Wild Swans

by Jessica Spotswood

  Granddad takes a deep breath, holding on to his temper by the thinnest leash. “I have never claimed to be a perfect husband or a perfect father.” Erica howls with laughter at this, but he plows on. “Or a brilliant scholar, for that matter. Studying Dorothea led me to your mother, and for that I will always be grateful. It gave me three beautiful grandchildren, after all.”

  “And one fucked-up daughter you’d rather forget,” Erica snaps. “It’s not hard to read between those lines. You’ll use my girls as your second chance. Your third and fourth chances if I let you. I’ve got a mind to leave before you sink your claws into them any more than you already have. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about the classes you signed my baby up for? Drawing? Gymnastics? Wouldn’t want her to get bored, would we? And you’re so sorry Iz is missing out on her theater camp. Yeah, right.” She turns to Isobel. “Don’t believe a word out of his mouth, Iz. It all comes with strings attached. Every goddamn word.”

  “I don’t trust any of you. I want to go home.” Iz fishes her phone out of her pocket. “I’m calling Dad.”

  Erica leans over her and plucks the phone from Isobel’s hands. “Absolutely not.”

  Iz gawks at her. “Give it back!”

  “Not until you’ve calmed down.” Erica shoves the phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “Rick driving over here tonight is the last thing I need.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Iz glares. “I’ll tell him everything when we see him on Saturday. Then he’ll take us home. Gracie and me both.”

  “Actually,” Erica says, “I rescheduled your visit.”

  Isobel’s face falls. “What? Why? When did you even talk to him?”

  “I called while you were putting the movie on for Grace. Told him we have fun plans with your granddad and it would be disruptive for him to come visit. He was glad to hear you were settling in so well.” Erica puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  Iz jerks away. “He’ll know something’s wrong if you don’t let us call him. We call him every night before Gracie goes to bed.”

  “Or he’ll think you’re busy, having fun with your new friends.”

  “What new friends?” Iz shouts. “All I do is take care of Gracie while you go off and drink!”

  I shrink back. Expect Erica to call her a bitch or slap her or something equally terrible.

  Instead Erica shrugs. “Whose fault is that? I didn’t ask you to stay in every night. I’m sure Ivy would love to take you to the bonfire this weekend. Wouldn’t you, Ivy? Is it Friday or Saturday?”

  “I’m not going anywhere with her,” Iz snaps.

  “Isobel isn’t old enough to go to a bonfire party,” Granddad says. As if that is the important thing here, asserting family rules.

  “Lucky for you, Iz, your grandfather doesn’t get to decide that.” Erica puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder again. Laying claim. This time Iz sits stiffly beneath her touch. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to go with Ivy, honey. I doubt she’s any fun at a party. Let’s see if we can get the housekeeper’s kid to take you.”

  “His name is Alex, and you leave him out of this,” I snap.

  “You’re awful possessive for a girl who says she’s not dating him.” Erica’s voice is smug as hell. “What do you care if he goes out with your sister?”

  “Mama, stop it. I have a boyfriend. I can’t go to a party with some other boy!” Iz blushes.

  “You think Kyle’s going to wait around for you all summer?” Erica laughs. “He’s a teenage boy, honey. Save yourself the heartbreak and move on.”

  “That is terrible advice,” I say.

  “Like you have so much experience with boys?” Erica asks, and I am so glad—so glad—she doesn’t know about Connor.

  “I hate you. I hate all three of you!” Iz jumps up, pushing her chair back so hard it crashes to the floor, and runs from the room.

  I lean over to pick up the chair. “Wow, you’re great at this whole mothering thing. I really feel like I missed out.”

  “Shut up,” Erica growls.

  Granddad is leaning back and steepling his fingers together. “I’m of a mind to call Rick myself,” he says. “It isn’t right, Erica, making the girls keep this secret for you. Keeping them away from him. He’s Grace’s father, and obviously Isobel considers him a father figure too.”

  “You pick up that phone and I’ll never forgive you,” Erica snarls. “Whatever you hope is happening here—whatever chance you think you’ve got to make this right—it’ll be gone. Forever.”

  “Then you’ve got to do better,” Granddad says. “The divorce, moving out here—it’s hard on them and you’re making it harder.”

  “So it’s all my fault as usual.” Erica opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of wine.

  “Well, who else’s fault would it be?” Granddad asks, throwing up his hands. “No, let me guess. It’s my fault. Ivy’s. The whole damn town’s. Nothing is ever your fault, is it? Sooner or later, you’ve got to accept responsibility for your choices, Erica. You’re the one who keeps saying you’re a grown woman. And you’re right. You’re not a confused, depressed teenager anymore. You’ve got two children to care for, and you need to start doing a better job of it.”

  Two children. Even Granddad doesn’t count me as hers.

  I’m sitting right between them, but I feel invisible. They could argue about me and Gracie and Iz all day long, but my feelings—what I have to say—wouldn’t really matter.

  Granddad watches as Erica opens the wine and pours a very full glass. “I know you’ve always been resistant to therapy, but maybe it’s time to think about professional help. Rehab. If you don’t want the girls to go to Rick, they could stay here with me.”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Erica takes a very long sip of wine, then nods at me. “I already gave you one kid. Wasn’t she enough?”

  I wasn’t. I never am. No matter what I do or how hard I try.

  If Granddad had custody of Gracie and Iz, even temporarily, I bet he’d be able mold them into perfect Milbourn girls. An actress. An artist—or maybe a gymnast. But at what cost?

  The thing is, part of me wants him to turn the weight of his expectations on them and leave me be. When did my thinking get so twisted? When did I become a person who’s willing to sacrifice my little sisters to get some peace?

  Granddad and Erica are still arguing. I head for the sanctuary of my room, and neither of them says a word. I wonder how long it will take for them to notice my absence.

  The living room is dark, the movie is off, and Gracie is gone. Upstairs, I pause in the hall outside my sisters’ bedroom. Raise my fist and knock quietly on their door. “It’s Ivy,” I say.

  I know they’re in there—can hear someone’s footsteps—but no one answers or comes to open the door.

  Why didn’t I tell them the truth that first day? Regret fills my throat. I’m a terrible sister.

  I pace the stuffy attic like a restless cat, too frustrated to even cry. I pick up the prom picture of Alex and me on my nightstand. If we were talking, I could run down to the carriage house. Luisa would make me dinner and Alex would make me laugh and I’d feel better. But no. He’s still sulking because I want to kiss another boy. As though all I ever was to him was a potential girlfriend.

  I shove the picture in the drawer. I don’t want to see his stupid face right now.

  I sit at my desk and pull out last year’s Christmas journal. Yesterday, after Granddad interrupted our lunch, I scribbled a poem about Connor. About wanting him. My own words make me blush. Maybe there’s a little bit of Dorothea in me after all.

  I open my laptop, drumming my fingers impatiently while a bookmarked page loads. I compose a new email, following the submission guidelines. The deadline is midnight. Publication is online only, not print—but it’s a start. I hit Send.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  The secret is out, but the house still feels like it’s holding its breath.

  I fin
d myself sneaking around on tiptoe, wary of every creak and groan of the old floorboards. The sense of doom that descended the night of the storm, the night I found out Erica was coming back, still hasn’t lifted.

  I skip my swim the next morning and stay in my room, refreshing my email constantly to see if I’ve heard back from the literary magazine yet (even though I know it will probably be a while). I’m not sure whether I’m more afraid of being accepted or rejected. In the afternoon, I force myself to go out to the dock. I swim for a bit and then spread my towel out on the sun-bleached wooden boards. Remind myself that I am a salt-and-sunshine girl, and this hurricane gloom won’t last. Erica brought it with her, and when she leaves—and she will, I know it—she’ll take it with her.

  Part of me hopes Alex will stroll up with that cocky grin of his and challenge me to a race across the channel. I stare at the windows of the carriage house, the blinds pulled shut to block out the heat, willing him to appear. His beat-up black pickup is in the driveway, so I know he’s probably home, but there’s no sign of him.

  Maybe he’s hanging out with the guys from the baseball team. I saw Ty pick him up late last night. I wonder what Alex told them about us. About me. Would he say I led him on? That I was a tease, letting him hold my hand, then telling him I wanted to be with somebody else? Some college boy? I don’t want to think that he’d bad-mouth me to save face. Still, he bragged about hooking up with Ginny. And he was so angry when he saw me with Connor.

  I’m not sure what I’m more worried about: the whole town thinking I’m a slut like my mother or Alex thinking that. For somebody who’s worked so hard to be nothing like your mom, you’re sure acting a lot like her. Much as I tell myself that he was just mad and lashing out, those words have stuck with me.

  When I hear Erica’s car rumble down the driveway, I go back inside. Grab Grace from the couch in the sunroom where she’s been reading one of my old Fancy Nancy books. We make chocolate-chip cookies and sandwich vanilla ice cream between them, and she says she’s sad not to see her daddy this weekend but she’s glad we’re sisters.

  She’s much easier to win over than Isobel, who’s wallowing in their room, not tempted by the scents of chocolate and sugar and butter wafting up the stairs, or the fact that Luisa went out and got fat-free frozen yogurt just for her.

  “She said she doesn’t want to pretend we’re a happy family,” Gracie reports back, her little shoulders drooping beneath her pink T-shirt. “But I’m not pretending. I like it here.”

  “I’m glad, ’cause I like having you here,” I say, tweaking one of her braids. Much as I hate every moment Erica is here, I am grateful for the chance to get to know my little sister. She’s sweet and easygoing and cheerful. But sometimes I wonder how much of that sweetness is her feeling like she has to make up for all the anger around her.

  “I wish I could do something to cheer Izzy up,” Grace says. “Maybe I’ll draw her a picture.”

  “I bet she’d like that.” I wrap the extra ice cream cookie-wiches in parchment paper and put them in the freezer. It’s strange to have extras instead of running down to the carriage house and giving them to Alex. If he were around, he’d eat at least two. “But it’s not your job to make sure everybody is okay. You’re a little girl. It’s the grown-ups’ job to make sure you’re okay.”

  The irony is not lost on me. How many times have I been the one frantically trying to please? I’m just a little more subtle about it at seventeen than she is at six.

  Gracie smiles. “That’s what Izzy says too. Sometimes people are in bad moods and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  After ice cream sandwiches, Gracie goes back to her book and I do the dishes, wondering what her life was like in DC. Were there slammed doors and fights and ominous silences there too? Was Erica the one to initiate the separation, or was her husband? Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone putting up with her for seven years, but maybe she hasn’t always been like this. Isn’t that what she keeps saying? That it’s our fault, not hers? I don’t want to believe it, but—

  “Hey there, chickadee,” Luisa says, coming in with a load of laundry.

  “You should get a raise,” I point out. “You’re taking care of five of us now.”

  “Don’t you worry. The Professor already offered me one.” She nods at the dishes. “You can leave those if you want. I’ll get them.”

  “It’s good thinking time,” I say. There’s no reason I can’t do my own dishes.

  “What’s on your mind?” She sets the basket down on the kitchen table and begins to fold towels: Granddad’s brown ones, the pink polka-dot ones that showed up with Grace, the blue ones I now share with Erica and Iz.

  “How’s Alex?” I ask, instead of answering. Though maybe that’s an answer in itself.

  “Been in a mood all week. Going out with his friends from the baseball team a lot after work.” I try to hide my frown. Alex works part-time at the hardware store’s garden center. That leaves a lot of time for hanging out with the guys, drinking beer, and potentially trash-talking me. “I noticed he hasn’t been around here much. Did something happen at the party last weekend? You two get in a fight?”

  I rinse the metal measuring spoons, considering how to answer. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to put her in the middle. “You should probably ask him.”

  “I did, but he’s a teenage boy. He won’t tell me anything. And he’s not the only one I worry about.” Luisa’s voice is soft. Kind. So different from my mother’s. “Heard there’s another party tonight. You going?”

  I busy myself scrubbing the cookie sheet. “I am. I sort of…have a date.”

  Connor put his number in my phone yesterday, and we’ve been texting all day, sending each other silly pictures: him making coffee at Java Jim’s, my chocolate-chip ice cream sandwiches, a selfie of me and Grace. He and I are going to the bonfire together. I didn’t want him to pick me up, so we’re meeting there. At what he referred to as “our” bench.

  “I thought it might be something like that,” Luisa says, and I spin around, half expecting to see accusation in her eyes, but I don’t. She’s sporting a big smile. “Someone special?”

  “Maybe. I—you know I love Alex, but—”

  “But not like that,” she finishes. “That’s okay, honey. You don’t have to apologize for your feelings. You can’t make yourself fall in love with somebody.”

  She’s being so nice that I want to cry. Tears actually start gathering in my eyes and I brush them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed. “Don’t tell Granddad, okay?”

  She stops folding. “About your date? Is it someone he wouldn’t approve of?”

  “It’s Connor.” I know she’s heard Granddad talk about Connor, even if she hasn’t met him yet. I think she’d like him. But I’m kind of biased.

  “His student? The one you’re working on that project with?” Luisa laughs. “I know the Professor can be strict about boys, but I don’t think he’d have a problem with that. Why don’t you want to tell him?”

  “I don’t know.” I brush my hair behind my ears with wet, soapy fingers. “It’s still so new. I don’t want him weighing in on it yet.”

  “Well, if Connor is important to you, it won’t stay secret for long. You can’t keep the different parts of your life in little boxes, all nice and neat,” Luisa says. “Especially with him working for your granddad. But I see what you’re saying. There’s a lot going on around here. Connor makes you happy?”

  I smile, remembering how he sent me a picture of a poem he was reading. I don’t know any other boy who would do that. “Yeah. He does.”

  • • •

  The walk through town feels…fraught. As if everyone is watching and whispering. I try to convince myself that I’m being silly, that no one cares about the scene Erica made in the coffee shop yesterday. Still, when I see Mrs. Summers heading my way with a picnic basket and her bulldog, Quincey, trotting along beside her, I have to fight the urge to duck down an alley.


  “Ivy, sweetheart,” she says. Quincey sits, panting, his pink tongue lolling out. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. How are you? On your way to the concert in the square? Judy says that bluegrass band is real good.”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. I just want you to know”—she puts a sympathetic hand on my forearm—“that scene your mama made yesterday was appalling. Really. The way she spoke to you and your sisters! Mr. Summers had to practically hold me down to keep me from going over there and giving her a piece of my mind.”

  “Thank you.” I can’t imagine what Erica would have done. Probably cussed the old lady out for interfering. “I doubt she would’ve listened to you though.”

  “Well, I’d still like to give her what-for. Imagine a mother talking to her children like that! Calling you a b-i-t-c-h!” I stifle a smile. Once a third-grade teacher, always a third-grade teacher, I guess. “But then we all know she isn’t much of a mother, is she? Leaving you like she did. How long are they in town for? Is Erica back for good?”

  Oh, now we get to the heart of the matter. My smile fades. “No. Just the summer. If they stay that long.” Whenever Erica leaves the house, part of me thinks she might not come back. That she’ll drive off and disappear and leave the girls behind. Would it be so bad if she did? I survived it, but I was so little. It would be harder for Gracie and Iz.

  “I had Erica in class, same as you, you know. She was mean even then. Bullied the other girls.” Mrs. Summers beams at me. “Nothing like you. You were always so bright. And sweet as pie.”

  That’s me. Sweet as pie. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers.” I edge away, almost tripping over Quincey’s leash. “Excuse me. I’m meeting someone. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Oh, is it that nice black boy who works at the coffee shop? Jules said she saw the two of you walking past the bank yesterday holding hands. What’s his name? Colin?”

  Jesus. If I had any doubts about how fast gossip spreads in this town, they are extinguished.