by Amy Hatvany
I liked living in Victor’s house—a small 1960s rambler on a hillside overlooking the Puget Sound—but what I liked more was waking up to his warm body next to mine every morning. I liked that he made me lunch while I showered to get ready for the day; I liked that he always cupped my face with his hands when he kissed me good-bye. He worked three evenings a week at the restaurant, so I had plenty of time to indulge my craving for alone time or to spend a few hours with Melody. We had a few squabbles over silly things like where to put the stereo and there was always a bit of tension when the kids came for the weekend, but I told myself it would just take time for us all to adjust to a new routine. Most of the time our world felt balanced and I felt at peace.
And then, just last Sunday, he’d taken me to his favorite spot on Alki Beach. The sun was about to set; the sky was streaked with brilliant shades of pink, and a warm, golden light pushed in long streams through the clouds. Seagulls screamed all around us, and a cool breeze blew off the water. When we kissed, I could taste sea salt on his lips.
“I used to come here when I was a kid,” Victor told me as we settled on a large hunk of driftwood. He tucked his arm around my waist and I snuggled myself into the warmth of his body. “It was my sanctuary,” he continued, “but now you’re my sanctuary.” He stared at me, the evening light glinting off the water and hitting his dark hair, illuminating the sprinkling of silver throughout the scruff of his unshaven beard. After a year together, I had the small, crinkled lines around his eyes memorized; I knew the shape of each tiny fleck of black in his irises, the smattering of freckles that spread out like brown sugar sifted across his nose.
I reached out to touch his cheek. “That’s so sweet. You trying to get laid or something?”
He chuckled softly. “No, I’m asking you to marry me.” He pulled a black box out of his pocket and opened it, revealing a glittering ring. We’d talked about marriage previously—in theory, really—discussing it as an eventual next step after I moved into his house. But still, the timing of his proposal was a surprise—I wished I’d worn something other than sweatpants, that my hair wasn’t whipping around my face like angry Medusa’s snakes. Still, I joyfully accepted and felt the kiss that he gave me to the tips of my toes.
The loud jiggle of the doorknob jolted me out of my thoughts. “Just a second,” I called out, and stumbled to the door to unlock it, thinking it was likely one of the kids. But it was Victor standing before me, looking bereft in a way I’d never seen him. His usually tan skin was ashen and his dark hair stood on end, as though he’d repeatedly raked his hands through it. His broad shoulders slumped forward and his normally cheerful, handsome face appeared crumpled in on itself. He looked broken.
“Oh, sweetie,” I said, pulling him into my arms. He clutched me in a tight embrace, bending down to bury his nose into my neck. His tears wet my skin. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head, then pulled away, staring at me with sad gray eyes. “I just don’t know how I’m going to tell them.” His voice was hoarse and his chin trembled as he spoke. “The counselor at the hospital said to be as straightforward as possible, without giving them too many details.”
I swallowed before speaking again. “Do you know . . . how did she . . . ?” My words were disjointed, trailing off, unsure of the right way to ask what I wanted to know.
Victor sniffed and cleared his throat, looking the tiniest bit more like himself. “They’re not sure what happened yet, other than that her heart stopped. They have to run some blood tests, I guess, and they’ll know more.” He paused. “There was an empty prescription bottle on the nightstand next to her bed.”
“Oh no.” I took a deep breath and I rubbed his back with my open palm. “What kind of pills?”
“Antianxiety. She’s taken them before. Mostly because she has trouble sleeping.”
Hearing these words, dread twisted in my chest. Oh god. Victor said she didn’t take the news of our engagement very well. What if it was worse than he thought? She was fragile to begin with. What if it pushed her over the edge? My eyes filled with tears, terrified that I had contributed in any way to her death. I hesitated a moment before asking the next question that leapt into my mind. “Was there a note?”
For a brief moment, he almost looked angry, but then he shook his head again. “I don’t want the kids to think that, okay? We don’t know anything for sure.” His tone was a little sharp, one he hadn’t used with me before. He was protective of her, still. I knew he’d played the caretaker role in their marriage—a role he became exhausted of after having to do it too long. I needed to be strong for him now. I needed to not crumble.
“What are you going to say?” I asked.
“The truth. That we don’t know what happened. That she lay down in her bed and didn’t wake up. I don’t think they need more information than that. Not now.”
“What do you need me to do?” I caressed his face with my left hand, and he lifted his own up to hold it there. Touching my fingers, he pulled it away from his face.
“Where’s your ring?” he asked.
My eyes filled unexpectedly. “I took it off. The kids are going to have enough to deal with. We can tell them later.” I searched his face, wiping away an errant tear that slipped down my cheek. “Was that right?”
He rested his forehead against mine. “I love you so much, you know that?” I nodded, then kissed his lips. He took a deep breath, grabbed my hand, and we walked down the hall, bracing ourselves to deliver the news that would no doubt change us all.
Ava
I knew something had to be really wrong the minute I saw Grace standing in the office next to Max. Grace didn’t come to our school. She didn’t make brownies for our bake sales like my mom or chaperone our field trips to the Seattle Art Museum like my dad. The only thing Grace did was work, live with my dad, and drive a car that probably cost more than my mother’s whole house, which is something I overheard my mom say once to Diane.
“How much do you think she paid for it?” Diane asked in a low voice, and my mother answered, “Well, it’s a Lexus. It couldn’t have been cheap.” Then she said the thing about it probably costing more than our house, which I knew couldn’t really be true. And even though I was around the corner in the hallway, eavesdropping as they sat on the couch and drank from a box of wine Diane brought over, I could picture the look on my mother’s face: her tiny nose all crinkled up and her eyes narrowed, the same way she looked when she accidentally opened a carton of moldy cottage cheese.
“Does Grace have a lot of jewelry?” Mama asked me once when Max and I got home from our dad’s house. She was sitting on the edge of my bed as I studied for a history test the next day.
“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my eyes on my notes. “She has diamond earrings she wears sometimes.” At this point, Grace hadn’t moved in yet, so I only saw her a couple of times a month. I felt weird talking to my mom about her. She was nice enough and didn’t make out with our dad in front of us or anything, which the guy who dated Bree’s mom had done the first time he came over. “So gross,” Bree said. “He used his tongue and everything.” I shuddered at the thought, figuring as long as Grace wasn’t doing that, I could put up with her hanging out with us.
“What about her clothes?” Mama said persistently. “Are they all business suits and heels?”
Finally looking at her, I shook my head. “It’s on the weekend, Mama. She wears jeans and sweaters.” I paused. “Why does it matter?”
Mama stood up, fluffed her hair, and gave me a dazzling smile. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what’s important.”
After she left my room, I considered the fact that it was Mama who seemed to think that Grace’s making more money than us was important. Definitely more than I did. It wasn’t like Grace was Whitney’s kind of rich—she didn’t have a driver or a housekeeper or a tennis court. She just didn’t have as many bills as we did because it was just her. Her car was really the only expensive thing it look
ed like she had. But it wasn’t brand-new or anything. Plus, Dad was always talking about how hard Grace worked and how capable and smart she was; I wondered if he said any of that to Mama, so she felt bad about just being a waitress.
“Why didn’t you go to college?” I asked her not long after Daddy left us, and an odd look popped up on her face. She took a minute before responding, and when she finally did, there was a false brightness in her voice, almost the same way I’d heard her talk to Max when she was trying to pretend he wasn’t annoying her.
“School was just never my cup of tea,” she said. “I only ever wanted to be a cheerleader. All the silly, meaningless things that just don’t matter in the end.” Her blue eyes narrowed a bit when she looked at me. “That’s why I want you at the academy. You’re a smart girl. I don’t want you to end up like I did.”
I tilted my head and scrunched my eyebrows together. “Like how?”
“Focused on the wrong things in life.” She paused and sharpened her gaze. “What’s important is in here.” She reached over and tapped my forehead lightly with the tip of her index finger. “And in here,” she said, placing her palm flat over my heart.
I swallowed and nodded, knowing she wanted me to agree. And I did, to a point, but I also knew that being pretty got other girls things that being plain like Bree or average like me didn’t get us. I also thought it was weird that Mama was always telling me how pretty I was, but then practically in the next breath, she insisted being smart was more important. I thought it would be kind of great to be both. I liked school well enough—my favorite subjects were history and English—but I had no idea what I might be when I grew up. Not a waitress, though. I knew that much from watching Mama come home so tired she could barely stand, irritated that the table with the highest bill had only left her a 5 percent tip.
“But you were a cheerleader?” I asked Mama, thinking it would be pretty cool if she had been.
“Yes,” she said with a frown, not meeting my gaze. “And it didn’t get me anything but trouble.”
She wouldn’t tell me more when I asked her to explain what kind of trouble she meant, but I assumed it had to do with boys. When I was twelve years old, boys in my class were already snapping my training bra in the hallway or trying to brush up against my chest “accidentally” with their hand. Boys were gross and, as far as I could tell at that point, were nothing but trouble.
Now, in my room at my dad’s house, I could hear the muffled noise of the television from the den. I pulled my cell phone from my backpack and sent my mom another quick text message, asking where she was. I’d sent her one in the car on the way here, too, but she hadn’t responded yet, which worried me. She usually answered within a couple of minutes, even when she was working, in case we needed her. When she didn’t respond to my second text after five, then ten minutes, a cold, hard spot materialized in my belly. I pushed on it, but it didn’t go away. I stared at my phone, squinted my eyes, and willed Mama’s name to appear.
As I waited, I lay on my bed—a futon I’d begged my dad to buy because it looked cool but soon grew to hate because it was hard and I didn’t sleep very well on it. My walls were painted a pale lime green, and my curtains and blankets were lavender. The same colors as my room at my mom’s, which I’d asked for so maybe it wouldn’t feel so weird to live in two houses. It didn’t work. It still felt weird to come here two weekends a month. I loved seeing my dad but hated having to pack a bag, hated leaving my mom alone, and really hated that Grace got to spend more time with my dad than I did. She was always trying to be my friend.
“I’m going to get a pedicure with Melody,” she said to me one Saturday morning. “Would you like to come?”
I shook my head and kept my eyes on the book I was reading. I could be nice to her when she was with my dad, but I didn’t see any reason why I had to spend any time alone with her. She was probably just trying to get my dad to think she was greater than he already did.
“Are you sure?” Grace asked. “They have crazy colors like neon orange and green. You can get any shade you want.” I threw a glance over to my dad, who stood in the kitchen, watching our exchange over the breakfast bar.
“Ava, it’s very nice of Grace to offer to take you to do this,” he said. “It’s a little rude to not accept.”
I sighed and tucked my chin into my chest, burrowing a little deeper into the couch. I didn’t care if it was rude. I didn’t want to go.
“I’ll go!” Max said, piping up from his spot in the recliner across from me. “Can I get black toenails with white skulls painted on them?” I pressed my lips together and glared at him. “What?” he said, blinking at me. “That would be cool.”
Grace laughed and looked over to my dad, who chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t think so, buddy. Grace and Melody want to have some girl time.” He paused. “Ava?”
“I don’t want to, Dad,” I said, pleading. Even from across the room, I saw a quick flash of disappointment on Grace’s face.
“That’s okay,” she said, backing off. “It’s not a big deal. Maybe another time.” She smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but think how pretty she was. “Right, Ava?”
I gave her a quick nod, thinking, Fat chance, but also begrudgingly appreciative that she didn’t push things too much with me. For the most part, she gave me the space I needed. Only now she had shown up at my school out of nowhere and she wasn’t telling us why.
I sighed and sat up, thinking about the stash of candy bars I had hidden in my closet, wondering if Grace would be able to smell it on my breath if I ate one now. She’d probably tell my dad I’d broken his no-sugar-before-dinner rule. My stomach grumbled and I decided I didn’t care. I opened my closet door as quietly as I could, crouching down so I could reach behind a box of Barbie dolls that I didn’t play with anymore. I grabbed a Snickers bar and listened for the front door, hopeful my dad had come home, but there was still just the sound of the television. I ate the candy bar quickly, barely tasting the chocolate as it melted on my tongue. I wondered where Grace was. Hiding in my dad’s bedroom, I guessed. Or at the dining room table typing away on her laptop, which seemed like her favorite thing to do.
A phone rang in another room—the ringtone was Grace’s, some weird Latin-sounding music. As quietly as I could, I opened the door and snuck down to the end of the hall, where Grace and my father slept. Pressing my ear up against the door, I listened hard, but I could only make out one or two words. She was whispering. Something was definitely wrong. The cold spot grew wider in my stomach, spreading up through my chest, down my arms, and to the tips of my fingers, until I could barely feel them. I walked back to my room; climbed into bed, shivering beneath my blankets; and, like a thousand times before, waited for my dad to come home.
* * *
“Do you have to stay at the restaurant so late?” Mama said. She and my daddy were standing in the bathroom, where he had just gotten out of the shower and was now shaving in the steamed-up mirror. I liked the squeak-squeak sound his hand made when he rubbed the fogged-up part away so he could actually see his reflection. Max was in his bedroom taking a nap, and I sat in the hallway, my back against the wall and my knees pulled up to my chest, listening.
My daddy sighed. “I can’t afford a general manager. It’s me, the kitchen staff, and the bartender. That’s it. You knew it was going to be like this.” Daddy had opened his own restaurant that year, but Mama said it was taking time for it to make enough money so he didn’t have to work every day. I liked that he brought us home treats. Sometimes, I even had pasta for breakfast or chocolate cheesecake in my lunchbox. None of the other kids had that, so I thought I was actually pretty lucky.
“Did I?” Mama said, her voice high-pitched and shaking. “Did I know you’d leave first thing in the morning, come home for a couple of hours so your kids will know you still exist, then leave again?” Daddy didn’t answer, so she continued, her voice becoming high and squeaky like one of my old baby dolls’. “I didn’t sign up
for this, Victor. I have to do everything here. The kids, the cleaning, the shopping—”
“It’s what we agreed on!” There was a loud clank of something landing in the bathroom sink, and I jumped, slapping my hand over my mouth so they didn’t hear my surprised yelp. “We agreed that my opening the Loft was the way to get us where we really want to go. We agreed that you’d stay home with the kids. I know I’ve been busy, but I really don’t understand what you’re complaining about. I’m working so hard for us. For our family.”
“I miss you. That’s all.” Mama’s voice was so soft I could barely hear her. “I didn’t realize you’d be gone so much of the time. I need help.”
“What kind of help? What else can I do?” Daddy’s voice got quieter, too, and the icky feeling that had started to make me sick to my stomach began to get better. “Kelli, honey. Tell me what you want from me.”
“I don’t know,” she said, but her words were all crackly. “I wish my parents were here. Maybe I should call and ask them to come.” She paused and her tone suddenly lifted. “Maybe they’ve changed their minds.”
Daddy sighed. “Sweetie, you haven’t seen them in over ten years. They didn’t even want to meet their grandchildren. I don’t understand why you keep letting them hurt you.”
“They’re my parents,” Mama whimpered. “I miss them.”
“I understand that. I miss my mother every day. And I’m really sorry to say this, but if yours missed you, do you think we’d be having this conversation?”
A second later, Mama rushed past me in the hall, not even noticing I was on the floor. She was crying. I didn’t like how Daddy sounded when he talked with Mama lately. He never used to be mean to her, and now he said things that made her cry. But then, lots of things made her cry. Burned toast, or a messy bathroom. I rubbed her back for her when she got like this, the same way she did for me when I was upset about something, but it didn’t help. She cried harder when I touched her. I made it worse.