California Dreaming: Four Contemporary Romances

by Casey Dawes

  There was so much she didn’t know, Annie realized. They seldom went to her father’s parents’ house — her father and grandfather didn’t get along — and her grandparents died when she was ten. She didn’t know anything at all about aunts, great-aunts, or cousins. Her mother was an only child whose parents had died before she was born.

  “I can’t wait to learn more about my family,” she said as they walked inside.

  “It smells wonderful,” Beverly said. “Oh, how beautiful!” The hostess seated them at a window overlooking the kitchen garden. Huge oaks necklaced with strings of lights hung over the unseen river.

  “It’s even prettier at night,” Annie said.

  “What’s good to eat here?” Beverly asked.

  “Almost anything. You have to have an order of crispy sweet potato fries though — it’s the specialty.”

  “Let’s split them. And I’ll have a Corralitos Cobb Salad,” she said to the waiter. “It sounds delicious. I love to try new things.”

  “Make that two,” Annie said.

  Suddenly, Annie ran out of things to say. Who was this woman? Was she the demon her mother had called her or someone else?

  “What have you heard about me?” Beverly asked.

  “I didn’t even know you existed.”

  “Well, someone must have told you something because you’re looking at me like I have horns and a tail.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … it’s just … well … Mom didn’t have anything nice to say.”

  “I imagine,” Beverly said drily.

  “It’s none of my business. What do you do now? How did you become a dancer?”

  “I think it probably is your business. I’m sorry I stayed away so long. But they were all against me — my parents, your dad, even your mother. I was buried by their righteousness. I had to leave to survive.”

  “Mom said you were pregnant.”

  “I bet she said I had an abortion, too.”

  “Yes.”

  Beverly shook her head and leaned back so the waiter could serve their drinks. Idly, she ran her finger down the condensation on the glass. “I think I need to begin at the beginning.” She looked up at Annie. “Some of this may be hard to hear, but it’s important. Can you handle tough stuff?”

  I’ve been handling it all my life. She nodded.

  “Mark, your father, was about five when I was born. I was an ‘accident.’ My dad told me my mother slipped up and he was burdened with me. I didn’t even have the decency to be born a boy.”

  The words were clipped and unemotional, as if the memories were too painful to relive.

  “I could feel my father watching me as I grew. It was like he was waiting for something. Everyone was always tense, watching him, waiting. Then everything would explode. He’d yell and scream about the stupidest things — his shirts weren’t hung up correctly, or my mother had used the car without his permission. He’d hit her. Mark hid me in his room.” She looked at Annie. “Your father was a good man once.”

  “He didn’t stay that way.” Annie’s stomach churned.

  “Physical abuse is passed down, unfortunately. It takes a strong person to break the cycle and your father wasn’t brave enough. I learned more about abuse after I ran away. It was part of the healing process for me.”

  She leaned forward. “There’s a cycle. After the craziness subsides, the honeymoon begins. In our family, there were dinners, flowers, and pretty jewelry for my mother. We’d go to movies as a family. Eventually, the tension would begin again. We were living on top of a bomb and we all knew, even though we never talked about it, that the bomb would eventually go off. Sometimes I think my mom hung the shirts up wrong just to trigger it and get it over with.”

  “Why didn’t your mother leave? Why didn’t my mother leave?”

  “Abusers are very clever. They manipulate their victims into thinking that they’re powerless. My mother was convinced she’d starve without my father. She believed he’d take us away from her and she’d never see us again. Like most victims, my mother believed she deserved the treatment. If only she’d been a better wife, lover, cook, whatever, she wouldn’t be hit.”

  Annie heard the words echo in her own mind. If only I’d been a better wife, daughter, mother … “I think I understand that,” she said slowly.

  Beverly paused. “Yes, I think you do. And I’m sorry for that.”

  “Why should you be sorry?”

  Her aunt sighed and took a long sip of iced tea. She tented her long fingers, her rings gleaming in the sun streaming through the window. She looked outside, as if trying to gather strength from the natural beauty outside the window.

  “It’s a shame to bring such horror into this peaceful place,” Beverly said. She looked at Annie with her deep hazel eyes. “Remember I said that I felt like my dad was watching me, waiting for something?”

  Annie nodded.

  “The first time I got my period, my parents made a big deal of it. It was odd, because they’d never made a big deal of anything else in my life. When I was finished for the first time, they had a special supper — I think Mark stayed at a friend’s house to avoid it. My father said, ‘You’re a woman, now, Beverly.’”

  Annie felt like a stone dropped in her gut.

  Chapter 20

  “My mom gave me a gift after dinner,” Beverly continued. “A very pretty white nightgown. She had a strange expression on her face when she told me to go put it on and come out to show them.” Beverly’s voice tightened. “I could hear them arguing while I changed. It stopped when he slapped her. When I saw how the gown made me look, I really didn’t want to go out.”

  Beverly took a long drink. “It was sheer. I left my bra and panties on, but I still felt exposed. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, much less my father. I heard him bellowing for me to come out. My mother came to the door, her cheek red and tears in her eyes. She took me by the hand and led me out.”

  “I think you know what came next,” she said to Annie. “My mother went to her bedroom and my father took me back to mine. He … he raped me.” Beverly’s voice choked.

  Annie’s mouth went dry. “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  It was the same age that Annie had been when she first got her period.

  The two women sat in silence.

  “You’d think I should be over it by now. It’s been forty years,” Beverly finally said. “But I don’t think you ever get over a betrayal that deep.” She drained her glass. The waiter, who’d been keeping an eye on them from a far doorway, immediately came to refill it.

  “He came to my bedroom a few times a month after that. It continued through my high school years. He threatened to kill my mother if I told anyone. I believed him and never told.”

  “How did you survive?”

  A small smile came to Beverly’s face. “When I was little, my mom had taken me to dance lessons. I loved ballet and jazz. She only paid for lessons for a couple of years and then said they were a waste of time. I stopped going, but I never forgot the feeling. I was in my own little world of music and movement.

  “When I was in high school, a new dance teacher came to town — someone who’d retired from a dance troop in Los Angeles. I saved from my lunch money, stole from my mother’s purse and my dad’s wallet. I figured they owed me. I talked my way into a scholarship and got my lessons. Claire, the teacher’s name was Claire, said I had talent and took me on as an assistant. She gave me private lessons and encouraged me to go to New York when I graduated.”

  “Did you ever tell Claire about … ”

  Beverly shook her head. “Not until I had to. Saying it aloud would make it real. When it was only in my mind, I could pretend it wasn’t really happening.”

  The waiter came to serve their m
eals. With unspoken agreement, the women changed topics. Beverly told Annie about her friend in San Jose. Annie gave Beverly an abbreviated picture of her life — college, marriage to Fred, and David’s birth. As the meal wound down, Annie realized she still had unanswered questions. How had her aunt escaped? How did she become a dancer in New York?

  The waiter cleared their plates and they ordered coffee. “It’s too bad you can’t stay and meet David,” Annie said.

  “Perhaps next time. Unfortunately, this is a busy time of year for dance instructors — spring recitals eat up a lot of time. And, since this is my first full year in Athens, I need to make it work.”

  “What made you move to Georgia?”

  “To answer that, I need to finish telling you my story. That’s why I took this trip. After my husband died, I felt a strong urge to reconnect with you. I guess I felt guilty for abandoning you all those years ago. I want to tell you my story in hopes that you’ll forgive me.”

  Annie felt Beverly’s gaze bore into her. It would be difficult to hide secrets from her aunt. And she wasn’t ready to talk about herself. “I don’t think there’s anything to forgive you for. But I do want to hear your story. What happened next? How did you get away to New York?” And what about the baby?

  “I learned to lie there doing imaginary jetés in my head until it was over.” Beverly’s breath caught. “The only time it didn’t work was the day I saw Mark watching. My dad had left the door slightly ajar. He was on top of me, grunting, when I heard the door squeak. I looked up and there was Mark, outside the bedroom, staring at me. I mouthed the words, ‘Help me.’ He didn’t move. Then I saw him smile. He just stood there and watched, smiling.”

  Beverly used the napkin to blot a tear that had slipped from her eye. She grasped Annie’s hand. “That’s why I felt it was important to come here and why I feel bad about staying away all those years. I worried that Mark would turn out to be like my dad.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Did your father abuse you?”

  “No.”

  Beverly cocked her head and said, “I think we both know that’s not entirely true. I can see it in your eyes. I know this is tough. You’ve probably never admitted what happened to anyone, no matter how many therapists you’ve gone to. I felt ashamed for years. Like it was my fault somehow.”

  She took a deep breath. “But I learned that you need to say the words aloud to heal. You hardly know me, but maybe there’s someone you trust to tell the truth. Is there?”

  Annie steeled herself. “Nothing happened.”

  Beverly leaned back, her face sagging a little, the dancing sprite gone from her eyes. “I hope you change your mind someday.” She hesitated a moment. “In fact, if you need to tell my story so you can tell your own, you have my permission.”

  “Oh, okay.” Annie didn’t know if she’d tell the story to anyone. Maybe Elizabeth. Maybe not. “You still haven’t told me how you got to New York.”

  Beverly drank deeply from her coffee cup and stared out the window. Annie didn’t think she was seeing the riverside garden.

  “I came up pregnant. I couldn’t stand the thought of having my father’s bastard, but I couldn’t abort it either. I finally told Claire, my dance teacher. She helped me set up the appointment, pretended to be my parent, and signed the consent form, but when the time came, I couldn’t go through with it. No matter what someone else had done to me, I couldn’t take it out on the child.

  “The night after I graduated, I ran away. Claire gave me bus fare and the name of a contact in New York who helped me get a place, find a job, and start taking classes again. But the stress and activity must have been too much. One day after coming home from class, I started bleeding. I miscarried the baby.”

  Beverly’s eyes moistened. Idly, she wiped away the tear that trickled down her face. “The guy at the emergency room was a new doctor. He botched the D&C. I was never able to have another child.”

  It was Annie’s turn to reach across and hold her aunt’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  They sat quietly for a moment.

  “Enough,” Beverly said, waving at the waiter for a check. Annie looked around. The room had emptied while they were talking, but like many of the small restaurants in the county, the staff had let them be.

  They gathered their things and left the building.

  “There was a happy ending,” Beverly said as they reached her rental car. “I got to dance with Alvin Alley, one of the best troupes in the country. I met Jerry there. We fell in love and lived in New York until he died a few years ago from cancer. Athens was his hometown. We’d spent many summers there with his family — Jerry had three sisters and a dozen nieces and nephews. They adopted me as one of their own. It felt natural to move there when I retired.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I have to go, my flight leaves at four.” She took both of Annie’s hands in hers. “I felt it was important to see you and I’m glad I came. I hope my story can make a difference in your life. Tell someone what happened, Annie. It’s important. The truth has the power to change your whole life.”

  Beverly hugged her and stepped into her car. Annie waved as her aunt drove out of the parking lot.

  She’d never felt so alone.

  She numbly moved to the Prius. Put one foot in front of the other. That’s what she had to do. Keep everything in control, plan every action, don’t rely on anyone and it would all be okay — she wouldn’t be hurt. Annie felt her face soften and tears fill her eyes, but she couldn’t let go, not here in the parking lot.

  Maybe Beverly was right; it was time to face the truth. She’d lost her control over most of her life anyway — David, her job, even Fred wasn’t the same. Maybe it was time to face the fact that she never really had control in the first place. It was all an illusion.

  Annie sighed. She hadn’t really lied to Beverly. Her father hadn’t raped her. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried.

  • • •

  After dinner, Annie sat in the living room and stared at the phone in her hand. She hadn’t heard from Elizabeth in days, which was strange. But she wasn’t sure she was ready to tell her friend about Beverly’s revelations. Friendship won out.

  Elizabeth sounded distant when she answered.

  “What’s wrong? You sound awful.”

  “Do I? Must be allergies.”

  “C’mon Elizabeth, we’ve been friends too long.”

  In the end, they agreed to meet for dinner the following night while Fred was attending David’s soccer practice.

  Annie hung up the phone and sat quietly, mulling over Beverly’s story and thinking about her own. She’d never told the whole truth of her childhood or her father’s suicide to anyone, even her mother. Good therapists always knew she was hiding something, but she stopped going when they got too close.

  What difference could talking about it make? The memories made her feel ashamed and inadequate. If she told others the story, they’d know the truth — that her father had killed himself because of her. Maybe if she only told part of the story, they’d accept that and move on. She didn’t have to tell them the worst.

  • • •

  When Annie arrived at Elizabeth’s, her friend led her to the dining nook where brightly colored plates, linens, and fine crystal punctuated the dark wood. A crisp spring salad with baby greens and cherry tomatoes commanded the center of the table while an uncorked bottle of Thomas Fogarty Pinot noir waited for the meal to begin.

  “This is lovely!” Annie exclaimed. “You must have spent hours. What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m Italian,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “Italians don’t need an occasion for food.”

  She and Annie sat down and started eating, chatting about the events of their days like an old married couple avoiding a testy discussion. Finally, Elizabeth seemed to have had enough o
f the pretense. She poured herself a second glass of wine and announced, “I think Bobby and I are going to break up.”

  Annie was floored. “What? Why?”

  “I really don’t want to marry him and that’s all he wants.”

  “I’ve never understood why you don’t want to marry him.”

  “The truth is that I like living alone. I can make a mess if I want to and leave it for days. I can eat out of the freezer and leave the dishes in the sink. I don’t have to pick up someone else’s socks!”

  “Right,” Annie said and looked pointedly at the extravagant meal. “Somehow I find it hard to picture you living like a slob and eating out of the freezer.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Okay. I’d cook and clean anyway.” She thought for a moment. “I think it’s … I don’t know … Bobby’s a lot like Joe. He’s got big energy. I feel lost around him sometimes. I’m afraid if he was here all the time I’d forget who I was.

  “I feel like everyone’s always tried to mold me into the vision of what they thought I should be,” she continued. “First my parents, then Joe, and now Bobby. Did I tell you Bobby’s running for district supervisor?”

  Annie shook her head. She knew that Bobby had retired early from his lucrative financial planning job a few years earlier but hadn’t realized that he was interested in politics.

  “Well, he is. If we get married, he’ll want me by his side, campaigning as he climbs from office to office. I’ll have to give up my shop and wear Chanel suits and white pearls. And gloves … do campaign wives still wear gloves and pillbox hats?”

  Annie laughed.

  “I guess I am getting carried away,” Elizabeth said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But you do get the picture, don’t you? I like being a separate person. I’m still discovering who I am.”

  “And you don’t think you can do that being married?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “My mother catered to my dad’s needs. I see my sisters and my brother’s wives doing the same thing. When I was married to Joe, I took care of the kids and house. When I had free time, I spent it with him.”