Love Lies Beneath

by Ellen Hopkins

  She looks me straight in the eye, shakes her head. “It was an unpleasant coincidence.”

  The woman always could stun me silent. She circles the room again, trailing haughtiness like perfume. Attack seems fruitless, so instead I withdraw to the kitchen and pour wine in favor of coffee. The rich purple cab reminds me of blood, its full-bodied taste gone bitter. I fucking hate my mother.

  In the other room, Melody calls for the girls to come say hello to their grandmother. I have no clear idea how much they know about her, or if she’s ever visited before. This could be interesting. I gulp down the wine into my empty belly, pour another glass, feeling marginally mellower with the slow ascension of an alcohol buzz. This could be really interesting.

  Mom and Will have perched on opposite ends of the sofa. Melody sits on the raised hearth, ready to officiate if necessary. Jessica is on the love seat with her overnight guest, Laura. Kayla has yet to appear. I stand in the doorway, ignoring the throb in my knee, sipping cabernet for breakfast, something Mom doesn’t fail to notice.

  “You celebrating something?” she asks.

  “Hell yeah.” I lift my glass. “Here’s to unexpected reunions. Should I pour you a glass?”

  Her expression tells me she’s tempted, but she says, “Kind of early, isn’t it?”

  “Not today.”

  Kayla finally stomps into the room, still pissed and scowling.

  “Glad you could join us,” says Melody, nerves finally showing.

  “I was trying to manage some damage control, and considering it’s your fault, I don’t see why you’re mad at me.”

  “My . . . ?” Mel wants to say what I’m thinking, but this isn’t the time, and she knows it, so she shifts direction. “You remember your grandmother, don’t you? Can you please say hello?”

  It finally dawns on the girl that there are a couple of strangers on the sofa. She turns on the dubious charm. “Oh. Sure. Hi, June. It’s been a while, and I don’t think you were with . . .” She redirects her question toward Will. “Have we met, um . . . ?”

  Even beneath the chin and cheek stubble, the man’s blush is obvious. “The name’s William, but you can call me Will. Everyone does. And no, we haven’t met before today.”

  Mom pats the cushion between her and William. “I’d like you to come sit here next to me.”

  I’m surprised at how easily Kayla complies, but she does, and sitting so close beside my mother, the resemblance is spooky. It’s almost as if Graham wasn’t involved in the genetics at all. When they talk, their speech patterns are similar, and driven by some tic of the psyche to begin almost every sentence with “I.” I want. I need. I’m going to. I wish. I will. I hate. It doesn’t take long for it to become tiresome.

  Jessica and her friend must agree. They both hold their phones in their laps and it’s obvious they’re texting each other. Every now and again their fingers move, their eyes drop, and suddenly they’re smiling. Stifling giggles. That might be annoying, too, except it’s so apropos.

  Will looks bored, but he pays them the attention Mom would absolutely demand. My semi-inebriated brain clicks into snapshot mode.

  Wonder how long he’s been Mom’s lay-o’-the-day.

  Wonder if he realizes how many there were before him.

  Wonder how long until she moves on to yet another.

  Wonder if he wonders, too.

  Melody seems content enough to listen to the exchange for a while. Then she must notice Jessica’s distraction, because she tries to insert her into the lopsided conversation. “Jessica will be a freshman next year. She’s trying out for the cheerleading squad.”

  Mom downshifts. “Good move. Cheerleaders get all the cute guys.”

  Jessica’s and Laura’s heads swivel toward each other, and they exchange eye rolls. Then Jessica turns back to Mom, and in complete seriousness says, “I’m not working my butt off to make the squad so I can get dates.”

  “Really?” responds Mom. “So why, then?”

  “It’s my sport, and I’m really good at it. Maybe even good enough to get a college scholarship. Anyway, boys are overrated.”

  Mom reaches across Kayla, pats Will’s knee. “Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re kind of useful, if you know what I mean.”

  “Jesus, Mother! Could you be any less appropriate?” My small outburst releases a big knot of tension.

  “What? You think girls this age don’t know what sex is?”

  “I’m sure none of us cares that you still engage in it.”

  “What do you mean, still? You’re never too old to have a little fun. Right, Will?”

  The younger girls burst out laughing, and their texting fingers fly. Will and Melody fidget, and Kayla wears an aura of amusement. Personally, I’ve had enough. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been standing on this knee too long. I’m going to lie down for a while. It was, um . . . interesting to see you again, Mother, and nice to meet you, Will.”

  As I retreat to the guest room, I hear her say, “She really shouldn’t drink this early in the day. Makes her mean.”

  Behind me, the “connection”continues. I can’t disconnect fast enough, and by the time I reach the bedroom my head is, in fact, whirling from the wine and surprise encounter. I set the glass on the dresser, toss myself down on the bed. Around and around I go. But before long, the spinning slows and I can comfortably close my eyes.

  You’re never too old to have a little fun.

  I spiral backward to an afternoon in Las Vegas. I was sixteen, and I arrived home from school on a half-day release. Apparently Mom didn’t get the message because when I walked through the door, the first thing I noticed was that the place reeked of booze. The second thing I noticed was my mother, having a little fun on the sofa with some anonymous man. I don’t remember his face, but I’ll never forget seeing his cock, which was long and thin and curved to one side. When he noticed me watching, wide-eyed, he plunged it between my mom’s open legs like a dagger.

  I put my hands over my eyes but couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Disgusting. I’ll never sit on that couch again. Can’t you do your screwing in your bedroom?”

  From anyone but my mother, I would have expected embarrassment. I was not particularly surprised that she wasn’t bothered in the least. “It’s hot in there,” she said. “This is nice, in front of the swamp cooler.”

  It was more than hot. It was sweltering, and I was wearing shorts and a tank top. Old Crooked Dick took a good, long look. “You’ve got a great ass,” he remarked, as if I’d find it a compliment. And then he dared ask, “Hey, June. You ever had a three-way with your daughter? Might be kinda kinky.”

  I gritted my teeth, knowing what Mom’s reaction would be. Of course, it wouldn’t come until after Mr. Kinked Cock hit the road. All she said right then was, “What are you, some kind of perv? Tara there doesn’t even have sex yet. Do you, girl?” She kept it light, but I could tell she was boiling.

  “This is the closest to sex I’ve come, and if this is what it looks like, I don’t think I’ll be trying it anytime soon.”

  I turned to go to my room and was almost there when the disgusting dude called, “You could do a whole lot worse for your first than this right here. This thing is one of a kind!”

  The truth was, I’d already had sex, and found it mildly pleasurable, if ultimately dissatisfying, in the way most teen sex is. But that was not information to share with my mother, whose expected punishment came swiftly after the man left but before she showered. The door slammed open, and the odor of recent rutting preceded her into the room.

  She had on only an oversize T-shirt, one some man had left behind. Her hair was an untamed nest, and her eyes betrayed her insanity. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, wearing clothes like that out in public?”

  “It’s a hundred degrees outside. Everyone’s wearing shorts.”

  “Not shorts like that. You look like a streetwalker.”

  I wanted to toss back the cliché “Takes one to know on
e.” Instead, I tried a halfhearted “Sorry,” knowing it wouldn’t be good enough.

  “Sorry? I’ll make you sorry, bitch.”

  She charged me full-bore, her anger not at my clothing but at the idea of my drawing the man’s attention away from her. Her fists were moving before she reached me, and for once, I refused to let them connect meaningfully, raising my arms to cover my face. That only enraged her more.

  But this time, something wild reared up inside me, and it fed on years of past abuse. I turned on her and freed the beast. Physically, we were evenly matched. Psychologically, she stood zero chance. I allowed myself no choice but to win, and exact some small measure of revenge for too many years beaten down.

  She never hit me again.

  Twenty-Eight

  I claw my way up out of an Idaho nightmare, wake in a house fallen silent. Idaho. Mom. Oh yeah, she was really here, not a nightmare at all. But where did everyone go? I sit up, too fast. I feel as if someone split my skull with an ax. Wine for breakfast. Right. And now, headache or no, I’m starving.

  The living room is empty, and a glance out the window confirms that Mom, Will, and semi have deserted the neighborhood. In the kitchen, I find a sandwich and note from Mel: Jess and I took Laura home. Check in on Kayla, please. We’ll be back before dinner.

  A half dozen bites and the sandwich has vanished. It was tuna, not my favorite, but this afternoon I’m not picky. I chase it with water and three ibuprofens—one for my knee, two for my head. Guess I’d better go see what Kayla’s up to. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but Mel did ask me to, and besides, I’ve nothing better to do.

  As I put my plate in the dishwasher, I notice the wine bottle sitting on the counter is empty. I definitely didn’t kill it. Maybe Mom had a glass or two after all. I start toward the staircase, but as I exit the kitchen, I hear noise out on the back patio and divert to investigate.

  When I open the sliding glass door, the scent of skunk nearly knocks me over. Kayla turns at the sound. In one hand, she’s holding a tumbler of what appears to be what was left of the wine; in the other, there’s a smoking pipe. “Oh, hey, Aunt Tara. Wanna hit?” She slurs her words, and she can barely keep her bloodshot eyes open.

  “What are you doing, Kayla?”

  “I think it’s called self-medicating.”

  “I think it’s called underage drinking. And I don’t suppose you have a prescription for that marijuana, do you?”

  She finds that hysterically funny. “It’s just a little weed. Bet you’ve tried it before, and don’t tell me you didn’t drink when you were my age.”

  “Actually, I tried pot exactly once in high school, and hated how out of control it made me feel, especially since the guy who supplied it immediately attempted to take advantage of me. As for alcohol, I didn’t start drinking until after my first husband died. I was in my midtwenties. Regardless, do you really think this is wise?”

  “Sometimes you want to escape, you know? Give your brain a little vacation.” She takes a final hit off the pipe, taps the burnt contents into the winter-browned grass, rubs them in with her foot. Then she mostly empties the glass in one long pull.

  “That’s a waste of good grapes. Wine like that should be sipped, not gulped. It isn’t Gallo.”

  “Whatever. As long as it does the trick.”

  Kayla puts the glass down on the wooden picnic table and tucks the pipe into a pocket. Then she sits on the slider, tilting her face up into the pallid February sunlight, closing her eyes. I settle into the adjacent wooden chair, watching her rock slowly back and forth. I know it’s a ridiculous question, but I ask it anyway. “Does this have something to do with my mother dropping by?”

  That, too, makes her laugh. “Are you kidding? Why would that bother me?”

  “She has a way of making people nervous.”

  “I didn’t notice. Like, how?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. She and I have never exactly been close.”

  “How can you not be close to your mother?” She opens her eyes and fixes them on me, truly curious.

  “That’s a very long story, one your own mom should probably share with you. But since you asked the question, it must mean you feel close to Melody. So why the meltdown?”

  “I want her to let me grow up.”

  “Then you’ll have to act like a grown-up. Drinking and smoking dope don’t qualify as adult behaviors, by the way. And what you did last night was inconceivably selfish and rude. How long have you known Cliff?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “So in what universe can you possibly believe that you two are in love? Love requires careful cultivation. It’s not something you can screw your way into.” Like I have a clue about the cultivation part. The screwing-your-way-into element, however, I know something about. “He’s cute and all, but he’s a loser, Kayla. And, to be totally frank, right now you’re looking a lot like a loser, too. I thought you had big dreams.”

  “I do.” It’s a whisper.

  “Then don’t give them up for a boy.” I purposely don’t use the word “man.” “And most definitely do not drown them in a bottle of booze or let them go up in a trail of smoke. Look. I’ve gone out on a limb for you. It isn’t often I ask favors of an ex-husband, and this one was major. I expect you to excel at the Art Institute—keep up your grades, and no disappearing acts with scummy guys who are only out for themselves. Your future is on the line here, Kayla, and ‘self-medicating’ with alcohol or illegal drugs, or even taking a chance on some nasty virus, is only going to damage it. I don’t know what you’re hiding from, but if it’s something big, tell me right now. If it’s not, this is just plain stupid.”

  She thinks quietly for a minute or two and finally admits, “Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy.”

  “Everyone wonders that sometimes.”

  “No. I mean really, certifiably insane. Like, possessing some sort of distorted personality trait, one that makes me reckless, and also makes me believe, no matter how hard I try not to, I will drive every important person from my life. So I spend hours figuring out ways to test them.”

  How much should I tell her? “Look, Kayla, if you’re really worried about that, let your mother know, and tell your therapist. There is a syndrome called borderline personality disorder, and one of its symptoms is thinking everyone in your life will desert you. Only a professional can help you figure out if what you’re feeling is rooted there, or just a manifestation of teen angst.”

  “Did you feel this way when you were my age?”

  “Not exactly.”

  I felt alienated.

  Friendless.

  Family-less.

  Resentful.

  Pissed.

  Belittled.

  Abused.

  But I also felt in charge. Of my present. My future. I wasn’t, but that was my youth talking, and it wasn’t long before I found my ticket to complete control of my life.

  “Were you popular in high school?”

  “No. I’ve never had a lot of friends. High school was especially tough because we moved to Las Vegas from Idaho, and not even ‘big-city’ Idaho, if you can call any of the cities there big. Beyond the radical lifestyle change, which took a whole lot of getting used to, our home was unhappy. Unstable. I would never have brought someone else into it. It’s hard to build friendships that work in one direction.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It didn’t feel that way at the time, but looking back, I guess it was.”

  We sit quietly for a few minutes. I push away the recently resurrected snapshots of my mother having sex on the sofa. Bring a friend home? I choke back a laugh.

  Finally, she says, “This house used to be happier. I don’t invite people over anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Seems like Dad is always pissed at something. Usually me.”

  “All kids feel that way, don’t they?”

  “Maybe. But this is different. We used to be pretty close. But no
w it seems like he keeps pushing himself farther and farther away. Not just from me, but from the whole family. I think it started with his band.”

  “You mean, like, maybe he’s experiencing a midlife crisis?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Also not that unusual for someone his age.”

  But I swear if I find out he’s been sleeping around, or if his behavior in any way hurts my sister, the next bottle of tequila will do more than give him the runs.

  The wind has picked up, pushing a few high clouds in front of the sun. Kayla shivers. “Guess we should go inside.” She stands, reaches for the tumbler, which slips out of her hand, shattering against the patio cement. Wine-painted glass sprays everywhere. “Fuck.”

  Oh well. At least it will give her something to do instead of feel sorry for herself.

  I leave her busy with the cleanup, return to the relative warmth of the house—the heat tempered slightly by the chill of recent revelations. Silence drapes the rooms heavily. Some music might lighten the mood, as long as it’s music I love, and there’s plenty of that on my phone. I retrieve it from my purse, notice I’ve got a new message.

  From “Private.”

  You should have listened. Better watch your back, bitch. I’ve got eyes on you.

  Fear begins a low throb inside my head. I limp quickly into the front room, stand to one side of the window to scan the street. Two cars, neither the beater sedan, cruise slowly, in opposite directions. Despite their tarried speed, I don’t get negative vibes from either of them. This is a neighborhood where children ride bikes in the street, so cautious driving is called for. Four houses down, on the far side, a van is parked at the curb. Is there someone inside?

  Can’t tell.

  Should I call law enforcement? And say what? Nothing came of the last message. Why should this one be any different? And what could they do, anyway? This isn’t even an overt threat. Whoever “Private” is, he seems to know just how far to go.

  I’m still pondering as Mel’s car motors past the van, pulling into the driveway to park in the garage. I hear her come in the back door, yacking at Jessica, who howls laughter. “Anyone home?” calls Mel.