The Promise Girls

by Marie Bostwick

  It was a compelling story, but what was more compelling was how she told it.

  Avery was a dancer. She used her hands and arms to heighten the drama, choosing just the right gesture, movements that seemed simultaneously choreographed and completely natural. She was a Kabuki. Her eyes widened with delight, narrowed in suspicion, hooded with desire. She was a musician. Her voice was her instrument, rising and falling like a wave, calm one moment and tormented the next, yet always under her control. She was a composer and conductor, knowing what she wanted the listener to feel, when she wanted them to feel it, and how to make certain they did.

  She’s an artist, Hal thought.

  Not like any artist he’d ever seen before, but there was something undeniable about her. She held him completely in her thrall, riveted. What she’d said before was true; Avery Promise didn’t put on a costume, she put on a persona. She inhabited it.

  Wouldn’t it be something if Minerva was right?

  Just a few hours before, Hal had been certain he knew what this movie was about. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The story ended. The sailor drowned beneath the depths. The mermaid returned to the surface, singing her song again, searching the horizon for sails.

  Avery lowered her eyes slowly from the camera lens, drawing the curtain between herself and the audience. She turned back to the mirror.

  “You should go now,” she said, her words a warning as well as a command.

  Chapter 22

  After the film crew left, Meg sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter of the tiny house, started drawing, and didn’t stop for hours. She sketched a bird, a car with a crumpled hood, an all-seeing eye, a bottle of pills, a man standing in profile wearing a hat that obscured his features, a baby swaddled in blankets, two ducks standing at the edge of a pond, an envelope, a garden gate that stood ajar, a clutch of daffodils in bloom, and filled the spaces between with abstract patterns of squiggles and squares, bubbles and pebbles, filling the paper from edge to edge.

  This was something she’d started doing while she was still in the hospital and did more frequently since she’d left; it calmed her. When there was no more white space on the paper, she crumpled it tight in her fist and threw it away. That was the most calming part of all.

  Meg tore the paper from the pad and was about to crush it into a fist-sized ball when someone knocked at the door. She looked through the front window of the tiny house and saw Trina standing on the stoop.

  “Hi. Dad thought you might want to come over for dinner?” The tenor of her tone lifted a little at the end of the sentence, turning a statement into a question. She glanced at the paper Meg held in her hand. “But . . . maybe you’re working?”

  Meg smiled. “Furthest thing from it.”

  “Oh. Well. Dad’s making tacos.”

  Meg’s plan for the evening had been scrambled eggs, a shower, and maybe a book—assuming she could manage to stay awake long enough to read. The interview with Hal was more tiring than she’d expected. Being the guest of honor at a taco dinner with the family she didn’t remember would doubtless be more so. But how could she say no?

  “I’ll put on my shoes.”

  Meg sat down on the window seat to put on her tennis shoes. Trina peered through the doorway before stepping tentatively over the threshold.

  “It’s just like Aunt Avery’s. Without the beach theme.”

  “At least she has a theme. I haven’t gotten around to decorating yet. But I was thinking about wallpaper.” Her comment was greeted by silence and Meg looked up from tying her shoes, surprised by the stormy expression on Trina’s face.

  “So you’re going to stay out here? You’re not moving back in with us?”

  “Oh, Trina . . . I’m sorry. I was just joking around.”

  “So you are moving back in. When?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Or when I’m going to do it. This must be really weird for you. It’s weird for me too.”

  “Well . . . Maybe it would be less weird if you just moved back home and tried to act normal.” Her tone was practical rather than accusing. “That’s what you always tell me to do when I’m in a bad mood or something—pretend I’m not. ‘Act as if and pretty soon you won’t be acting.’ ”

  “Does it work?”

  A smile tugged at Trina’s lips. “No, it’s actually pretty stupid advice.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “It’s because of Dad. You don’t want to have sex with him, right?”

  Meg’s jaw went slack. She wasn’t prepared for the intimate nature of Trina’s question, or the whiplash swing of the girl’s emotional responses. Meg paused, trying to figure out how or even if she ought to respond, finally deciding that she had to.

  “It’s not that I don’t like your father; it’s just that I don’t know him. And sleeping in the same bed . . .” She waited, hoping the girl wasn’t going to make her spell it out. Trina just stared.

  “It would be really weird. Even weirder than this,” Meg said, spreading her hand to encompass the tiny and separate house. “And, yes, it is about sex. At least partly. You wouldn’t want to go to bed with someone you didn’t know, would you?”

  “The way things are going, I’ll never have a chance to find out. I can’t even get a date to the spring formal.”

  Meg felt her lips bow into a smile; she couldn’t help it. The girl was a bundle of contradictions, joking one minute, serious the next, deeply concerned about her family and, in the next breath, thinking only about herself.

  “But I thought you were going. Joanie’s making you a dress.”

  “I’m going. With my cousin.” Trina slumped into the chair across from Meg.

  “Walt seems like a nice guy.”

  “My cousin,” Trina repeated slowly, as if Meg hadn’t quite understood her the first time. “Even if he wasn’t, Walt’s idea of a fun weekend is hanging out with a bunch of fifty-year-old men who are dressed up like the cast of Gone With the Wind and reenacting the Battle of Gettysburg. The only good thing about having Walt for a cousin is that it means I’m not the biggest nerd in this family.”

  “So, you’re going with him because . . .”

  “Because I just have to go!” She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. “They’re going to have this amazing indie band, Quartz Collective. They’re super famous. And the only reason they’re coming is because the lead guitarist is Stephanie Zinmeister’s cousin. Why can’t I have a cousin like that?” she moaned. “Somebody famous and cool? But, no. I’ve got Walt. The only thing worse than going to the formal with Walt is not going at all. I think. I might turn out to be wrong about that.”

  She pushed her face into the pillow, screamed her frustration, and then lowered it and started talking again.

  “If I go with Walt, everybody is going to know I couldn’t get a real date. But if I stay home, I’ll have to spend the whole rest of the year listening about how great it was, and listening to them make jokes about how I stayed home and spent the night with my telescope, staring at the Cassiopeia constellation instead of dancing to the best indie rock band in Seattle.”

  Trina threw out her arms and flopped back into the chair, limp as a rag doll. Meg felt pretty certain this was her cue to say something.

  “Personally, I think looking at constellations sounds like a fabulous way to spend an evening.”

  Trina glowered at her.

  “Okay, maybe not. And going by yourself isn’t an option?” More glowering. “Well, then, I say you go to the prom with Walt, wear a pretty dress, dance to the best band in Seattle, and make up your mind to have a really great time.”

  “That’s all you’ve got? Act as if?”

  “That’s it. Sorry.”

  “Okay.” Trina heaved another dramatic sigh and got to her feet. “Are you ready? Dad’s tacos are super spicy. He uses a ton of chipotle chili powder.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Meg grabbed the pencil s
ketch from where she’d left it on the window seat, stood up, and started to crumple the paper in her hand.

  “Hang on! Can I see it?”

  Meg handed over the paper. Trina examined it carefully.

  “Cool. What does it mean?”

  “It’s just doodling. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “So, why did you draw it? You’ve got two ducks here and a prescription bottle here. They don’t relate somehow? And who is the guy in the hat? Why is his face hidden?”

  “I don’t know. I started drawing and that was what came out. It’s just something I do to relax.”

  Trina didn’t look convinced.

  “I read this book on Jungian dream theory . . .”

  Meg’s eyebrows shot up. Sixteen years old and she was reading Jung?

  “For a class?”

  “No, just for fun.” Trina looked down at the floor for a moment. “Don’t tell anybody. Anyway, Jung says that dreams are how we try to communicate with the unconscious and that everything in them means something, no matter how weird or unrealistic it might seem once you wake up. He said that dreams are like clues that the unconscious mind gives to the conscious mind to help it find the solution to a problem.

  “It’s kind of like when you go on a scavenger hunt and you have to solve these really ridiculous riddles so you can figure out where it is you’re supposed to go. I said that part, not Jung,” she explained. “But see what I mean? Maybe, instead of dreaming, you draw.”

  “Maybe.”

  Meg smiled to herself, thinking what a brilliant and very strange girl Trina was. A child-woman who knew all about brown dwarfs, constellations, and Carl Jung, but had yet to master the basics of male-female relations.

  Meg liked Trina a lot. She could see that, when she put her mind to it, the girl could be a major league pain in the butt, but she liked her anyway, liked the way she wore her heart on her sleeve and wasn’t afraid to ask questions.

  “So you think I should save it?”

  “Definitely. Besides, it looks cool,” Trina said, and handed the paper back to Meg. “Is it nice, living here by yourself? Having a space that’s just yours?”

  “It is,” Meg admitted. “But it’s lonely too. Hey, should we go? I’m getting hungry.”

  Trina nodded and walked ahead of her. When they reached the doorway, she turned to face Meg.

  “Mom?”

  The sound of the word, applied to her, together with the look in Trina’s eyes, pulled her up short, hitting her with something akin to a jolt of static electricity—not painful, but surprising and momentarily disorienting.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I come out here sometimes? Just to see you, I mean?”

  Meg looked into the face of the woman-child, her child, who hadn’t yet learned to hide her feelings or her fears, and felt something crack inside her.

  “Sure. Anytime you want.”

  * * *

  Entering through the back door, they were greeted by the sound of rattling of pots and pans and Asher grumbling about a missing box grater and people not putting things away where they belonged.

  Trina called out, “We’re here!” and let the screen door slam. Asher emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel printed with a picture of a rooster.

  “Hey! Come on in! I was beginning to wonder what happened. Hungry? Shouldn’t be too much longer; the taco fillings are all ready.”

  “It smells good,” Meg said.

  Trina went into the kitchen and lifted the smaller of two skillets that were sitting on the stove. “Is this one mine? No meat, right?”

  “Soy chorizo and black beans.”

  Asher looked over his shoulder while addressing his daughter, giving Meg a good look at the ponytail that hung to the middle of his shoulder blades. A lot of men were wearing ponytails, she’d noticed, but most of them looked scrawny or scraggly or, worst of all, dirty. But long hair looked good on Asher. So did the beard, heavier on the chin, but carefully trimmed, fading to stubble along his jawline.

  Asher turned back toward her. Meg’s eyes shifted reflexively from his face, embarrassed to be caught studying him so closely, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Last week she decided to go vegan,” Asher informed her in a conspiratorial tone. “We’ll see how long it lasts. Two months ago, it was raw food.”

  “I heard that!” Trina called out, putting the lid back onto the skillet. “The only reason I gave up raw food is there was nothing I could eat at school.”

  “They have a salad bar,” Asher reminded her.

  Trina put her hand on her hip. “Iceberg lettuce, shredded carrots, radish roses, and croutons. That’s it. Can we eat now?”

  “Hang on. I want to give Mom her welcome home present first.”

  As surprised as she was to hear herself referred to as Mom once again, this time by Asher, she was twice as surprised to hear that he’d gotten her a gift. He swept his hand toward a corner of the dining/office alcove and a large object covered with a light tan sheet.

  Meg looked at Asher with a confused half smile. “What is it?”

  “Go see.”

  He followed her into the alcove and Trina came close behind, bounding across the room like an excited puppy, taking up a place next to her father and grabbing his hand.

  “Go ahead!” she urged.

  Meg reached up and tugged. The sheet slid down and pooled onto the floor, revealing a wooden easel with brass fittings, a thick tripod of adjustable legs, a slim adjustable mast to hold the canvas, and a thicker wooden ledge on which to rest brushes or paints. It smelled clean, like new wood shavings, and had a rich, dull sheen to it. Someone had rubbed it with oil to bring out the reddish tint of the wood.

  Meg reached out, slid her hand down the mast and across the brush ledge, feeling the smooth texture beneath her fingers.

  “I wanted to have it ready when you came home from the hospital, but it took a little longer than I thought. Work’s been kind of backed up.”

  “You made this?”

  Asher smiled a little and shrugged. He was clearly proud of his handiwork, but not the sort of person to say so. He didn’t have to; the quality of his work spoke for itself.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I used solid oak,” he said matter-of-factly. “Should last a lifetime. And I rubbed in a little bit of oil-based stain, just a single coat, to bring out the color. Now that you’ve started drawing again, I just thought you might be ready to give painting another try.”

  “We got you some painting stuff, too,” Trina reported. She ducked down and pulled a cardboard box out from beneath the easel.

  Meg knelt down and lifted the lid. Inside, she found watercolor, acrylic, and oil paints, a mixing palette, a dozen paintbrushes of varying sizes and styles, and all kinds of other tools and supplies, everything an artist could possibly need.

  The painting supplies were wonderful, but the easel . . . She lifted her eyes to look at it again. Asher must have spent hours on it, and at a time when she knew he was trying to catch up on the work he’d missed during her illness. How had he found the time?

  She remembered the whirring sound of power tools coming from his garage workshop long after dark and the light that shone through the back window and into her own bedroom window, making it hard for her to fall asleep or stay asleep. She remembered waking up to the sound of hammering at one in the morning and feeling annoyed at his lack of consideration for others. And all the time, after a full day of physical labor, he’d been working into the wee hours, making her this gift.

  Asher was many things, she was sure. Inconsiderate wasn’t one of them. What else could be said of her husband? Looking at him and seeing the way he looked at her, she realized that she wanted to find out.

  “Thank you. I . . . I don’t know what else to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he said, and held out his hand. She grabbed hold and he helped her up from the floor.

  “Can we eat now?” Tr
ina asked.

  “Sure,” Asher said, smiling again, his voice hardy. “Treenie-Bean, you start heating up the tortillas. I’ll finish getting the toppings ready.”

  “What can I do?” Meg asked him.

  “Nothing. Just sit down and relax.”

  “I want to help. At least let me set the table.”

  The three of them headed off to the kitchen. The space was tight, but the layout was efficient and they moved past and around one another without colliding, falling easily into the work without need of conversation or instruction.

  Asher cut two avocados in half, scooped the soft green flesh into a bowl, and mashed it with the back of a fork. Trina took a packet of flour tortillas from the refrigerator and started heating them in a skillet. Meg opened a drawer to the right of the dishwasher, took out forks, knives, salad tongs, and serving spoons, then opened a lower drawer for napkins, carried them to the table, and set three places. Returning to the kitchen, she opened a cupboard to the left of the refrigerator and took out water glasses from the lower shelf and plates from the upper.

  Asher was squatted down near the floor, rifling through the lower cupboards.

  “Where is the grater? I can’t find it anywhere.”

  Trina slid a platter of tortillas into the oven to stay warm. “Don’t look at me.”

  “I can’t shred the cheese without it. Why can’t people just put things—”

  Meg opened the second drawer under the stovetop, reached far into the back, pulled out a stainless-steel box grater, and set it on the counter. Asher hopped to his feet like he had springs in his calves and gave her a strange look.

  “How did you know where to find that?” He looked toward the alcove and the neatly set table. “And the dishes? How did you know where those were?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . knew.”

  Meg knew only a few things about Asher: He was considerate, valued deeds above words, family above all, and smiled easily. Now he smiled wider than ever before. Seeing his happiness, she smiled, too, feeling that she had in some small way returned the gift of his kindness.