At the Water's Edge (8 page)

Kay doesn’t force small talk, as though she has a sixth sense about these things. She’s all showered and dressed already, wearing jeans and a pale yellow blouse, I’m still in the robe she loaned me last night.

When my curiosity gets the best of me, I ask, “What’s with the fancy-dress?” I’ve been here almost a week and I’ve never seen her in anything but shorts or slacks.

“Got some business to attend to today. Some potential tenants are viewing one of my properties.”

One of her properties?
The surprise must be visible on my face, because Kay breaks out into a smile and gives a chuckle. “My father didn’t go to college either, but he knew that real estate is always the best investment.” She shrugs. “I don’t have expensive tastes, but West Waters barely makes me enough to get my hair cut every three months. And buy a new pair of denim shorts now and then.”

“How many ‘properties’ have you got?” My interest is piqued.

“Just a few apartments in the building they constructed on the high street in the nineties. And The Attic.”

“You own The Attic?” I have to keep my jaw from dropping all the way down to the table’s surface.

“Bought it after Jeff left me. Bit of a bitter revenge situation at the time, but it has paid off well in the end.”

It hits me that, last night, I poured the inner workings of my soul out to a woman I know hardly anything about.

“Jesus christ.” I drop my fork onto my empty plate. “A woman of many talents.”

“We all have bills to pay.” Kay starts pushing her chair back. “And I’m mostly reaping the rewards of the smart decisions my father made.” Towering over the table, she locks her gaze on mine. “I have some errands to run first. Feel free to use the bath, or anything else you may need. Just make sure the door’s locked when you leave.” She looks at me in silence for a few moments before inching closer and putting a hand in my neck. “See you later.” A quick squeeze of her fingers, and she’s gone.

Instantly, Kay’s house feels too empty, allowing too much room for destructive thoughts. I want to stay longer, have a bit of a browse around, check out which books she reads and what she keeps in her refrigerator, but I can’t. I have to get out of there now that she has left. It doesn’t feel right anymore.

I locate my clothes in the living room, draped over the back of a chair. When I pick up my underwear, I can’t help but think that Kay touched it when she put it there.
I’m your friend now,
she said. And perhaps she is, but I distinctly remember the shiver of arousal that came over me in the water, and I realize it wasn’t just the freedom of skinny-dipping that caused it.

* * *

Verbalizing is a powerful, positive thing.
Dr. Hakim’s voice in my head again. But any relief I felt after telling Kay is slowly but surely being crushed by shame again. At least, in Dr. Hakim’s office, I could leave the shame behind, if only for a few hours a week. I’m starting to miss his liver-spotted hands, his long fingers stroking that pitiful excuse for a goatee whenever I said something remotely meaningful. Out here, it’s just me. And Kay. But that’s different. And I know what he would say:
Steer clear of distractions, Ella. This is a pattern we’re trying to break.

When I arrive back at my own cabin, I take a long, hot shower before booting up my laptop and opening a draft e-mail to my sister. She’s my flesh and blood—the only sibling I have—and she doesn’t even know. At least
I
haven’t told her. I can’t be sure about my mother—whom I wouldn’t put it past to use it to lure a response out of Nina.
Distorted negative thinking.
Stop it.
Instead of letting my thoughts meander into that direction, I turn to the e-mail, which has been sitting in my drafts folder for weeks, and start typing. I compose an abridged version of what I told Kay, leaving out any criticism of our parents, and, before giving myself the chance to doubt—clearly remembering Kay’s hand on my thigh and her warm, supportive response—hit send.

Of course, Nina is not Kay. I think of Kay’s confession in the woods, about her teenage crush on my sister. I don’t allow myself to acknowledge the pang of jealousy that shivers up my spine.

My phone, which I left on my night stand before leaving for Kay’s the night before, only now pops up in my field of vision. Dr. Hakim would be proud of me for not being glued to it permanently. I have one missed call and a text message from my mother.

I would really like to come and see you at the cabin some time. Whenever suits you. Love, Mom.

It’s only a short message but by the time I’m done reading it, the screen of my phone is a blurry mess behind my tears. And I know that as long as I can’t read a text message from my mother without crying, I have a very long way to go.

Physically, I feel only the tiniest bit hungover, but emotionally, I feel very tender. Exposed. My secret is out. I’m not sure I can face my mother today, but a text message like that is as clear an invitation as I will ever get.

My mother, who used to be my hero—and whose fall from grace I witnessed with an incurable ache in my soul. I practiced the conversation I should have with her countless times in my head, and with Dr. Hakim, whose limitless patience, I suspect, is what makes him one of the best in his field. Most nights, I fall asleep reciting the words I should say. I know myself well enough to realize they’ll never leave my lips the way I intend them to. That connection—from brain to tongue—has never worked very well for me.

It’s always easier to not do something difficult.
I have a note on my phone containing many of Dr. Hakim’s parting words. I guess this one applies. I’ll need to talk to my mother sooner or later—after having put it off for about twenty years. It’s why I came here in the first place. I text her back, saying I will be at the cabin all afternoon. Immediately after I’ve sent it, a knot forms deep in my stomach.

My mother and I never talk. On the few occasions that I made it back to Northville since leaving for college, I always went out of my way to make sure I never found myself alone in a room with her. I call her maybe once a month, the conversation dead after a few minutes, because, from behind the walls we have both put up, we have nothing to say to each other.

* * *

As soon as I lay eyes on her, it strikes me again that, at least physically, she’s not the same woman anymore. Emaciated frame. Eyes as dull as the blackness I know so well. Face puffed up in all the wrong places because of too many pills she shouldn’t be taking.

We don’t hug, the courtesy embrace reserved for my return used up days ago. After she has sat down in one of the porch chairs, all I see is a woman gone wrong. A life wasted on all the wrong emotions. Hate. Bitterness. A twisted sense of duty.

I did it all for you and your sister. Not that I expect any gratitude in return
, she once said. The familiar hint of blame in her voice, a hard edge in her tone that clings to it like a stain that can never be washed out.

As I pour us both a cup of coffee, I know that pity should not be the primary emotion bubbling to the surface when laying eyes on my own mother, but it’s what I feel anyway. At least it’s better than anger—the reigning sentiment in the Goodman house for as long as I can remember.

We both sit there, not knowing where to start. Even small talk seems too much, and neither one of us is very good at it.

“I’ve, uh, been seeing a psychiatrist for a few months now,” I begin to say. “We both agreed it would be a good idea for me to come here.”

“Oh, Ella, just tell me one thing.” I know what she’s going to ask before the words leave her mouth. “Was it my fault?” The courage it must have taken her to formulate that question doesn’t weigh up to the instant flash of anger that rises through me. Because I didn’t come here to absolve anyone of guilt.

“No, Mom.” My tone is sharp. “We all make our own choices and no one else is responsible for them except ourselves.”

“I don’t sleep anymore. Not even with a double dose of Ambien. I lie awake at night, twisting and turning. Thank goodness your father and I have been sleeping in separate bedrooms for years—although I can still hear him snore through the wall, especially on Thursdays and Fridays, after he’s been to The Attic…”

A brand new silence descends on us after her short ramble. I want to say I’m sorry—because I’m infinitely sorry for what I did—but not like this. Not after she’s just slipped on her coat of endless suffering and victimhood again.

“Oh hello, Mrs. Goodman.” Kay steps into my field of vision, back in shorts and a t-shirt, and I could not be happier to hear her voice. Because, as much as I need to have a conversation with my mother, I don’t want to have it now. Kay’s sudden appearance is like a lifeguard’s just as I’m about to drown. “How are you?”

“Kay,” is all Mom says, and I can almost see the cogs in her brain turning.
Are they doing it? This bisexual woman and my daughter?

“Care to join us?” I’m quick to ask, although it’s hardly fair on Kay to invite her into our awkward non-chat. A glance passes between us, and in that instant, I know Kay will save me.

“Sure, if I’m not interrupting.” She climbs the two stairs. “Good to see you, Mrs. Goodman. It’s been a while.”

Mom scoots her chair back a bit, so Kay can drag a third one closer and huddle around the table with us.

“Let me get you a mug. Or would you like something stronger?” I shoot up out of my chair.

“Coffee’s fine,” Kay says, easing into her seat, her face relaxed.

Despite Kay’s calming presence, I need to take a deep breath while I grab the extra mug. Even a few minutes away from the stifling atmosphere that always hangs between my mother and me feels like a huge relief.

When I return, I see the relief on my mother’s face because of Kay showing up as well. We share DNA, are cut from the same cloth, and she’s probably just as grateful that our conversation was interrupted. And she got the answer she came here to get, anyway.

Mom and Kay chit-chat about the weather, the beauty of West Waters, and Uncle Pete, while I observe them silently. Every time my mother speaks, I hear my own voice—and, to my own dismay, it makes me cringe a little. Because, as much as I don’t want to be like her, like a woman I’ve grown to pity more than respect, I am her daughter, and nothing has ever been more set in stone than that.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’ve seen her change too,” Kay says, a few hours after Mom has left and we’ve moved our conversation to the lodge. “Over the years.”

“Yeah, playing the victim doesn’t really suit anyone.” I bite down hard on the inside of my bottom lip, trying to fend off the wave of emotion that is coming loose again. “I used to really look up to her, while Nina was always more of a Daddy’s girl. I guess, when it came out, she was at that delicate age where disappointment turns into destructive rage. One she, obviously, still hasn’t recovered from.”

I spot the look of puzzlement in Kay’s eyes, but she doesn’t probe.

“Dad had a mistress. A full-blown affair with someone from work. It lasted a year and, as Mom likes to remind us, if she hadn’t found out, it might have gone on forever.”

Kay’s eyebrows shoot up. “John? Are you kidding me?”

“I know. You’d never have pegged him for the sort just by looking at him. A quiet, demure, hard-working man who never wished harm on anyone. Although it put the hours he spent at work into perspective, of course.” I can grin at it now. I’ve spent years analyzing the possible motivations for my Dad to strike up a romance with another woman, always coming back to the same old reasons. I also know that, while it was the direct catalyst for the destruction of our family, at the core of it all, it wasn’t the main reason.

“I was only thirteen and I didn’t really understand what was going on, but Nina took it hard. He was her hero, you know? The guy she adored most in the world. After that, she went off the rails. Fell in with a bad crowd. Blew her college applications. It’s hard to say why some people never bounce back. She’s very much like Mom in that respect. Very proud. Extremely stubborn. Would rather hold on to a super-destructive grudge than forgive. Not budging an inch.”

I glance at Kay. She has narrowed her eyes, appearing fully absorbed by the sordid details of my family’s secrets.

“Mom made it seem as if she was making a huge sacrifice by not leaving him. By standing by his side and not kicking him out. That first year, not a day went by that she didn’t rub it in all of our faces. Dee Goodman, the biggest person on the planet.” I shake my head. “But let’s just say that, from then on, dinner was quite a frosty affair. Every moment bathed in an accusatory silence and every word drenched in blame. They dealt with it the way they deal with everything: by not addressing it, by keeping up appearances at all costs, and by ignoring it until the problem goes away.” I fix my eyes on Kay. “Have there never been any rumors about this in town?”

Kay shrugs. “It happened so long ago, but no, not that I know of.” She spreads her arms. “And, growing up here, I’ve heard a lot of gossip. Even at an age when I wasn’t supposed to.” She flashes me a grin, her bright white teeth glittering in the dusk. “There was talk about Nina, of course. About her and the Hardy boy. How that turned out.”

“The final nail in my Mom’s coffin. God, you should have heard her. As if all the suffering of the world had been piled upon her. ‘After all I’ve done for this family.’ Endless litanies like that. The problem with Mom is that she has always believed that she’s the only one who ever had the courage to do the right thing. Not that it’s all Mom’s fault.” I sigh deeply. “And now they’re both retired, still living in the same house, spending most of their time together—well, minus the hours Dad spends at The Attic. Can you believe that?”

“True love and all that,” Kay says in a sarcastic tone.

“Love?” I snicker. “If I know one thing in my life with absolute certainty, it’s that love has nothing to do with it.” I let my gaze drift over the water.

“Tough day today, Little Ella,” Kay says, as if reading my mind again. “Swim?”

“God yes.” I glower at Kay, unsure if she means a repeat of our nude night swimming session of the day before. Night hasn’t fully fallen yet, and I’m a bit hesitant to shed all my clothes.