Freaky Green Eyes (9 page)

Seeing something in my face I didn't mean to be there, Mero called me “Franky”—I'd told him to call
me that, not “Francesca,” as Mom did—and told me that Samantha and I had made our mother very happy these past few days. “She's been missing you girls so much. She wouldn't want me to be telling you, but—well, she loves you. She doesn't want you to be . . .” Mero's words trailed off into silence.

I felt my face burn. Doesn't want us to be—what? Hurt?

But who would hurt us?

Samantha wasn't in this exchange—she'd drifted away. But I was definitely in it. And I didn't like it. Abruptly I turned away from Mero without saying good-bye. I was afraid of crying. I felt a flash of resentment, that this man I didn't know, even if he was a nice person, and meant well, should speak so familiarly to me about things that were none of his damned business.

Mero seemed to know this too. He called after me, “Franky? Hey, I'm sorry if—”

I walked away without glancing back. Like I had somewhere to get to, fast.

It would be the last time I spoke with Mero Okawa.

This shrewd Freaky-thought.

Stay here. With Mom. For the rest of the summer
.

Stay here for school, too. You could walk to Skagit High
.

We were outside in the backyard helping Mom weed and trim, at about three
P.M
. It looked as if we'd be going sailing with Garrett—the sky was mostly a wet, washed-looking blue, storm clouds strung out at the horizon, and a good, not-too-strong wind. I kept listening for a car on Deer Point Road and glancing up every time I heard one. I tried not to feel so self-conscious; I reasoned that I looked okay in jeans and a tank top, a pair of Mom's sneakers (with the kind of rubber sole, Mom said, that's good for the deck of a sailboat), and my hair in the usual ponytail except I'd shampooed it that morning, and I guess it looked pretty good. Mero Okawa had said I had “dynamite red hair” and “just the kind of freckles” to go with it,
and I think he was serious, though teasing a little, too. Anyway, I was trying not to think about how I looked. I was trying to think about behaving naturally, relaxed and warm and funny.
This isn't a date—Samantha is invited, too. Keep that in mind
.

I heard a car approaching on Deer Point Road but it was going fast, and the sound of it was angry and impatient, unusual for Skagit Harbor, where the speed limit was twenty-five miles an hour in town. And when we looked up, there was a car pulling into Mom's crude little driveway and braking to a stop.

Dad climbed out of the car, leaving the door swinging open behind him. He was in shirtsleeves, but his shirt was an expensive white silk dress shirt, and he was wearing dark, perfectly creased trousers, as if he'd just stepped out of an important meeting. His face was glowing with indignation and fury bright as neon. He called, “Francesca! Samantha!
Come
.”

Mom stood staring, pruning shears in her hands. It was clear she was completely surprised.

“Reid, what's wrong? I thought—”

“Girls, did you hear me? Get your things. We're leaving.”

Samantha began crying and ran to Mom. I stood hesitantly, not knowing what to do. I had a big clump of yanked-out dandelions in my hands. I remembered how Dad had grabbed me at the Blounts', and it flashed through my mind that he could grab me again like that; he could grab Mom and hurt her. He was headed swiftly for us, like an athlete closing the gap between himself and his opponents. When Mom asked again what was wrong, in a faint, frightened voice, Dad seized the pruning shears from her and threw them down. He called her a name I guess I don't want to repeat.

Not that I hadn't heard that ugly word before. Sure. But never applied to my mother.

It was a confused scene. The crucial thing was, the pruning shears were on the ground and couldn't be used to hurt anybody; and Dad was relenting a
little, which he often did in a situation like this, seeing we were all respectful of him, not resisting. He agreed to go inside the cabin to discuss whatever the problem was, while Samantha and I waited outside.

Samantha was crying and needed a tissue. I debated going into the cabin to get one for her but knew I'd better not. Luckily I found an old battered box of Kleenex in the back of Mom's station wagon.

Samantha whimpered, “Why is Daddy so mad? He said we could come here. He
said
.”

“I guess—he changed his mind.”

My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Maybe it was an adrenaline rush. I was able to think clearly: if I heard Mom cry for help, or scream, I would run next door to Mom's neighbor and ask her to dial 911.

I would do this immediately, without hesitation. I would not go into the cabin. I would run next door.

It was like the start of a swim meet: you wait for the signal.

You wait for the signal, you don't dive in before you hear the signal.

You wait for the signal. That's what you do.

But there wasn't any signal. We waited for ten minutes. Then Mom appeared in the doorway with swollen, reddened eyes, a kind of sickly look, and Dad was with her, carrying Samantha's and my bags.

Mom said, “Francesca, Samantha. You're to go home with your father. Now. I've packed your things.”

Samantha protested, “But, Mom—”

“Samantha, I've told you. Go with Daddy. And Francesca—”

Samantha ran to Mom and hugged her around the hips like a small, frightened child. Mom stood stiff, as if not daring to move. She repeated, “Go with Daddy, please. Samantha, Francesca. At once.” Her face was masklike, rigid. Her eyes were unseeing.

I wanted to scream at her,
Why'd you bring us here if you can't keep us?

Samantha was crying, “
You
come home, Mom! Come with us! Now!”

All Mom could do was repeat, numbly, “No. Samantha, no.”

“Mommy—”

Mom pressed her hands over her ears, bent as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She said, pleading, “No. Go away. Go away with your father. You can't stay with me, there isn't room, for God's sake
go with him
.”

Dad behaved as if he wasn't hearing this. As if he was above it. Without a word he carried our bags to his car—a shining new silver Mercedes!—and placed them in the trunk. Samantha and I followed him numbly.

We didn't look back at Mom.

She was so weak, pathetic! I didn't even feel sorry for her now, I just wanted to get away from her.

Hours later, I would realize I'd forgotten about Garrett.

And much later I would realize that this was to be the last time I saw my mother.

“Your mother is in love with another man. No matter what she has told you, she has chosen him over her family. She'll have to live with her decision. We can never forgive her.”

Dad's voice was trembling with indignation. But he managed to smile at us. He was holding Samantha's hand in his left hand and mine in his right hand, and he seemed almost not to know he was gripping us hard, until Samantha whimpered, just slightly. Then he released us.

“I hope you understand, girls. There's nothing to discuss, really.”

Samantha wiped her nose on the edge of her hand and mumbled okay.

I guess I must've mumbled okay, too. Whatever I said, or indicated, it was the right response to Dad's words.

Because he smiled, happy now. Because he hugged us both.

“My big, beautiful girls!”

Dad introduced Samantha and me to our new housekeeper-cook, a plump, dark-skinned Peruvian woman with a shy smile. Her name was something melodic like Lorita, Loreena. She might have been thirty-five years old, or fifty-five. Dad informed us that she would be on the scene six days a week, with Sundays off. Her specialties were fried bananas, bread pudding with rice, chickpea soup, roasted chicken, grilled sea bass, and “Peruvian pizza.” Dad rubbed his hands together happily. “How's that sound, girls? Pretty cool, eh?”

We beamed at Lorita, or Loreena, and she beamed
at us. She was a short woman, hardly more than five feet tall. Beside her, Dad towered like a giant.

Samantha didn't ask if the new housekeeper's six-day schedule meant that Mom wasn't coming home any longer. Francesca didn't inquire, either.

In love with another man. We can never forgive her
.

Did I believe these words? I don't know. Did I believe that there was a man in Mom's life? I don't know. Did I believe when I seemed to know, no, there was no man, there could be no man, Mom went away to Skagit Harbor to be free? Yet if Dad said there was a man, then there had to be a man.

And we would never forgive her
.

“Franky? Don't think this is weird or anything, okay?”

Twyla sounded embarrassed. It was rare that Twyla found herself in embarrassing situations—she was the most poised of any girl in our class at Forrester. So I was on Freaky alert. I said, trying to smile, “Twyla, sure. What?”

“Well. Your mother called me. Yesterday.”

This was like somebody dropping a shoe. You just naturally waited for the second shoe to drop.

“Called you?
My
mother called
you
?”

Twyla nodded. We'd been playing tennis, and
Twyla had been winning, but the games hadn't been very competitive because I wasn't in the mood to win, or to try to win: for that, you need to believe that Winning Is Worth It. My Freaky-self was thinking it's nicer to let a friend win, it's like a small gift you can give, but only if the friend doesn't know you're giving it. I was thinking how much I liked Twyla, she was like a sister to me, my own age. And I was in a frame of mind, right now, where I needed her.

Twyla said, “Your mother called, and talked with my mother a little, then asked to speak to me . . . so we talked, for a half hour or so. It was fine.” Twyla paused, and this word “fine” hovered in the air between us. When you say that something is “fine,” what are you saying? Twyla was sitting on a bench behind one of the tennis courts, sipping Evian water, her slim bare legs tightly crossed at the knee and locked at the ankles for extra security. Cool Twyla, trying not to squirm as I stared at her.

I hadn't spoken with my mother in more than two weeks. Since that day Dad came to get Samantha
and me in Skagit Harbor. Dad was saying
Your mother is incommunicado in her own zone, girls
. I wasn't sure what that meant. If I asked Dad, I mean if I drew breath to ask, Dad shut me off with a razor-swift smile and a warning wag of his forefinger. I wondered if Mom had tried to call us and could not. I kept my cell phone turned off. I never answered the family phone and never listened to voice mail on the family line.

I never called Mom's number in Skagit Harbor. After a while, I seemed to have lost it.

I asked Twyla what my mother wanted.

Twyla said, “That's kind of it, Franky . . . I mean I'm not sure. It was like she just wanted to talk . . . to talk about you.”

Too weird! My mother calls my best friend behind my back.

I felt a Freaky-flame pass over me. It was like my mother was betraying me. And it was none of Twyla's business what was going on in my family.

The thought came to me thrilling-scared,
Dad
better not know about this betrayal
.

“Ask you about
me
, Twyla? Ask what?”

Twyla shrugged, frowning. Her beautiful eyes were evasive.

“Just if I'd been seeing you. Talking with you. I explained I'd been at camp, but we were getting together today, for tennis. She asked when, exactly when, like what time; and where were we playing; and if you'd been taking lessons this summer, which kind of surprised me, I mean, wouldn't your mother
know
? Gradually it dawned on me that she wasn't home. She was asking things because she hadn't talked to you in a while. I think she liked to hear me say your name—‘Franky.' While she kept calling you ‘Francesca.' She sounded a little different than usual, like she was sort of excited, and nervous. Finally I said, ‘Mrs. Pierson, is something wrong? Haven't you been seeing Franky? I thought Franky was home.' She said, ‘Twyla, nothing is wrong. I'm just spending part of the summer at Skagit Harbor and it gets lonely here.”'

Twyla paused. She took a thirsty swig of water.
Her perfect Twyla skin was looking less perfect, like this conversation was giving her hives.

I said, “My parents aren't separated, Twyla, if that's what you're wondering.” I was trying for a Freaky-cool tone but my voice sounded like dry spaghetti cracking.

“Oh, no. I wasn't.”

“This place in Skagit Harbor, it's a summer cabin Mom's family owns. She's up there for a while, doing silk screens. Pottery. A gallery there exhibits her work.”

Twyla was smiling encouragingly. “Gosh, Franky. That's terrific.”

“My mom and dad are not separated; it's just that my dad travels a lot for his job.”

Like this was a new, astounding fact Twyla needed to be told. But she said, “Oh, I know! Reid Pierson, he's always on TV. All over.”

“So—my mom's at this summer place. For a few weeks. Samantha and I, we were just there visiting, and we're going back again in a few days.
We'll be staying till Labor Day.”

Twyla asked me about Skagit Harbor, not just to be polite but also because she was genuinely interested. (I think.) An uncle of hers had a fantastic summer place in Port Greene, which wasn't far away. So I told her about Mom's cabin, and Mom's art, and how beautiful the small town was, and this guy I'd met named Garrett who was going to take me sailing soon. . . . I talked, and my voice sounded weird in my ears, earnest and eager. I wanted Twyla to know that things were fine in the Pierson family, just as they were in her family.

But I wanted to confess,
Twyla, I'm so afraid
.

I wanted to beg,
Twyla, don't tell anybody will you? Don't betray me
.

We'd had a pretty long break. It was time to resume tennis.

Heading back to the court, Twyla swung her racket to loosen up, and said, like she'd just thought of it, “Oh, Franky. When your mom hung up, she said to tell you, ‘Don't forget Mr. Rooster.'”