Hyacinth Girls (13 page)

That evening, as she went over her story, Callie picked at the edge of a throw pillow. We were sitting in the living room, and I'd set out a plate of banana fritters that neither of us wanted to touch. She was lying to me. She was slumped across the sofa while I sat in an armchair, watching the teal fibers of my pillow unravel in her hands.

“I had to go to the bathroom. So I just ran out.” Her voice was dry, coagulated.

“But you ran out of the school. You didn't run to the bathroom.”

“I got lost.”

“How could you confuse an exit with the bathroom?”

Callie closed her eyes and wiggled a finger inside the pillow. Something heavy, like black weather, seemed to enclose her and at the same time block me out.

“Did Miss Laing say something to upset you?”

“No.”

She dipped her head, refused to meet my eyes. I'd already asked if someone had put her up to it. I'd even wondered aloud if she was getting her period. Callie pulled a small tuft of white filling out of the pillow.

“Tell me again about the chocolate,” I prompted.

Callie stared at the white fibers in her hand. “The chocolate was already there when I came in.”

“Well, do you think one of Robyn's friends could've left it? That girl Lucinda?”

She gave a small puff of exasperation. “No, Rebecca.”

“Well, how do you know for sure—if you don't know who?”

She didn't answer and I had the sudden urge to shake her. I wasn't handling this well. Everything she said made me feel more hopeless. It was like we were trapped in a maze of hedges and she was leading me farther and farther from the exit, choosing wrong turns on purpose, pretending to be as disoriented as me.

“You needed to go to the bathroom—fine,” I said. “Maybe you weren't feeling well. But why on earth would that make you swear at your teacher?”

Callie started scratching her thin arms. I watched as her nails left chalky tracks across her skin.

“I don't know.” She stared at the lines on her arms. “It just popped out.”

“Nothing just pops out. Callie, you know how to control yourself. And you're allowed to make mistakes, but this isn't like you.”

The pillow fell off her lap as she suddenly leaned forward. “Stop pressing that.”

I looked down at my right hand. It rested just below my clavicle. My tattoo was hidden under my shirt, but she knew it was there. A purple hyacinth, in honor of her mother. “You're always doing that,” she exploded. “It's like I'm giving you a heart attack. But I know what you're thinking.”

I dropped my hand to my lap and held it there. Her lips drew back with disgust, and then she jumped up and stomped into the kitchen. “I'm not like my mom! Maybe I'm more like
him
!”

I followed her into the kitchen and watched as she turned on the faucet. She stood in front of the sink with her arms crossed over her stomach. We didn't usually talk about Curtis—she hadn't brought him up in years. She flinched oddly when I touched her on the shoulder.

“What's going on?”

Callie jabbed her fingers under the water, and it spattered against the sink. “I smashed the chocolate because I wanted to. Not everyone does things for a reason. Sometimes we just DON'T have a conscience.”

“You have a conscience,” I murmured. “Your dad did, too.”

She wrenched the water off, and I could see her hand wobble. “You never leave me alone,” she said. “I just want to be left alone.”

She ran to her bedroom and I followed her there. She jumped into bed with her shoes on and pulled up the blankets so I couldn't see her face. I steadied myself.

“What made you say you don't have a conscience?”

She didn't answer.

“If you heard something about your dad, you should tell me, because it might not be true.”

The mass of blankets didn't move and I felt so desperate. To connect to her again. To insist she had it wrong. She was all I had in the world, and I'd sworn I'd do anything for her, but where was I supposed to begin when she wanted only to be left alone?

The next day, Callie's principal held his office door open for us and wore a careful fixed expression that seemed to discourage friendly chitchat. His hair was thinning and he shook my hand before motioning for us to sit. The last time I'd seen Mr. Wattis was during a prospective parents' evening when he'd given a speech about the extraordinary number of graduating students who went on to top-tier colleges. I'd leaned over to squeeze
Callie's arm that night, thinking about the future, when she'd open her acceptance letters and we'd drive through the college gates, marveling at the immaculate stone buildings, the trailing vines of ivy. I'd never anticipated that we would be sitting here like a pair of troublemakers, absorbing Mr. Wattis's stern gaze.

He asked Callie to explain what happened in class, and she kept her eyes on her lap as she began to speak in a low, unconvincing voice. She repeated the same story she'd told me, only now she claimed she'd dropped the chocolate. She said it had fallen on her desk and she'd smeared it accidentally. It wasn't a prank, just an accident. Her chin drooped toward her chest, and her shoulders slumped. Without meaning to, I began to imitate her posture, and when I realized, I straightened my neck and pushed my shoulders back. I could feel Mr. Wattis watching me, and I wondered how often kids lied to his face.

I realized I was going to have to tell Joyce's dad. He'd agreed to pass guardianship to me when he was at his lowest point, eight years earlier. He'd lost his wife and daughter, he was overwhelmed, and there I was, acting like an expert. I'd been helping Joyce to raise Callie for two years at that point, and I swept in to help him like I was some kind of authority on raising children.
This
is how you get her dressed in the morning—
this
is what you do when she won't eat her breakfast. He didn't understand that I was only just practicing the things that Joyce had taught me. He'd thought that when it came to Callie, I was instinctive and naturally skilled, and I let him think this, even though I knew it wasn't true.

“I got lost,” Callie said. “I was trying to find the bathroom, but I ran outside instead.”

Mr. Wattis glanced at me sharply.

“I was about to go back in when I saw where I was,” Callie said. “But then that guy grabbed me and brought me in here.”

She looked so hopeless and bewildered. I thought of how other
parents in Pembury defended their children. They weren't shy about challenging authorities on their kids' behalf.

“She's never had problems like this before,” I interrupted. “But there's a few things you should know.”

They both looked at me as I felt the burden of what I had to do.

“Her mother passed away.” I looked Mr. Wattis in the eye. “And we just marked the ninth anniversary this weekend. We've both been upset, and I don't mean this as an excuse, but I think it's a factor.”

Callie was leaning forward, and I noticed that her jaw was stiff. “You forgot my dad,” she said. “My dad's dead, too.” There was a taunting lilt to her voice, like this was a challenge, and then she sat back in her chair, crossed her arms, and glared at the wall.

Mr. Wattis cleared his throat, and I heard myself trying to explain.

“Both of Callie's parents passed away. Her father was my cousin. I'm her guardian.”

The principal fixed his mouth in a sympathetic shape and I realized that he already knew. All this stuff was in Callie's school records. She glowered at the wall, and Mr. Wattis began to explain about a behavior contract, and I felt dazed as I realized that I shouldn't have mentioned Joyce. Her death wasn't a lucky charm to be flashed in times of trouble. It wasn't something I could whip out to show off to strangers. It wouldn't win us sympathy, and Callie's punishment was going to stand. Two days of “in-school” suspension. A written apology for Miss Laing.

Afterward, in the car, I didn't say a word to her. I just fastened my seat belt and wished that I was alone. I wanted to forget about everything and think about my future kitchen, which would have stained oak floorboards and Japanese knives on a sleek magnetic strip. There would be pots of herbs on the windowsill: basil, parsley, cilantro. And every wall
would be shiny white, covered in subway tile. Callie had shoved her fingers into the air vent. Her voice demanded attention.

“You love telling everyone about Mom, but never Dad. Was he so evil?”

I'd keep a whole shelf of artisan honey, tiny pots of jam.

“Rebecca!”

“Of course not.”

“Is it because he killed himself?”

I shook my head. Glass cake stands.

“Did he kill her?” She chewed her lip angrily, and I tasted blood, too. The spotless kitchen vanished. “Did he kill my mom?”

After Joyce's confession, I avoided Curtis as well as Lara. But in the last week of August, Curtis walked into the convenience store, where I was finishing my shift. My cousin's adolescent strut had turned into something more solid and purposeful, and I noticed how droplets of rain had stained the shoulders of his T-shirt. It had been pouring outside for hours, and beads of water stood out on his stubbled cheeks. As he stood before me, his skin looked green in the artificial light.

His voice cracked. “You know about Joyce—”

I nodded and looked at the sleek black hair plastered to his forehead.

“I need to talk to you.”

I followed him out to his car the way I imagined a hostage might follow her deranged kidnapper. The sodium lights in the parking lot lit up the diagonals of rain, and we sat there with the windshield wipers going, even though we weren't driving anywhere. There was a cool dampness in the car, the smell of wet hair and leather shoes, and I dared myself to look in the backseat. But the wipers were like magic wands, bewitching
me, sweeping away the rain so I could watch the line of red brake lights on the raised highway.

“I gotta know,” Curtis murmured. “Is Joyce sleeping with anyone else?”

I combed my fingers through my dripping hair, twisting it around my fingers. The wipers waved at me, pausing and then rising smoothly. It was strange, just the two of us again, sharing secrets. I could feel Curtis waiting for me to speak and I knew how Lara must feel, testing tongue behind teeth, sorting out breath and sound while he watched so alertly.

“Do you love her?”

“Joyce?” He sounded surprised. “No, man, no. I just fucked up.”

Curtis's knee began to judder and I looked down to see the place where his bones met.

“It was a mistake. I never cheated on Lara before 'cause she'd kill me. That's what her dad did to her mom and it's the worst thing I could ever do to her. I love her. You know I wouldn't do that, but it was just a mistake. One time.”

I felt an awful relief hearing that he didn't love Joyce.

“So you know what Joyce's saying,” he continued. “I don't know if she's making this up—to get back at me or what—but she's saying I got her pregnant.”

I opened the car door and the rain started coming through. I could hear the rush of traffic, the nice fresh wetness of getting away. I needed to get out of there, but Curtis was leaning over my lap, pulling the door closed. He wrapped his fingers around my sleeve like he was on a tilting boat, and I looked at the backseat. It was empty and cramped. I couldn't imagine Joyce lying there naked. But I knew she wouldn't make up a pregnancy. “Rebecca?” His voice was still tense.

Joyce hadn't slept with anyone else, not since February.

“Joyce hasn't slept with anyone else,” I said. “She wouldn't make it up.”

Curtis dropped his head against the steering wheel, letting go of my sleeve. He moaned in a theatrical way, and I thought about jumping out of the car. I could throw up and then run to my own car, try to drive away. The soft humps of his shoulder blades contracted as he made harsh little noises into the steering wheel. My cousin was almost twenty-one—too old for this, I thought, especially since he was supposed to be getting married in December. As he shook and moaned, I decided I couldn't feel sorry for him. Suddenly I wanted to be cruel.

“Curtis,” I interrupted. “Are you going to tell Lara?”

He raised his head slowly. “You gotta help me fix this.”

Four months after Curtis's wedding, I drove back from college and parked in the concrete parking garage of St. Luke's Hospital. I'd pictured myself as a central part of the action: standing at Joyce's bedside, bringing her drinks or ice chips, clutching her hand. As it turned out, Mrs. McKenzie didn't call me until after the baby was born. A small part of me still wondered if Curtis would show up at the hospital. I'd left a message with Aunt Bea, and as I walked through the corridors, I was looking for his dense matt of hair, the smooth shape of his shoulders. The last time I'd seen him, he was wearing his rented wedding tux, and he'd seemed so stiff after I hugged him that I reached for his jacket and pretended to brush away an invisible hair, just to steal an extra second. I hadn't done what he'd asked. I'd never even mentioned an abortion to Joyce.

Curtis didn't visit Joyce in the hospital. He didn't see Callie when she was a newborn, when she had her first teeth, or when she began to crawl. Very occasionally, I heard he sent a little cash to Joyce, but it was never very much—he was worried that Lara would find out. He'd confessed to
Lara a month before their wedding, and by the time he leaned over to kiss the bride, the bruises on his face had completely healed. The story was that Lara had kicked him for a good half-hour on the bathroom floor, cussing him out, while he just lay there, taking it. He promised he'd never see Joyce again and he wouldn't have anything to do with the baby. He also wouldn't have anything to do with me; Lara was sure I'd been helping them cheat. During the ceremony, I sat beside my mother in the pews, admiring the white fur curling around Lara's shoulders, the shining corkscrew curls that spilled out from her silver tiara. I'd promised to avoid her at the reception. She hadn't wanted me there at all.