Wild Swans

by Jessica Spotswood

  Granddad sighs. “And how is that?”

  “Like a loser!” Erica bursts out. “What did you tell her about me?”

  “Hardly anything,” he says. “She’s old enough and smart enough to form her own opinions. If she’s angry with you, perhaps it’s because you deprived her of the chance to know her mother and sisters. Don’t you think she has a right to be hurt by that?”

  “I was never good enough for you,” Erica says.

  “That’s not true.” Their words are quick, familiar, like this part of the fight is a well-trod path. I wonder how many times they’ve had this argument. “You could have been amazing. You had a gift, Erica, and you threw it away.”

  “I never wanted it in the first place! And that killed you, didn’t it? I was happy singing with the band and being a waitress. I didn’t want to go to college. Always liked boys better than school anyhow. You knew that, but you still acted like it was some kind of personal insult when I got knocked up again and dropped out. I was sick, Daddy. I was sick and I was sad!”

  “You were selfish. You walked out on your own child.” Granddad’s voice is like a whip. “I made some mistakes too. I’ll admit that. But Ivy—she’s a good girl, Erica. Smart. Healthy. Strong. I can’t let you come in here and ruin that.”

  “Healthy? Please. She’s grown up here, hasn’t she? With all this?” I can’t see through the wall, but I bet Erica is pointing at Grandmother’s twisted paintings or at Dorothea’s portrait. “With you? I bet she’s dying to get out of here.”

  It takes a second for Erica to realize the cruel double meaning of her words. “I-I didn’t mean—”

  “Ivy’s happy here,” Granddad insists.

  “Sure.” Erica lets out a sour little laugh. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  My heart pounds. She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t care whether I’m happy. She’s just trying to hurt Granddad, and I will not let her use me as a weapon against him.

  I stalk into the library.

  “Don’t talk about me like you know who I am or what I want.” I glare at my mother. “You don’t know one single thing about me.”

  Her gaze meets mine. “I know you’re a Milbourn girl,” she says. “And I remember everything that goes along with that. The lessons. The expectations. The gossip.” She raises her eyebrows. “What’s your talent, Ivy? What do you do?”

  My name in her mouth is like spoiled milk. The question lingers in the air, curdling.

  “Nothing. I don’t have one,” I say flatly.

  For once, Granddad doesn’t contradict me.

  “Really?” Erica’s face softens. “Well, good for you.”

  “Ivy.” Granddad reaches out a hand, but I shy away from him. “You don’t have to go along with this. It’s not fair for her to expect you to lie to your sisters.”

  But his expectations are fair? Asking me to spend the whole summer with the woman who abandoned me?

  The traitorous thought winds its way around my heart and squeezes.

  Granddad has done everything for me. Raised me. Loved me. If I asked him to choose, he would choose me. He would send them away. I know that.

  But this is his chance to make things right with his daughter, no matter how awful she is, and to get to know Isobel and Gracie. I won’t take that away from him. I won’t be like Erica, putting herself first and not caring about the casualties she leaves in her wake.

  I turn back to my mother. “No, it’s not fair. But if you want to tell the girls I’m their aunt, you go right ahead. I’m not going to be the one to tell them the truth. It’s a stupid plan though.” She flinches at the word stupid, and I feel a small, petty pleasure at hurting her. We are far from even. “People around here have long memories and big mouths. My sisters will find out. And when they do, they’ll hate you. Just like I do.”

  “Ivy—” Granddad catches at my elbow.

  I shake him off. “I’m fine. I’m going for a swim. Call me when supper’s ready.”

  I brush past my mother and head out the door, across the backyard, and down the sandy path to the beach. Earlier, I threw on a blue sundress over my bathing suit. Now I shuck it off and dive in. The cold water is a welcome shock.

  All my life I’ve worried I would end up like my mother, but I was wrong.

  Erica and I have nothing—nothing—in common.

  • • •

  I’m lying on the dock, staring up at the clouds, when Alex comes.

  He stands over me, casting a shadow. “Hey. Ma says supper’s almost ready.”

  “You see that cloud?” I point. “Doesn’t it look like a bunny rabbit?”

  Alex cranes his neck. “Nope.”

  I huff and sit up. “You have no imagination.”

  “You have enough for both of us.” He plops down next to me. “How’s it going?”

  “Erica told my sisters I’m their aunt.”

  “Seriously?” When I nod, he covers my hand with his. His fingers are warm against mine, still cold and pruney from being in the water so long. “What’s the Professor going to do?”

  I take my hand back and squeeze the water from my ponytail. “He said she has to tell them the truth or they can’t stay. She said if we don’t go along with it, she’ll leave. I told her to go ahead and lie. I don’t care. They’re going to find out… I just want a chance to get to know my sisters.”

  Alex is sitting nearer than he needs to. Our knees aren’t quite touching, but close. “What are they like?”

  I shrug. “Gracie’s real cute. Smart too. Isobel’s kind of a brat, but I’m not sure how much of it’s just for show.”

  “Well, you won’t get to know them if you’re hiding out here. Let’s go see what Ma made for supper.” He stands and pulls me to my feet. I grab my sundress and yank it back over my head.

  We walk up to the house and into the kitchen, where Luisa is stirring marinara sauce. Spaghetti bubbles on the stove, and the scent of meatballs—hamburger and oregano and onion—wafts out from the oven. My stomach rumbles.

  Alex tries to grab a slice of garlic bread, and Luisa slaps his hand. “Stop that,” she says, then turns to me. “How you holding up, baby?”

  “Okay.” I accept her hug, leaning down because I’m a good eight inches taller. Luisa’s brown hair is graying at the temples, there are laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, and she’s always saying she’d like to lose twenty pounds. But to me, she’s beautiful. She smells like garlic and butter and home.

  “Hang in there, Ivy. Will you two set the dining room table? For five,” she clarifies, and my shoulders slump. I thought for sure she and Alex would be joining us. She notes my reaction. “Sorry, honey. Just family tonight.”

  I take out five dinner plates, and she hands me a pile of napkins. She gives Alex a stack of salad plates with silverware piled on top. “I’m not even eating here!” he protests, but he follows me down the hall and into the dining room.

  We hardly ever eat in here. Only when there’s more company than will fit at the kitchen table. That’s what Erica and Isobel and Gracie feel like to me: company, not family.

  Light streams in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, which open onto the wraparound porch. The effect should be airy and lovely, but it’s ruined by two of Grandmother’s sinister paintings. In one, gulls are caught in an updraft above savage, dark waves. In the other, the Bay has flooded its banks and filled our backyard after some big storm.

  For the billionth time, I wonder why Granddad doesn’t sell these. When he looks at them, does he still see Grandmother’s talent instead of her sickness? How?

  “Sorry I can’t stay for supper,” Alex says.

  “It’s stupid. You are too family. More than they are.”

  He hip checks me as we move around the table. “Not really.”

  “Technically, no. But you know me.” I fold the napkins into swans. It’s a catering trick Abby taught me. I bet Gracie will get a kick out of it. “They’re strangers. And they don’t like me.”


  “They don’t know you yet. Once they get to know you, they’ll love you.” Alex arranges the last couple of forks. “You kinda have that effect on people.”

  On people in general? Or on him? Does Alex mean he loves me?

  The thought sends a wave of panic rolling through me.

  I mean, of course he loves me. I love him too. He’s my best friend. That’s all he means, right? So much is changing this summer; I need Alex and me to stay the same as we’ve always been.

  Luisa bustles in, carrying a big glass pitcher of sweet tea. Granddad follows with the basket of garlic bread. Just as the grandfather clock in the corner begins to chime six, Gracie runs down the stairs. Erica and Isobel follow her, and we all stand clustered in the front hall, surrounded by pictures of Dorothea.

  “This is Luisa Garcia, our housekeeper, and her son, Alex,” Granddad says. “Luisa, Alex, this is my daughter Erica, and my granddaughters, Gracie and Isobel.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Luisa smiles. “I’m going for groceries tomorrow. If there’s anything special you’d like, let me know and I’ll pick it up for you. If you have any food allergies—”

  “We’re not fancy,” Erica interrupts, her lipstick a slash of red in her unsmiling face. “No special requests. We’re used to cooking and cleaning up after ourselves like normal people do.”

  “It’s really no trouble.” Luisa smiles, but I can tell she’s flustered as she runs a hand over the apple-print apron I gave her a few years ago for Mother’s Day.

  I look at Alex, embarrassed that my mom is so awful, and he moves closer, his shoulder knocking into mine. His navy-blue Cecil Warriors Baseball T-shirt is soft against my bare arm.

  “Luisa started taking care of us when Ivy was little.” When you left, Granddad might as well say. “We’d be lost without her. I’m useless in the kitchen. Ivy’s getting to be a great cook though.”

  The timer for the meatballs goes off, and Luisa steps away. I rush to fill the awkward silence. “I like to bake, mostly. I was thinking maybe I could make a strawberry pie for dessert tomorrow night. If you want.” I look at Gracie. “You like strawberries, right?”

  “I love strawberries!” Gracie tugs on her big sister’s arm. “Izzy likes to bake too. She makes the best chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “Iz could stand to lay off the chocolate-chip cookies,” Erica mutters, and Isobel flushes and yanks on the hem of her T-shirt.

  I bite my lip. I cannot believe Erica just said that.

  Isobel’s curvy, not all angles like Erica and Gracie. But she’s not fat. Even if she were fat, who cares? It still wouldn’t be okay to police what she eats and shame her in front of everyone.

  “Well, you’re welcome to use the kitchen any time, Isobel. Luisa keeps it pretty well stocked, but if there’s anything else you need, you just let us know,” Granddad says.

  “I don’t need anything. I’m on a diet,” Isobel croaks. Her brown eyes are fixed on the floor like she wishes she could melt right through it.

  Fury rises in me. She’s beautiful the way she is. There’s more to being pretty—or healthy—than being skinny.

  But I don’t know her, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make her feel worse.

  Gracie is staring at Alex. “You’re Aunt Ivy’s friend who’s a boy but not her boyfriend, right?”

  Alex winces at Aunt Ivy, but he recovers fast. “Yep, that’s me.”

  “She showed me a picture of you. Daddy says boys don’t wear pink, but I like your tie. It matched Ivy’s dress!”

  Alex chuckles. “Thanks. That was the idea.”

  “Alex is the first baseman for the Warriors,” Granddad brags. “Got a couple colleges already scouting him. And he made honor roll last semester too.”

  Alex shoves his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Ivy’s the smart one. Third in our class.”

  “Of course she is,” Erica says.

  I freeze. What does she mean by that?

  Granddad’s jaw twitches. “Ivy works hard.”

  I do work hard. I study my ass off. And he means it as a compliment, but I only hear how it’s not enough. Third place, not salutatorian, not valedictorian.

  Luisa leans out of the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.”

  “We’re going out for pizza,” Erica says. “Come on, girls.”

  Granddad’s face falls. “Erica, stay. Please. Luisa went to the trouble of making a nice supper to welcome you all home.”

  Erica pivots on one stiletto heel. “This isn’t my home. I hate this house.” She slams a hand against the wall, and the photo of Dorothea getting her Pulitzer crashes to the floor. The glass shatters. Everyone flinches.

  “Mama, I want to stay here and eat with Granddad and Aunt Ivy,” Gracie says.

  “Smart girl,” Alex says. “Ma’s spaghetti and meatballs are the best.”

  “Alex.” Luisa beckons him from the kitchen. “Stay out of it. Let’s go.”

  Alex touches my arm. “You’re still coming to the bonfire, right? Pick you up at nine?”

  “Bonfire?” Erica raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. “You’re kidding. You let her go to parties at the cove?”

  Granddad nods, jaw tight. “I trust Ivy. She’s never given me any reason not to.”

  “Unlike me, you mean.” She purses her glossy red lips and grabs a set of keys from her bag. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

  “But Mama! Spaghetti and meatballs is my favorite,” Gracie whines.

  “You can get some at Giovanni’s. Now, Grace. I can’t breathe in here.” Erica holds the door open and the girls scramble out and she slams the door behind her. Leaving Alex and Luisa and Granddad and me staring at each other in horrified silence.

  Jesus. What a mess.

  • • •

  The little cove down from the Crab Claw is packed. The flickering light from the bonfire casts shadows over couples cuddled up on sun-faded beach blankets and big pieces of driftwood. Somebody’s speakers blare a country song about getting drunk and kissing a girl in the back of a pickup truck. A few just-graduated seniors are dancing barefoot in the pebbly sand, hands in the air. Guys from the baseball team are drinking Natty Boh and roasting hot dogs. As we get closer, I lose the scent of summer nights on the Shore—brackish water and wet grass—and inhale smoke and beer and cheap cologne.

  I am already having doubts about this.

  Abby grabs me the minute we arrive. “You came! And you look so cute!” she squeals, pointing at my yellow sundress and green flip-flops with lemons and limes printed on them. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I took the time to put on lip gloss and mascara. I do look cute. But she takes another look and hands me a bottle of lemonade. “Here. I think you need this more than I do.”

  “Lemonade?” I ask.

  “Spiked with vodka. You can hardly taste it,” she promises, whirling away and snagging a can of beer from the communal cooler. “Want to go for a walk? You look like you need to talk.”

  We leave Alex with his baseball bros and head toward the mouth of the cove. A rocky point separates the beach from the marina and the Crab Claw. We clamber over the rocks, me clutching on to Abby because my flip-flops are all slippery. On the other side, the night air smells like fish and salt and fried food. There’s still a trace of music from the party, but now I hear the slap of waves against the dock and the creaking of sailboats moored in the marina.

  I can’t count how many times Abby and Claire and I have snuck over here during parties to talk. Mostly they do the talking—about their family problems and their boy problems—and I listen.

  Something tells me this summer’s going to be different, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’ve always been comfortable listening. Advising. Talking about my own feelings? Spilling my fears? Not so much. Not even with Abby and Claire.

  We walk down to the end of the first dock, where a couple big sailboats are moored. I kick off my shoes and sit, dangling my feet out over th
e dark water. Abby leans against a wooden piling, facing me, cross-legged. She’s wearing red shorts—part of her waitressing uniform—but she changed out of her official Crab Claw polo into a white tank top.

  I twist off the cap and take a sip of lemonade.

  She’s right. I really can’t taste the vodka. I gulp down more.

  “That bad?” Abby asks.

  “Want to steal one of these boats and run away from home?”

  She makes a face. “Don’t tempt me.” Things have been hard at her house too, ever since last fall when her little brother, Eli, started wanting to wear dresses to kindergarten. It wasn’t entirely out of nowhere; he’d always had his hair long and worn his big sisters’ clothes and makeup around the house. Abby’s mom has been really supportive of what she calls his gender expression. Abby’s dad, not so much. Abby and her other sisters feel caught in the middle, wanting to support Eli but struggling to understand and worrying about how kids at school will treat him.

  “How’s Eli?” I ask.

  “He started asking us to call him Ella. Dad is not having it. Every time one of us says ‘she’ instead of ‘he,’ he freaks the hell out. He and Mom had a huge fight about it last night.” Abby pulls her blond hair into a long ponytail. “How’s your mom?”

  “Kind of a bitch. Granddad is doing her a kindness by letting her come home, and she’s picking fights with everybody. Him. Me. Even Luisa, who’s never done anything to her.”

  Neither have I, I remind myself. Unless you count being born.

  Abby frowns. “What did she say to you?”

  “She told me I was tall.” I take another drink. “Her first words to me in fifteen years were, ‘Jesus, you’re tall.’”

  “Seriously?” Abby fiddles with the silver infinity necklace Ty gave her, her blue eyes sympathetic. “And then what?”

  “She told my sisters I’m their aunt. Her little sister.”

  “She what?” Abby gasps.

  “Yep. Gracie calls me ‘Aunt Ivy.’” I relate the whole awful conversation in the library, punctuating my story with sips of lemonade. “Hearing her say straight up that she doesn’t care about my feelings, that I was a mistake—”