Spectacle (A Young Adult Novel)

by Angie McCullagh

  “I don’t have anything for you,” Marilyn said brusquely.

  “That’s okay. You didn’t even know I’d be here.” Though in her heart of hearts, Emily had fantasized about her mother pulling her inside and showing her the gifts and trinkets she’d been collecting for her since she’d left so many years ago, she knew that wasn’t realistic. She already understood her mother was an unsentimental sort.

  Marilyn took the album, wrapped in spangly red and green paper, and acted like she didn’t know what to do with it. Finally, she tucked it under one arm. “Well, I suppose … do you want to come in?”

  “Sure!” Emily crowed. She wanted to weep.

  Watching her mother’s body move, a replica of what Emily would probably look like in the distant future, fascinated and saddened her. There she was, the woman who’d birthed Emily and raised her for the first four years, and yes, she was tall. But she wasn’t especially graceful or inspiring.

  Jazzy Christmas music played. Emily set her backpack down at the front door, took off her shoes on a woven straw mat, and followed Marilyn and Winslow inside.

  The walls were stucco, painted a color Emily remembered from her crayon box: burnt sienna. A fire crackled in a rounded fireplace. Mugs half full of coffee sat on TV trays. The palm tree winked at her, mockingly. How could Marilyn Wozniak be having such a homey holiday with her new husband while her former family plodded along up north?

  She pushed her anger down again. She didn’t come here to fight with her mother.

  Marilyn set her gift on the arm of a denim sofa. She asked, “Would you like some cocoa, or … ?”

  “Coffee’d be great.”

  “Really? Oh, yes. Winslow?”

  He bustled off to the kitchen, having to duck, Emily noticed, through the doorframe.

  “Have a seat,” Marilyn said. She may as well have added, Since you’ve barged in on my Christmas Eve. She was as warm and welcoming as a tree trunk.

  “Thanks.” Emily perched on the edge of a plaid chair.

  “You’re a smidge taller than me,” Marilyn said. “Taller than I expected.”

  “I’m taller than everyone expected.”

  “Ah well,” she said. “There are worse things.”

  That may be the case, but Marilyn, stealing quick glances at Emily, seemed to regard her as an alien life form.

  Winslow came back with the coffee. He never asked how Emily took it (with cream and sugar), so she just sipped it black.

  Emily had a million questions. None of which seemed appropriate to ask.

  “So, your father is doing well, I trust,” Marilyn asked.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. He works a lot.”

  Marilyn’s mouth twisted. “He always did. Too afraid of not having a hundred thousand dollars in the bank at all times.”

  Emily’s father and Marilyn certainly seemed like the ultimate mismatch: conservative, money-obsessed Bob Lucas and this eccentric woman.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Emily said.

  “I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”

  “How did you and my dad meet?” As she asked, she wondered why she hadn’t had this conversation with her father. Ever. What was wrong with them that they hadn’t even discussed such a simple but important fragment of the past?

  Her eyes darted toward Winslow, then settled on the snapping fire. “At a bar.”

  Somehow, this didn’t surprise Emily. She couldn’t imagine another scenario where Marilyn and her dad would’ve been in the same room.

  “You may as well know,” Marilyn said. “Your sister was the product of what was supposed to be a one-night stand.”

  Winslow retrieved a fire poker, his face a placid lake. He must already know this story.

  “Really?” Emily’s face burned. The idea of her father and mother drunk and groping was not at all appealing. “But you had me, too.”

  Peripherally, she saw Winslow jabbing at the fire, adding a log.

  “For a while I thought I could do the family thing. I tried. I did. But it wasn’t right for me.”

  Then Emily did what she swore to herself she wouldn’t. She said, her voice low with fury, “What about what was right for your daughters?”

  Marilyn yanked a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed the inner corners of her eyes. This heartened Emily the tiniest bit. Remorse. “I thought about that. Of course, I did. But I’m just not meant to be a mother.” She didn’t come right out and say I’m selfish, but that was what Emily took away from Marilyn’s confession. It was what she’d always known about her mother.

  Emily’s coffee had cooled, but for something to do, she drank it anyway. “He remarried,” she said, hoping to hurt Marilyn the same way Marilyn had hurt Emily and Kristen. “To a great person. Melissa. She’s just … amazing.” She realized she meant it. Melissa had overcome so much. She’d come through her miscarriage. She lived with Emily’s dad and still managed to love him. She gave more attention and time to Emily and Kristen than most actual mothers would. She was ten times the person Marilyn Wozniak was.

  “I’m sure he’s very happy,” Marilyn said.

  Emily would not tell her that happy and her dad were mutually exclusive. So she just muttered, “Yep.”

  There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, Winslow turned from the fire he was compulsively prodding and said, “So what brings you this way, Emily?”

  “Oh,” she said. “You know. I’ve always wanted to meet Marilyn, here. And I had a break from school, so I figured this was as good a time as any. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming. I was just … afraid you’d say no if I asked.”

  He nodded, his gray mustache scrunching up under his nose.

  “Well, do you have anywhere else to go? Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  Truthfully, no, she didn’t want to stay for dinner. She wanted to beam herself back to her bedroom where she could ruminate over this whole thing. But meeting Marilyn and getting to know her were the reasons she’d come to Bisbee at all. “Um, sure. That’s really nice of you. I’m staying at a hostel in town, but a meal would be great,” she added, so they’d know she wasn’t hoping for a bed later. She purposely didn’t look in Marilyn’s direction. She couldn’t handle seeing an expression that held even a hint of reluctance.

  “All righty. We’re having duck confit with pear salad and rustic rosemary dinner rolls. Think you can choke that down?”

  So, Winslow was a foodie. She’d never eaten duck before, but all she’d consumed that day was a snack pack of almonds, a few Oreos, and a bag of chips. “Yeah, no problem.”

  Oddly, her mind lurched to Trix. What was she doing on Christmas Eve with darkness falling? Were she and her mom at their annual movie, planning a pancake house brunch for the next morning? Or was Trix hanging out with Marjorie, trying to pretend Christmas didn’t exist?

  Emily shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Trix then. She had enough going on.

  Winslow shuffled to the kitchen and there was much clanging of pots and pans.

  Marilyn, instead of using the time to chat with Emily one-on-one, said, “I’ll go see if he needs help.”

  Emily called after her, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No! No, that’s all right. You just … relax.”

  Emily leaned her head back against the rough stucco wall and let out a long breath. This was horrible. Worse, she decided, than being turned away at the door.

  62. Joy to the World

  “MY TRUCK’S PARKED just over there in the lot,” Jamie said.

  The music had quieted. The fire only smoldered. Almost everyone had left. Trix, Jamie, Marjorie, Isaac and a few others sat on cold driftwood, smoking. Trix shivered and tried to figure out how to get back to her dad’s. It was late and the buses were operating on a holiday schedule. It’d be hours before one would come by.

  Suddenly, she badly wanted to see her cat, to bury her face in his fur and sleep.

  Jamie asked, “Need a ride somewhere?”
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  She stood, depressed that her perfect buzz was on the downslide, and tugged her jacket around her waist. “Let’s go.” She gave Marjorie the peace sign and strode across the asphalt, which was lit with yellow streetlights. She only stumbled once or twice.

  “Careful, sister,” Jamie said, catching and righting her.

  In the distance, sailboat lines clanked on masts and water sloshed against docks.

  Jamie’s truck was an old Ford with a cap on the back. She expected him to unlock the cab doors, but instead he popped open the tailgate to reveal a foam mattress and several paper grocery bags full of clothes, CDs, and other miscellaneous stuff.

  “This is my setup,” he said.

  “Wow,” she said, not sure if she was sarcastic or sincere.

  “You wanna test it out?”

  “I’m not stupid.” She knew what he would try if she crawled in there and lay down.

  “I never said you were.”

  On the other hand, the mattress looked soft and she was weary. “Okay,” she agreed and climbed in. She reclined and, in a moment, the truck creaked and the tailgate slammed shut. Jamie was next to her, already breathing heavily. Jeez. She really didn’t need this tonight of all nights. “So, I’m assuming you won’t be giving me a ride in the near future.”

  “You’ll get your ride. Just relax for now. You were doing a lot of dancing.”

  She sighed loudly. She went to sit up, and then realized she was still quite drunk. Dizzily, she put her head back onto the mattress.

  Jamie said, “I love how you move.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

  She had a feeling she’d heard this before, yet she ate it up. He was making her feel special and less lonely. He was giving her what she thought she wanted.

  “Tell me about art school,” he said, as he nibbled at her neck. It felt good. His lips were soft and warm, his body taut next to her. It was too dark to see him, but she remembered his black hair and burnished skin. She reached up and felt his ropey arms.

  As they kissed, his hands went up her shirt.

  63. Unwanted

  TO TAKE HER mind off the horribleness of being somewhere she was not wanted, Emily pulled out her phone and checked her messages. There were three from her father, which she skipped. Her heart leapt when she saw one from Ryan. As fast as her fingers would work, she connected to voice mail.

  “Hey, Bean. I mean, Emily. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. I, uh, I can’t believe … um, scratch that. I hope you’re having a good day, that’s all. I’m skiing with my folks. So, you know, Merry Christmas.”

  She sucked in her cheeks and frantically jiggled one knee over the worn plaid chair in Bisbee, Arizona. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

  After a few minutes, she inhaled and dialed Melissa’s cell.

  Melissa picked up on the second ring.

  “I’m here,” Emily said quietly.

  “Where’s here? The airport? Your hostel? Your mother’s?”

  “Yeah, Marilyn’s.”

  “Wow,” Melissa said. “Wow. So, is it okay?”

  “Mostly, I guess.” Emily couldn’t admit, right then, that traveling to see a woman who’d already proven to be an apathetic, selfish, old burr oak was not the most logical or rewarding thing to do on Christmas Eve.

  “Mostly,” Melissa echoed.

  “Well, I mean, things never turn out how you fantasize they will.” Emily picked at a loose piece of rubber on her sneaker. “How’s dad taking it?”

  “Oh, not well. Didn’t you get his messages?”

  “I haven’t listened to them.”

  “We knew how he’d react, right? So, he’s living up to our expectations. He’ll get over it.”

  “Melissa?” Emily said. “Thank you. I mean, like, thank you so much for going to bat for me and helping me do this. However things go with Marilyn, I needed to come here and you knew that, and I couldn’t have done it without you.” She stopped before her voice caught. Her emotions were all over the place.

  “I know, honey. I know.”

  Emily wondered if she loved Melissa. She thought she might. She knew she could. Melissa, young, pretty Melissa, had chosen to parent her and Kristen. And, yeah, maybe they were fulfilling some mommy fantasy for Melissa, but who cared? It was working.

  “Thank you,” Emily said again.

  “Okay, you need to stop thanking me now or I’m going to bawl.”

  “Me too.” Emily laughed and wiped at a hot tear that had spilled down her cheek.

  “So, are you staying there?”

  “Just for dinner. Duck. I’m sleeping at the hostel. They’re being polite, letting me eat with them. But they don’t want me here.”

  “They don’t know you well enough then. They’ll learn how delightful you are.”

  “Oh, stop. All right, I guess I should go. Merry merry,” Emily said. “Tell Dad and Kristen that, too.”

  “I will. Call me tonight from the hostel, okay? Or better yet, call your dad’s cell. I think it’ll help.”

  Ugh. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to her seething father. But she knew Melissa was right. “I guess,” she said.

  “Seriously, Em. Promise you’ll call your dad tonight. He needs to hear from you. It’ll make it easier on all of us.”

  “All right. I promise.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  And they signed off.

  Emily texted Thomas then. @ Marilyn’s. Den of hostility.

  Thomas texted back right away. Sorry darlin. Hugs. Xoxo.

  Emily was tense, wound up more tightly than a rubber band ball.

  To blow off steam, she quietly pulled her camera out of her backpack, dialed down the aperture to let in more light, and began to snap photos of the living room.

  She squatted in front of a window and took a photo of the cactus on the sill. She shot the Christmas palm and the dog bed with a chewed up plastic toy next to it. Emily could totally imagine the photos in sepia, forming a sort of bleak collage of her trip to Bisbee.

  From the kitchen wafted the smells of meat and spices. Emily’s stomach growled, yet she didn’t want to eat the food there. McDonald’s would be preferable to feeling indebted.

  When they sat down to dinner, she closed her eyes and held her hands in her lap while Winslow said a prayer. They had poured her, she noticed, a glass of red wine. She didn’t really like wine, but she took a courteous sip.

  “Just a little ’02 Cab Franc,” Winslow explained.

  The rich wine that Winslow described as “oaky” coursed down her throat, warming her stomach and making her face flush. It was good. Delicious, in fact. She took another sip.

  “There’s a big difference between this and the swill you kids probably guzzle,” he said.

  “Oh, well, I don’t normally drink wine. Or drink much at all. But this is really great.”

  Marilyn ate silently, her eyes cast down on her meal. Could she be remembering Christmases past? Christmases with Emily and Kristen?

  The dog paced around and around them.

  Emily ate, trying to ignore her mother’s iciness. (She still couldn’t get used to the fact that the woman who’d given birth to her was just across the table.)

  She finished her glass of wine and Winslow refilled it. Twice. By the end of dinner, Emily was seriously buzzed.

  Marilyn had asked her exactly two questions during the meal. 1. Did she enjoy school? And 2. What was her favorite subject? Inquiries adults made to be polite, when they had no interest in knowing the real You.

  Emily had answered accordingly. 1. It was okay. And 2. English.

  The conversation was horribly stilted. Worse, even, than Emily could have imagined.

  After a dessert of pumpkin tart, Emily rubbed her uncomfortably full stomach, deciding she’d wait a little while before calling her dad. She knew she was too tipsy right then to contact him. He’d pick up on it and that would set him off like a firecracker. />
  Winslow guided Marilyn and Emily to the living room where he brought out a bottle of Port and proceeded to fill miniature glasses with the liquid that looked as thick and dark as blood.

  When Emily first tasted it, she coughed. It was sickeningly sweet. But Winslow closed his eyes appreciatively while Marilyn sipped and stared into space. The jazzy Christmas music still played.

  “So, do you remember spending any holidays with us?” Emily asked, emboldened by the wine and port.

  Marilyn looked stricken. She glanced at Winslow, who was serenely sipping. Then, in almost a whisper, she hissed, “Of course I do.”

  “But you never miss them? Miss us?”

  “I told you,” Marilyn said. “I wasn’t cut out to be a mother.”

  “Too bad you didn’t figure that out before becoming one, huh? You could’ve saved us all a lot of grief.”

  Marilyn’s mouth opened as if she were about to speak, then closed. Her lips thinned and she gazed into the lit tree.

  “Let’s try to get along, ladies,” Winslow intercepted. Extravagantly, he added, “It’s Christmas!”

  Fury sizzled across Emily’s skin like a sunburn, but she bit her lips hard to keep from saying another mean thing.

  64. Giving It Up

  “IT’LL FEEL GOOD,” Jamie said. “I promise.”

  The back of the truck was cold, the mattress so thin Trix could feel frigid metal when she shifted her weight. A car rumbled by.

  “Duh,” Trix said. He’d been peeling her shirt up toward her shoulders when she uncharacteristically stopped him. “Of course it’ll feel good. That’s what you all say.”

  “Because it’s true.” His voice was flinty, almost angry.

  “Can’t we just lie here and talk?” She sounded simpering and this disgusted her. Still, to just connect with him, with someone, verbally was what she wanted right then.

  “Just snuggle?” he scoffed.

  “Yeah, kinda. It’s Christmas,” she said. And she realized, as it came out of her mouth, that she really did care about it, that she missed her pancake dinners and movies with her mom.