I Regret Everything (7 page)

I rang the bell and waited. With my suitcase next to me, I felt like some poor immigrant steaming toward Ellis Island a hundred years ago with a stomach-churning combination of fear and hope. A housekeeper I didn't recognize let me in. She was a stocky black lady with an island accent. She told me no one was home. I mentioned I was Edward P's daughter and she looked like I might be trying to pull a fast one on her. I inquired whether anyone had mentioned I was coming. Apparently, they had not. Well, I thought, we're off to a terrific start. When this lady, whose name was Delia, appeared reluctant to let me cross the threshold, I flashed my school ID and pointed out that her boss and I had identical last names. She took a hard look at the card, squinted at my face like a TSA agent, and compared it once again to the photograph on the card before grudgingly allowing me in.

Edward P and Katrina's room was at one end of the upstairs hall, my ten-year-old half-brother Cody was in the bedroom that overlooked the backyard, and my twelve-year-old half-bro Marshall was in the bedroom with a street view at the end of the hall opposite the adults' room. Beyond Marshall's bedroom the hallway made a right turn. At the end of that passage was my room. It was above the kitchen door and faced the freestanding garage.

My phone vibrated. A text! It was . . . Harlee.

Good luck!

Succinct. Hard to blame her for that when I had bounced without warning. Beneath my window a car door slammed. I began to unpack.

—So they're making you stay in the maid's room?

Marshall stood in the doorway and watched me put my clothes away.

—Yeah, it looks that way.

It had been nearly a year since I'd seen him and he'd grown a couple of inches but was still shorter than me. He had spaniel eyes set in a pale, sensitive face and long brown hair that fell over his forehead.

—Our maid doesn't live here, he said.

—That's a good thing since apparently I'm in her room.

—I'll trade rooms if you want, he said. I don't want to be so close to my parents.

—That's two of us.

In the backyard I could see Cody playing some kind of war game with a friend. He was wearing a Knicks jersey that hung to his knees. The boys were running around with toy rifles shooting each other. Cody was the more physical of the two siblings, the one who jumped around a lot and broke things. Marshall was ethereal, the kind of kid whose delicate quiet held a promise of something interesting occurring later.

—What happened last Christmas? You were supposed to come stay with us.

He got right to it, didn't he? Still at the age where he wasn't thinking ahead in the conversation, or wondering if a question was okay to even ask.

—Yeah, well, it's like this, Marshall. There were a few problems that had to get taken care of, so I went someplace and took care of them.

—What kind of problems?

—They thought I was crazy.

—Are you?

—Depends what you mean by crazy.

He looked thoughtful, like he was formulating a definition in his head of what it meant to be insane. The jagged pieces appeared to be coming together. The evidence in front of him had to be puzzling. How did he view me, this troubled interloper, this trespasser in his private space?

—And now you're good?

—Sometimes I bark at the moon.

He thought about probing further but decided against it. Instead he wandered into the room and flopped on the bed.

—Do you have any weed? he said.

—I'll pretend I didn't hear that.

—I've never actually smoked it.

—Me neither.

—You're lying.

—You caught me, dude. You're better off knowing that people lie and life sucks and figuring out how to deal with that reality.

He nodded his head like he was actually considering what he'd just been told. That was an appealing quality. He wanted to
know
. Marshall looked at me like I had answers. I didn't want to disappoint although that was where my main talent seemed to lie.

—My parents let me plant a garden. Want to see?

Beyond the slate patio with its perfect furniture and gleaming grill was an immaculately tended lawn ringed by white birch trees. Marshall led me across the grass and behind the garage. In this place that couldn't be seen from the house, he had turned over the nearly black earth and planted flowers. Already two months into the growing season, the plot was a rowdy palette of floral mayhem. There didn't seem to be any discernible pattern but it was pure beauty. Flowers were easier for me to embrace than trees.

—That's marsh marigold, he said, pointing. That's blue phlox and that one's New England aster.

—Marshall, I gushed, this is freaking amazing.

He walked to the side of the garage that bordered the neighbor's property and beckoned me to follow. A slatted wood fence separated the two yards and there was about three feet separating the garage and the fence. He was standing next to two marijuana plants.

—Know what this is?

Before I could answer, a woman's voice called his name. His shoulders drooped.

—My nemesis, he said. To the voice, he called, We're out here!

Hurricane Katrina was standing in the middle of the yard wearing a tight tennis dress. Edward P's second wife was forty-two. Slender and athletic, her perfectly dyed honey blondness was gathered into a tight ponytail that allowed her to show off gold hoop earrings with diamond accents. She was attractive in that
Vanity Fair
way common on Madison Avenue and spring-wound, like if someone pressed a hidden button she'd shoot thirty feet in the air.

—Spaulding! she said. How are we doing?

—We're doing fine.

—Welcome to Stonehaven. We're glad you're here.

Edward P met Katrina when she sold him the Stamford condo he moved into after he left us. Six months later she was living in it with him, her selling skills not limited to realty. She has that instant smile salespeople have, the kind that turns on with a switch. It's a little disconcerting. My mother and I were in a fancy boutique one time and the saleslady saw me as a street urchin, you know, not in an adorable way but like I was going to steal a brooch, until she realized who I was with, then she was all super-smiley and can I help you? That's Katrina's skill. She could probably turn it on at her own mother's funeral since the smile seemed unconnected to whatever she was actually feeling.

Katrina asked me how I liked my room and when I told her I was just happy there were no cats in it she looked at me like I had said something strange then let me know I should feel free to decorate in whatever way pleased me but not to paint the walls. She told Marshall the two of them had to leave for an appointment in a few minutes and in the meantime he should wait for her in the kitchen.

—I have to go see my psychiatrist, he announced with more brio than you would think that particular information warranted.

This proclamation blindsided Katrina and after he departed she paused, as if to decide whether it required further elaboration or clarification on her part. Concluding it did not, she said,

—We're certainly glad you're here.

—I am, too.

—Now that you're living with us, Spaulding, it's important to remember we have a few rules.

This was imparted with a short laugh, an attempt to suggest bonhomie that only heightened the nervousness she projected. She was talking in a loud voice. Hard to tell if I made her nervous or she wanted the neighbors to hear how she was laying down the law with her wayward invader.

—We'd like you home by eleven o'clock each night. You'll be expected to keep your room clean and make your bed every day. And no drugs or alcohol.

—What about my meds, Katrina. Are you okay with those?

That came out with more bite than I'd intended and Katrina's smile flaked a little.

—We want you to have a restful time while you're staying with us.

—
Restful
?
 
It was difficult not to bridle at the word but if this woman talked to me like I was a mental patient, you couldn't blame her. The rules won't be a problem, I said. Then she left to dominate Marshall.

It was sadly predictable that Hurricane Katrina was never particularly glad to see me when I was growing up. Who wanted to be reminded of someone else's past when it contained problems that weren't over, which is what another person's kids represent. Today she was making an effort, probably because of what had happened over Christmas.

After putting my stuff away, I placed my iPod on the dock and cued up Joy Division. Then I lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and considered ways I might worm myself into Mr. Best's life. While not a raving beauty by any means, boys found me attractive and I got hit on with some regularity. But my exchange with the perfect Katrina made me feel lumpy and unformed. Some people have the power to make you feel crappy about yourself. It's fine when you see them in magazines or on the Internet. It's harder when they're across from you at the breakfast table.

Mr. Best had the opposite quality. When he smiled it made me picture a cabinet with a healing light inside. The cabinet opened just a crack and troubles vanished in the radiant glow. When it closed you lived for the moment it swung open again. Did he think I was attractive or did he consider himself too old for me? Why did I make that joke about “halfway to dead” when he told me his age? I kept thinking about Mr. Best, if I'd done anything to intrigue him, whether I was flickering in his consciousness, if he even gave me a momentary thought, and as I began to absently massage my breasts it occurred to me that on my first evening in Stonehaven I should probably wait until everyone had gone to bed before masturbating. It had been forever since I had touched myself, and it was disorienting to be contemplating it now. Before the incident I would think about sex a lot. The absence of desire was not something you noticed but when it returned your thoughts converged like filings on all the magnetic places. Were the effects of the meds starting to dissipate?

In the bathroom down the hall I threw cold water on my face. The mirror was a comfort because, instead of reflecting back the scaly visage of a hideous ogre, I saw a relatively pretty nineteen-year-old girl whose false smile could pass for real in low light. Yet Mr. Best didn't seem the slightest bit interested. He still hadn't responded to the text, which didn't really surprise me. Maybe I'd send him a book, or some of my poems with a note asking him to tell me what he thought. I could send him the book first, to soften him up. It's not good to ask people for stuff right away.

The glimmering landscape faded and Edward P arrived home. He appeared in my room with a bottle of beer in his hand and welcomed me to Connecticut, then asked me to join him in the driveway.

—Just got it today, Edward P said. What do you think?

—It's cool, I said since that's what he wanted to hear.

The gleaming red Tesla glowed prosperously in the outdoor lights. Cody sat in the driver's seat, a maniacal glint in his eye, hands gripping the steering wheel, wrenching it side to side. Marshall stood next to Edward P and me in front of the car, regarding his brother as if he were a chimp in a cage. Moths flitted around us in the warm evening.

—Marshall, our father said, don't let me catch you driving this thing.

—Why would I want to?

Edward P looked at him curiously. He didn't quite know what to make of Marshall. Cody's uncomplicated aggression was more understandable to him.

—And Spaulding, that goes double for you.

—Can you teach me how to drive?

—Sure, he said, with no enthusiasm. Are you sure you're ready?

—What's that supposed to mean?

Edward P looked at me uneasily. He didn't want to get into it but I could tell he was wondering if I was stable enough to get behind the wheel of a car. I'm fine! I wanted to yell, to pound on his chest. That whole thing last Christmas was a great big holiday-wrapped mistake! Dr. Margaret told me that the only way I could ever convince anyone would be with behavior, not words. Hurricane Katrina appeared at the kitchen door and announced that dinner was ready. Edward P told Cody to get out of the car.

—One more minute, Cody said.

—Get your little butt out of there now, Edward P commanded.

Cody dejectedly followed the order. After slamming the door he spotted a moth that had landed on the hood of the car and promptly crushed it.

—Goddammit, Cody! Can we wait a day before we screw up the paint job?

Edward P took out a handkerchief and wiped up the remains of the insect as my chastened little brother slinked toward the house.

—Sucks to be a moth, Marshall said.

By the time we sat at the table the incident was forgotten and the usual awkwardness returned. Katrina had made crab salad and turkey burgers that we ate quietly while she and Edward P talked about an upcoming reunion of his college sailing team that they planned to attend as a family.

—You're welcome to come, too, Spall, my father said.

—We'd love it if you came, Hurricane Katrina said.

—Maybe I will, I said, because I thought that's what normal sounded like.

—I hate sailing, Marshall said.

—That's enough, Marshall, my father said.

I made a point of clearing the table and helping with the dishes without being asked. Marshall jumped up to assist.

—They always make me go, he said when the two of us were in the kitchen. And I just want to leap off the boat.

We finished cleaning up and Katrina ordered the boys to take showers. The kitchen was large and airy with an island in the middle and a breakfast area that looked over the backyard. Katrina sat in a bar chair at the island and tried to talk to me which was nice but we didn't have a lot in common. Her life revolved around looking after the boys, playing tennis, and selling houses. She told me she wasn't crazy about sailing either but did it because you have to do things together when you're married. When Marshall and Cody reappeared in their pajamas Katrina asked me to tell her if I needed anything then went upstairs. My brothers and I were in the den watching some movie with aliens and robots—they watched, I coped—when the text arrived.