END UP AT THE LUCKY LOBSTER MOTEL, Cape Katie’s cheapest accommodation for tourists who plan on spending as little time as possible indoors. We’ve stayed here a couple of times before in between one shitty apartment or duplex and the next.
Mom checks us into a room with two double beds. The carpet is a dingy coral color, the wallpaper a faded seagrass motif, and the bedspreads are a dull gray. I’m pretty sure they used to be bright blue. The whole room smells like a mix of cigarette smoke and Comet.
I toss my suitcase onto one of the beds. The rest of my stuff is still at the lighthouse. Mom told Pete we’d come back for everything in the next week, but right now she wanted to get the hell away from your ugly face. Direct quote. I don’t even ask what she’s going to do with all that party stuff. I don’t want to know.
Jay came into my room while I packed some essentials. He didn’t say anything, just handed me my music books and watched me. What the hell was there to say? Again, I had felt the need to apologize. Who knows, maybe that thousand dollars was for Jay’s football equipment come fall. Maybe it was for food or SAT prep courses or something for the lighthouse. And Mom just took it.
When I finished packing, I couldn’t even look at him. But when I went to pass by him, he stopped with a hand on my arm, there and then gone. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I lifted my gaze to his. I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, but it felt like it was for more than what had happened with our parents.
“Me too,” I said, and I was. Not because that whole Tumblr fiasco was okay. It wasn’t. But because I really was sorry for hurting him. For never asking. For generally not giving a shit.
Now I look around my new home for the unforeseeable future. Again. I feel a sob rise up in my throat, a longing for my room at the lighthouse, that room I hated so much when Mom first tossed me in there. But it’s the room where Eva and I became us. I almost wish I had taken Pete up on his offer and stayed. But Mom needed me. She’s going to spin the hell out because of this thing with Pete. How could I say no? How could I leave her?
How can I leave her?
I sink down onto the bed while Mom flits throughout the room, unpacking her toiletries onto the chipped bathroom counter, humming like nothing even happened. She cracks open a beer, one of several she no doubt lifted from Pete’s fridge on the way out the door.
I’m not fine.
How can I leave her?
I’m not fine.
How can I leave her?
On the scratchy bedspread, I tap out Schumann’s Fantasie.
It seems fitting, this piano piece that probably could’ve landed me a scholarship but won’t. Because Mom will never change. And I’ll never feel okay about leaving her the way she is, so unstable, so lonely and desperate for . . . for what? I don’t even know anymore. The New York trip is just that—a trip. And then we’ll come back home and go on with our lives.
“I need some air,” I say, standing up.
“Now?” Mom turns, glancing out the window. “It looks like rain.”
“I won’t melt.”
“I’d rather you stayed in today, baby.” She laces her fingers together, wringing them into a knot. “I’m so upset, I don’t know what to do with myself.”
I take a step toward her, because I don’t really know what to do with myself either.
“Oh, shit, Eva’s birthday.” She presses her hands to her cheeks. “I need to call her.” She grabs her ratty pleather purse and digs out her ancient flip phone.
I take a step back.
I’m already out the door by the time I hear her say Eva’s name into the phone.
By the time I reach the pier, the rain has soaked through my black Star Wars T-shirt. It’s one of Luca’s, and I think it used to be Macon’s. It’s so worn and thin, it feels like it might disintegrate against my skin.
I want to call him. I want my best friend with me, right here, right now. But I leave my phone in my pocket, turned off. Because he’ll just say I told you so, and, yeah, while he did tell me so, I don’t want to hear it.
Emmaline bobs on the water between several other boats, a little haven of safety. I step on board and open the compartment next to the steering wheel, finding the keys that open the door leading to the cabin below deck. I walk down the short set of stairs and into the darkened room. A strand of white lights encircles the space, hanging on thumbtacks, and I plug them in under the tiny two-seater table. A soft glow fills the cabin. There’s a set of bunk beds near the back, beds I’ve slept on so many times, I’ve lost count. I drag myself to the top bunk and collapse onto the mattress, still soaking wet. Underneath me, the navy-blue comforter is soft and well-used, and my fingers fly over its surface easily.
Tapping, tapping, tapping.
Tapping out my Fantasie.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE MATTRESS SHAKES AND I JOLT AWAKE, SITTING UP and hitting my head on the low ceiling.
“Ow!” I yell, my hands flying to my head.
“God, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I rub my eyes once, twice, then crack them open to find Eva’s face peering over the edge of the bed. Her feet are propped on the lower bunk, hands holding on to the top mattress.
“Hey,” she says softly.
I release a breath and flop back down onto the bed, my head pounding. Outside the little window, the sky is ink-dark and starless, rain pattering softly on Emmaline’s roof.
“Grace,” Eva says, “I didn’t know about the party.”
“Is today really your birthday?”
A pause. A deep breath. “Yes.”
“Eighteenth?”
“Seventeen. Mom homeschooled me during junior high, and I skipped a grade when I got to high school.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Another beat. “Will you come down here, please?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see your face, and I’m five-nine and the thought of folding myself into the top bunk makes me feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag.”
I release a single bark of a laugh, but oblige her and climb down.
“You’re all wet,” she says, running her hands over my shoulders when I reach the floor.
“And possibly concussed,” I say, rubbing my head.
She opens the built-in drawers below the bottom bunk and finds a dry T-shirt.
It’s one of mine, left here years ago, and features the cast of My Little Pony.
It’s purple.
“This isn’t really my color,” I mutter as she pulls my arms up, followed by my soaked T-shirt. Then she
slides the dry one over my head and settles it around my hips.
Tossing the wet shirt into the miniature kitchen sink, she leads me to the green-and-yellow-striped love seat on the other side of the room. Settling into one corner, she pulls on my hand until I follow, but I sit in the other corner. Still, our legs brush, our hands inches apart.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t tell anyone,” she says. “Emmy knew because she was friends with my mom and also because she had to sign a bunch of forms about the guardianship, but I asked her not to do anything for it. I didn’t want to celebrate. Your mom only knew because she point-blank asked me when my birthday was, and it didn’t feel right to lie. I had no idea she was going to plan that party.”
The rain continues to fall, chopping up the Atlantic and tugging Emmaline this way and that. Eva’s not telling me anything I didn’t suspect already. Still. Today is her birthday. Mom got the date right and ordered her a bunch of purple roses.
“Did you know she stole a thousand dollars from Pete to buy everything?”
Eva’s mouth drops open. “What? No.”
“Did you know she left Pete because he dared to be a little irritated about the whole theft thing, and now I’m living in a motel room with about five seconds of hot water and crusty sheets for god knows how long?”
Her jaw drops even further, if that’s even possible. “Oh my god, Grace. Maggie just told me about the party and that she’d have to postpone it. When she called, she sounded fine and said she wanted to take me out for my birthday anyway. Just dinner or whatever.”
“Did you go?”
She frowns. “Yeah, I did. But not because of my birthday. I wanted to talk to her, tell her I didn’t think we should spend as much time together. I didn’t know what had happened. If I had, I wouldn’t have—”
“Where’d she take you?”
“Just . . . just the Crab Trap.”
“I hope it was a good meal. Although you should probably stop by the lighthouse and thank Pete for the fried shrimp and garlic biscuits.”
She rubs both hands over her face. “Grace, I left right when we got there. Luca called me and asked me if I knew where you were. He’s been calling you.”
“I turned my phone off.”
“I know. When I told him I didn’t know, I asked Maggie.”
“Oh?” I laugh, a bitter, sharp thing that hurts my throat. “And what did Maggie say?”
“She said she didn’t know, but she didn’t seem worried—”
“Of course she didn’t.”
“—but I was worried, so I told her I wanted to go find you.”
“Well, here I am.” I stand up and pace the tiny space, energy and anger and I don’t even know what making my fingertips tingle. “God, do you want the truth, Eva? The real truth? Because this is it. Do you see it now? Why this is something I never, ever want to have to talk about? Do you see what she does? She takes these beautiful motherly gestures and fucks them up. She steals money for a party. She forgets her own daughter’s birthday. She thinks I’m fine and that she’s mother of the year just because she’s still here. She moves me from place to place to place, thinking it’s good for me. It’s an adventure. It’s normal. Well, it’s not. It’s not and this”—I wave my arms around—“this thing that just happened with Pete is going to spiral down and down and down. It does every single time she breaks up with someone. She gets mad and then she leaves and then she acts like she’s fine for about ten damn minutes and then she switches from beer to vodka or gin or something clear or I don’t even know what the hell it is, and—”
“Grace.” Eva stands up and tries to stop me, but I keep moving, circling the room like a wild animal.
“—and before you know it, I’m sitting at a bar at Ruby’s, fending off forty-year-old assholes running their hand up my arm while Maggie dances the night away. Until it’s not fun anymore and then it’s all: Gracie! Gracie! Save me!”
“Hey, come on, sit down.”
I stop pacing and look at her. I take a step closer and closer until we’re chest to chest. Almost like it’s an instinct, her hands come to rest on my hips, and she pulls me even closer.
“I didn’t ask you last night, Eva,” I say, and she frowns. “I didn’t want to ask this. I didn’t want Luca and Emmy to be right, but they are. So please. Please promise me you’ll stop hanging out with her. It’s not a jealousy thing. It’s not because I’m pissed about the attention she’s giving you. It’s because you’re going to get hurt. You probably shouldn’t be with me, either, but you can’t be with her. Just . . . go back to Emmy’s and talk to her, or don’t, but Maggie’s not good for you. I’m not good for you. Please—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Eva whispers, and her hands come up to wipe away tears I didn’t even know had started falling. Big, fat tears too. Tears full of days and hours and years of the same old bullshit. The same old Grace is fine bullshit.
“Please,” I whisper again. “Promise me.”
“Okay,” Eva says. “Okay, I promise.”
I exhale the world onto her shoulder, sinking against her. “Thank you.”
“But I’m not leaving you or going back to Emmy’s right now.”
“Eva—”
“No, Grace. I know you think you’re all messed up, but who isn’t? I’ll stay away from Maggie and do whatever you need me to do to help you with all this, but you’re not her. You’re you and there’s no way in hell I’m staying away from you.”
The relief is palpable. She pulls me even closer, her arms curling around my waist, one hand drifting up to rest on the back of my neck. She presses her lips to my temple, whispering things I can’t even decipher into my ear, but her voice is low and soft and feels like a hot bath after a day in the snow.
And for the first time in a long time—for this moment, at least—I am fine.
Eva calls Luca to update him on what’s going on. He asks to talk to me, but I decline. I just want to live in this world—both huge and tiny at the same time—for a little while longer. Just Eva and me. Luca says we can stay the night on Emmaline, that he’ll explain everything to Emmy, and that there should be some things to eat in the cupboard in the little kitchen.
We find a box of macaroni and cheese and a pan. Eva boils the noodles while I root around for anything sweet, but only come up with a half-eaten jar of peanut butter, which is sort of perfect when I think about it. After Eva squirts bright orange cheese goo all over the noodles, we eat out of plastic Star Wars bowls on the couch.
“I need to tell you something,” Eva says as I grab the jar of Jif from the table and hand her a spoon.
“What?”
She inhales deeply, twirling her spoon between her long fingers. “Maggie asked me if I wanted to live with you guys.”
“What?” I nearly choke. We don’t even have a house. “She asked you this today?”
“No, no. A few days ago. She knew how much Emmy was driving me up the wall and asked if I’d feel more comfortable with her.” She shrugs. “Emmy said no.”
My throat aches, but I swallow it down. This is an ugly twist—Mom asking Eva to live with us after she nearly had a stroke when Emmy asked the same thing concerning me a few years ago. “That’s what you were fighting about on the Fourth, isn’t it?”
She nods. “I know it was stupid, but it made sense at the time, in my head. I guess I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere again, had some control. Maggie made me think . . . I don’t know what.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “She’s really good at making people think I don’t know what.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“And I thought I’d get more time with you.”
I can only nod and put the peanut butter on the floor, my appetite sapped. Restlessness simmers under my skin. I flex my hands, then ball them up, tuck my legs underneath me only to unfold them again, and let them hang off the edge of the couch. Next to m
e, Eva is watching me, her own tension and helplessness as thick as the peanut butter I couldn’t eat.
Then she inhales deeply before letting her breath out in a slow, steady stream. She gets up off the couch and turns to face me.
“What are you—?”
But my question dies as she lifts her arms into the air. They rise up from the sides of her body, her fingertips meeting over her head. She stands so her heels are touching, her feet turned out and toes facing opposite directions.
And then she dances. It’s nothing like the kind of dancing I saw on top of that table at the bonfire. This is ballet, pure and graceful, method and freedom.
I have no names for the way her arms arc gracefully through the air. There’s not much room in the tiny cabin, but even her wrists turn her hands in a beautiful sort of dance of their own. Everything about her is lovely. The muscles in her legs flex as she lifts herself up onto her bare toes, as she moves in the little space afforded her. She makes the most of it, transforming her body into a work of art.
And her face.
It’s tear-streaked and smiling.
When she finally comes down, her arms floating back to her sides like feathers, I can’t stay sitting. I’m on my feet before I’m even aware of it, my hands on her face, my forehead against hers.
“That . . .” I say. “You.” It’s all I can get out. She sniffs a little and trembles in my arms, but she’s still smiling. It’s tiny, but it’s there. “Thank you.”
She nods. “I’m trying to be brave like you.”
“Like me?”
She pulls back to look at me. “Like you.”
We look at each other for a few seconds, and then I back up, holding out my hand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
I don’t answer, just hold out my hand until she takes it. Walking her back to the beds, I give her a gentle push onto the lower bunk. Then I lie down next to her, tangling my legs with hers, pressing my palm against her lower back and pulling her closer. She does the same, wrapping me up with her hands and arms and legs.
I release my lungs, breathing out all the birthdays and purples, necklaces and tips stolen out of my jewelry box.
How to Make a Wish Page 18