Everything Between Us (2 page)

She glances down the hallway toward her mother’s bedroom at the very end, and there’s a subtle change in her expression that tells me her brain is working at light speed. Her grip on the book tightens like she’s planning to hit me with it if I get too close. Most girls do the opposite—maybe it’s that I’m easy on the eyes, or they like the tat, the tips of which peek out of the collar of my shirt, or maybe I give off the right pheromones or whatever. I have no idea, but it certainly helps in getting things I want. But this girl? Her gaze is full of challenge. And more than a little fear.

I smile. “You’re right. I didn’t say why I was here.” I’m not going to confirm her suspicion that I was just in bed with her mom, and I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell her I’m showing up tomorrow to be her art teacher. If she says no, what the hell am I supposed to do then? I need this money. “Have a great day.”

I wave and head for the door. When I get to the huge, arched entryway, I look back. Stella’s peeking out of her hallway, staring after me. Good. Hopefully when Liza breaks the news, Stella will be intrigued.

I know I am.

Chapter Two: Stella

I retreat to my room with
Anna Karenina
tucked under my arm. I’ve already read it. It’s a freaking downer. My parents’ library is full of books they keep for appearances, not pleasure, but I love the feel of the pages between my fingers, of slipping into a world different from mine. Of sliding into the skin of someone different from me.
Anyone
different from me.

I can’t go to the public library, so I’ll take what I can get.

  My mind is still spinning with the conversation I just had with the random guy who wandered down the hall from my mother’s room, wearing pants speckled with paint and a shirt that didn’t quite hide some sort of tattoo on the side of his neck.
Daniel
, not Dan or Danny or Danielle. I don’t talk to a lot of people, not if I can help it, but I walked out of the library room and he was right there, his shaggy blond hair hanging in wisps over his eyes, looking like he owned the place.

He probably thinks he has every right to feel that way, since I’m pretty sure he’s screwing my mom. I hope he knows how quickly she gets bored of things.

I realized long ago that my parents live in the same house, but they’re not really
together
, unless you count obligatory social gatherings.  Dad doesn’t even sleep in their room anymore. And he, at least, doesn’t bring his mistresses home. Unlike my mom. For a moment, I get distracted trying to think of the male equivalent of a mistress. A mister? I know that’s not it, but it’s pretty funny, and God knows I need the laugh.

I flop onto my bed. It’s king-size, and that never used to bother me, but ever since I’ve been home, it feels way too big. Everything feels too big. I’ve spent most of the last few weeks fighting the urge to curl into a tight ball and stay that way. My parents don’t get it. They think I’m doing badly. What they don’t understand is that I’m doing the best I can. What they don’t understand is … well,
everything
.

“Knock, knock,” sings my mother.

I look over my shoulder to see her standing in my doorway, wearing silk pajamas. “Why do you always say that instead of, I don’t know … knocking?”

She rolls her eyes and sashays over to sit on the edge of my bed. “How are you feeling? Any better today?”

She always asks me that, as if I’ve got a case of the flu instead of a straight-up faulty nervous system. “Fine, Mom. Everything’s in working order.” Except my brain.

“Want to go for a walk?”

The hysterical laugh twists in my chest, fighting to break free. We do this every. Single. Day. “No.”

“We could head down to that little bakery near the boardwalk? The one that makes the ginger scones?”

“You’re wearing pajamas.” I’ll take any excuse, and I’m trying to keep this pleasant.

She plucks at the red silk over her belly. “I’d change, obviously. And so would you, unless you want people to believe I’ve raised a girl who thinks it’s okay to wear yoga pants outside a yoga class.”

“I want to read this next chapter.”

She groans. “Estella, you’re getting worse. You were willing to walk there a few weeks ago.”

I was—until I realized I wasn’t safe, even on familiar ground.

Her fingers smooth over my comforter. “We could talk, you know. I mean, you could tell me …  if something did happen to you and you’re embarrassed about it … if someone hurt you …”

“Mom, I’ve told you. Nothing happened. No one did anything to me.”

Honestly? I think all of this would be easier if I could point to one thing, one moment, one person, and say
this is why.
I could explain it, then. Understand the why of it. Blame it on something other than myself. If I were a victim, maybe it would keep everyone from being so frustrated with me. On a few occasions, I’ve even considered making up something, just to see the sympathy that flashed in my mom’s eyes a second ago, just to have her be patient with me for more than a minute at a time. But I’m not a liar, so instead I get the frustrated, calculating way she’s glaring at me now. I’ve seen it so many times before. It’s a look that makes my stomach ache.

“Come on,” she says abruptly. “We’re going. I’ll get you a hot chocolate, too.”  She grabs my arm and playfully tries to tug me up, but I don’t move. I’m too busy trying to avoid a major freak out. It’s all right here, a millimeter beneath my surface, the prickly current of panic, the memory of being so sure I was dying, the wide eyes of the people around me, the way my heart was beating so hard that it hurt. It actually hurt.

 “No, Mom,” I whisper.

She keeps tugging. “No,” I say louder, even as I’m wondering if I should go. Maybe I shouldn’t try to hide what happens to me, because then she would see. Then she would know why I can’t. But that means I’d actually have to go through it again, and … I
can’t
. “I’m sorry. No.”

She frowns and yanks so hard that her fingernails sink into my skin. “Come on! God, why are you so stubborn?”

I rip my arm away from her before I do something worse. “No!” I shout, glancing down at the red marks she’s left on my arm. “Why are
you
so stubborn? I’m twenty years old, and if I say I don’t want hot chocolate, I don’t want fucking hot chocolate!”

She sits back, a shade paler. “I’m just trying to help you. You used to love that bakery,” she says quietly.

I still do. Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamed of spending my days in a place like that, surrounded by the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, flour on my hands.  “Hey, I was thinking of asking Willa to get me some candied ginger so I could make those scones myself.” Our housekeeper is pretty accommodating, and doesn’t ask me why I don’t simply drive to the grocery store and get what I need. “I found a good recipe.” I smile, trying to lighten the moment, trying to fix this even though I can feel the tears glazing my eyes. “Or … I made a batch of muffins this morning. Banana coconut. We could have tea here.”

There’s a bitter twist to her mouth as she says the same thing she’s said to me so many times before: “That’s missing the point. If I wanted to eat here, I’d have Willa make something for us.”

She’s
missing the point. I feel calm when I’m in the kitchen, when I know I can make something good and not mess it up, when I can create something that I can actually offer to other people—something that will make them happy. I was the bake sale go-to girl in high school, and I used to make things in the dorm kitchen at Wellesley before everything fell apart—cookies before exam weeks and cakes for birthdays. People used to joke that I should open a bakery, and I laughed along with them even though I couldn’t stop thinking about how awesome that might be. But girls don’t go to Ivy League schools so they can make pastries for a living. It was ridiculous to even consider.

Mom sighs. “You’ve smeared goo on your shirt again.”

“It’s batter.”

“Is there a difference? It’s still not the best way to spend your time.”

“Better than staring at the walls.”

“Not much.”

I snort. “
Very
much. When I’m baking, I feel good, Mom. When I’m reading—” I tap my book. “I feel good.”  It’s one of the only ways I can see the outside world at this point. “When I’m arguing with you? Not so good.” My knees start to lift to my chest, my body trying to fold in on itself as I think about how my life is now, how it will have to be from now on. “So maybe you could just let me do those other things?”

“Your little hobbies aren’t helping you. In fact, I think they’re making you worse.” She nudges my shoulder with hers, like she’s saying something friendly instead of implying that everything I enjoy is stupid. “I have something I want you to try. Something better than baking or reading.”

Uh oh.
“Mom, seriously, I’m not going to—”

“I know! You’re not going anywhere! You’re not leaving the house! You’re going to be Howard Hughes and Woody Allen and, I don’t know, some-other-famous-yet-crazy-hermit all rolled into one! And this is my life—I have one daughter who’s graduated from Harvard law, and another who wants to spend her days doing things my
housekeeper
could do.” She smirks at my expression, like she’s happy she’s poking needles into all my sore spots. “No worries. I don’t have the time or energy to fight you on that today.” She sweeps her gleaming auburn hair over her shoulder. “But I think you need a chance to express yourself, Estella.”

“I express myself just fine in the kitchen.”

“You should be doing something more cultured than smearing batter on your clothes!” she snaps before taking a breath and softening her tone. “And you need to do something more therapeutic than baking cupcakes.”

“You need to stop telling me what I need.” She has no idea what this feels like. If I were to express what’s inside me, it would basically be one long, shrill scream.

She sighs. “Isn’t that my job? Anyway. Art. It’s the perfect outlet to help you get those feelings out so you can get back on track. I take painting classes at the artists’ co-op, and they have wonderful teachers.”

“And I will never go to the co-op, so—”

“One of the teachers is coming to you, darling,” she says with a crocodile grin. “He’s a talented painter, and he’ll give you private lessons. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“You signed me up for lessons with some art teacher without asking me if I actually wanted them?” What the hell is this? I have interests … and they’ve never included painting pictures of bowls of fruit. “You’ve wasted your time.”

Mom pushes herself up and stares down at me. “You’re going to give this a chance.”

I glare at my book, tears blurring the lettering on the cover. “No, I’m not. Stop treating me like a child.”

“Stop acting like one, then. If you don’t take the lessons and work on your problems, we’re going to have to talk about your needs. I’ve been looking up a few private treatment facilities.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

Her expression is utterly solemn. “Your father and I are very worried about you, Estella. If you won’t help yourself, we’re going to help you. We won’t let you rot away under our roof. That is one thing on which both of us agree.”

I roll off the bed and get to my feet, my ears ringing. “I’m doing my best, and I’ve only been here for five weeks! You make it sound like five years!”

“Your best?” She holds up her hands. “We got your grade report from the fall, and after four straight semesters of perfect grades, you failed all your classes. You’re obviously having some kind of breakdown, and I’ve been consulting a lawyer about our options, and—”

I blink, and tears slide down my cheeks. I thought I was safe here. I thought this place would be a haven. Instead, she’s pulling all her levers, running the show like she always does. I swipe my face with my sleeve. “Fine. When’s my new art teacher going to be here?” I’ll freaking make him miserable. If he quits before I do, maybe she’ll leave me alone.

She smiles. “Ten. His name is Daniel.”

“Daniel? Like, Daniel the guy you’re sleeping with?” I can’t believe this. She hired her mister to teach me to paint.

Really, this is funny. Especially the look on her face, all wide-eyed and
who, me?
“Darling, I don’t—no, he’s just a friend.”

I sigh. If I thought it would give me any leverage at all, I’d totally threaten to rat her out to my dad, but he’s had at least a dozen secretaries on the side and my mom has tolerated every single one. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually
knew
about Mom’s misters. She’s only acting this way because she thinks
I
don’t know. “We can call him whatever you want, Mom. But that’s the guy? The blond surfer tattoo boy?”

Her cheeks get pink. “He’s got a bachelor of fine arts. He’s a working artist.”

“Mmm. Yes, I’m sure he works very hard.” I cover my face as my stomach quakes with suppressed laughter. “Fine. Bring on Daniel, artist extraordinaire. I’m sure I’ll be a freaking Picasso by February.”

I’m lying. What I am sure of: Daniel will be out the door, never to return, but eleven tomorrow morning.

The rolling hills of lawn are crusted with snow and glimmering beneath the white winter sun. I pull my knees to my chest. The chaise lounge is right by the window, but the chill from outside doesn’t touch me. Why am I so cold, then?

I lean my head against the cushions and put my palm flat against the glass, my fingers spread. The whole world is out there, but I need this barrier to keep it out. Still, it hurts to know exactly what I’m missing. A tiny voice inside me whispers
you could go, you could try again, maybe this time
—

“Knock, knock!” sings my mom, and I look over my shoulder to see her standing there with Daniel. I rip my hand from the window and touch it to my neck, letting the shock of frigid skin remind me what I need to do.

Mom takes Daniel’s arm and leads him into the room. “Daniel, this is Estella. Estella, Daniel.” She waves her arms regally, and Daniel gives her the strangest look.