Lila Blue (9 page)

"Only wine, hardly anything
else."

"Okay, Mom. I need to go now,"
I said. "We'll talk again tomorrow."

"Sandy?" she said.

"Love you, Mom. Bye." I
hung up the phone and fell back onto the little bed. I stared at the rainbow
colors of the quilt hanging on the wall in my room until the colors pulsed back
and forth like an optical illusion.

I was so disappointed in my mother.
I thought I wasn't letting myself get my hopes up about her changing, but deep
down I really hoped she would stop drinking. I thought Roger might be able to
help her imagine a better way to live. I didn't want her to continue in the
bartender, expensive wine, seasonal boyfriend groove she'd worn for herself. I
wanted something better for her. I wanted something better for me. I wanted
sober.

Over the next few days, I avoided
my mom's phone calls, and after the second time, Lila said, "I need to
talk to you about something, Cassandra."

I was washing dinner dishes, and
she was drying them and putting them away. I was afraid she was going to make
me be nice to my mom, or even worse, maybe she was going to send me home. I
didn't say anything. I washed dishes until I couldn't find anything else in the
kitchen that needed doing.

"Come sit by me," Lila
said, and she took my hand, led me to the couch, and sat down beside me.
"We need to talk about your father."

"No, Grandma. I'm not
ready." I'd been so happy that I wanted to pretend this was my life. I
didn't want to talk about my mom or dad or school starting in September. I
wanted to be in a fantasy bubble where time stopped.

She sighed and sat back on the
couch. The sun had gone down, and there were a few people down at the tide line
on the beach below us. They had flashlights that made streaks of light zip back
and forth on the dark sand.

"I notice you're not talking
to your mother," Lila said.

I was so relieved she didn't dump a
whole load of impeccable truth about my father on me that I was willing to talk
about my mother. "She's drinking again."

"Okay," Lila said.
"Remember the communication rule? The solve problems wisely rule? When you
avoid talking to people, their imaginations tend to scare them senseless."

"I'm mad at her. I want her to
be sober. Rule number two," I said. I huffed and crossed my arms over my
chest.

"Tell her that, Cassandra.
Tell her the truth in the kindest way you can. Tell her what you feel, what you
want."

"She always lies to me. Why
should I talk to her at all?"

"People learn best by example,
Cassandra. Be a good example to your mother. Give her a chance to learn from
you."

"But I'm so mad, what if I
start yelling at her?"

"Don't be afraid," she
said. She put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. "If you start
yelling, you can stop and start over. Shouting never helps anyone hear the
truth. Whispering is more effective. Let your heart talk to her heart. I know you
love each other. Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you want. Try it."

"Okay. Tomorrow I will."

"Good. I'm proud of you."

We sat staring out at the sea. A
neighbor down the way turned on outdoor spotlights that illuminated the crests
of the waves. Pretty soon our breathing synchronized with the flowing pattern
of sparkling white surf against the night.

When it was bedtime, Lila wished me
sweet dreams and said, "Cassandra, we need to talk about your father
before Mark and Jamie arrive. There won't be much privacy after that."

"Okay Grandma," I said.
"Just not tonight." I'd had enough serious discussion for one
evening.

"The sooner the better. This
is important."

I should have chosen sooner.
Important couldn't begin to describe the magnitude of this piece of the jigsaw
puzzle of my life. I should have kept Lila up all night talking about my
father. Instead I let another day go by, trying to prolong my fantasy bubble
world.

The next morning, I spent our beach
walk rehearsing how I would talk to my mom. I decided to keep it short and
sweet.

Lila had Mondays and Tuesdays off,
so it was the start of her weekend. She had business in town, and instead of
going with her, I stayed home to call Janice.

Nervous about talking to her, I
paced back and forth all over Lila's house, which annoyed Chloe and Zoe so much
they slept on Lila's bed instead of their regular spot on the couch. Finally I
went in my bedroom, closed the door, sat on the bed, and called Janice. It felt
like a showdown, but I kept repeating Lila's advice to myself, whisper, heart
to heart, whisper.

I knew my mom would be upset about
me avoiding her calls, so I started right out by apologizing.

"Mom, it's Cassandra," I
said. "I'm sorry for not calling sooner. I had to think about what I
wanted to say."

"Sandy, I was so worried. Are
you okay? The news said someone was hurt by a big wave up there."

"I'm fine. Please listen to
me, okay?"

"No. You listen to me. Do you
know what you put me though? I barely slept last night."

"I'm sorry Mother. I am."
I waited for a while, breathing deeply thinking, whisper, whisper.

"Well, what is it then, Sandy.
What's so important?"

"Mom, I'm sad that you started
drinking again."

"How dare you," she
squealed. "I'm a good mother. What's gotten into you? Has Lila filled your
head with lies?"

"No. I want you to be happy. I
want us to be happy."

"I am happy," she said,
raising her voice even further. "If you're not happy with me, that's your
problem. You're as bad as Roger."

"I love you, Mom," I
said, keeping my voice soft, "I love you." To my surprise, tears
starting falling and I couldn't speak.

"Sandy? What's wrong, baby?
Are you crying?"

I told her again I was fine, but my
voice was teary and small.

"Let me talk to Lila,"
she said. "I want you home. You can catch the next bus. I'm tired of
dealing with you over the phone. You're coming home."

"No," I said, way too
loudly. I forced myself to calm down. "No, Mother, I'm really fine. I want
to stay here for now. Please."

"Put your grandmother on the
phone. Now."

"She's out. She can call as
soon as she gets home."

"Who's there with you, Sandy?
Let me talk to the sitter."

I knew better than to hang up the
phone, but I couldn't think of an honest way out of this mess, so I said
nothing.

"Don't hang up on me,"
she said.

"Mom, listen, we're both upset
right now. When is a good time for me to call you back?"

"Don't put me off again,
Sandy. I'm warning you."

"Mother, please. I love you. I
want to talk to you when we are both calm. We need to talk heart to
heart."

Several seconds passed, and the
silence was heavy and full.

"I have to get ready for
work," she said. "Okay. Call me at ten in the morning."

"Thank you. I'll call you.
Have a good time at work."

"Baby, I love you. I'm sorry I
yelled. I still want you to come home."

"Goodbye, Mother," I
said, taking a deep breath, feeling I'd run a long race and was right at the
finish line.

"Sandy?" she said.
"Is this about your brothers?"

Her words had sound but no meaning.
It was as if she'd spoken a foreign language. Several seconds went by while I
tried to understand what she had said. "Mom?" I finally asked,
stunned.

"Tomorrow," she said, too
brightly. "Love you."

After she hung up the phone, I sat
on the bed holding the receiver until a buzzer alarm signal started bleeping in
my ear. My arm put the phone down, but my brain was still stuck on that
impossible word.

When I came out of shock, Lila's
house was too small to contain my rage. I wanted to destroy something.
Anything. I had to get outside before I exploded.

On the front porch the basket of
shells and rocks offended me. My new understanding of the world would not allow
that basket to sit peacefully through sunshine and rain and wind. I grabbed
handfuls of shells and clear stones and threw them over the cliff, but even
though some were heavy and serrated, they seemed as insubstantial as cotton
balls.

Finally I hurled the whole basket
down the stairs and stumbled downstairs after it, kicking stones out of my way
with my bare feet. Near the bottom of the stairway, the basket lay overturned
in spiny beach grass. I grabbed the basket and bashed it into the seawall over
and over until the thick woven reeds separated, tore, and sprang apart, leaving
nothing but brittle debris.

Finding nothing else at hand to
bash, I turned and ran as hard as I could into the ocean, slamming through the
surf until a wave knocked me over.

The icy water did nothing to cool
the fire burning in me, but being slapped down by the wave made me feel small
and vulnerable and weak, as well as angry. I was powerless, slapped down by
lies and secrets and betrayals.

I hated those feelings worse than I
hated the rage, so I slogged back to the beach and ran north, into a wind that
stung my eyes.

 I wanted to scream and cry and
curse, but everything was tangled up inside me so much that nothing came out my
mouth. The only way I could express myself was through my bare feet on the wet
sand, pounding pounding pounding. My arms pumped at my sides and the sound of
air rushing in and out of my body matched the throbbing of blood through my
veins at my temples and throat. Every cell of my body was flooded with poison.

Near the base of the cliff at the
end of the beach, I fell over gasping. Never had I run so hard or so far, and
there was a stabbing pain under my ribs on my left side every time I inhaled.

After a few minutes, the stabbing
went away, and I became aware that my wet sandy jeans had rubbed raw places on
my legs. The skin between my knees and above my ankles burned so badly I
imagined blood instead of salty water wetting my legs.

Pain brought me back to myself, and
I felt ashamed and pitiful. I curled into a ball and cried, but instead of the
tears making me feel better, they made me feel worse. I wanted to die, and I
begged God to let me die, please, let me die, right here and now. Get it over
with. Death sounded like the answer to all my problems. I was ready. I wanted
my life to end right there in the wet sand.

"Oh dear," said a woman
bending over me. "Miss?" she said. "Are you hurt?"

When I didn't answer, the gray
woman leaned closer to me and touched my arm. "Young lady," she said.
"Should I call Rescue? Is anything broken? Can you talk?"

"No," I said, pushing her
away. "Leave me alone. Please." I flushed hot with shame and did my
best to stand up and appear whole.

"You're hurt," she said,
"and you're soaked to the skin. Can you walk?"

"Yes. I'm fine." I
started back down the beach, trying to run, but not being able to manage more
than a limping jog. My raw skin hurt so much when I moved my legs that I
couldn't suppress my tears.

"Wait," she said.
"My house is right here. Come with me. I'll give you a ride. You need to
get out of those wet things. Come."

"No. Please. I'm almost
home." I ran then, not caring how much it hurt.

"Take care of yourself,
child," she called after me. "A warm bath. You'll catch your
death."

I wish I could catch my death, I
thought to myself, furious at the old woman for trying to help me.

The wind pushed me home, and when I
got to the bottom of the stairs, Lila was waiting for me. She wrapped me in the
quilt from her bed and pushed me up the stairs ahead of her.

Inside the house, Lila didn't scold
me or demand explanations or say anything at all. She looked sad, kind, and
old. She helped me out of the wet clothes, and she groaned when she saw the raw
places I'd rubbed at my knees and ankles. I stood there like a baby and let her
help me. I felt drained and empty inside, like a brittle shell.

When I came out of the shower,
dressed in my nightgown and robe, Lila handed me two wet tea bags. "Hold
these over the burns on your legs, Cassandra. The tannic acid discourages
infection and helps skin heal."

I did as she said, lying face up on
a towel on the floor in the living room so the black tea drips wouldn't stain
the couch. Lila tucked a pillow under my head and fluffed afghans all around
me. I was a baby bird in a feathered nest.

I kept waiting for Lila to lecture
me, and I was all ready to accuse her of lying when she did, but she didn't say
anything. Her silence made my shame and self-pity even worse. I'd broken nearly
all Lila's rules in one afternoon. I was afraid she'd never forgive me, afraid
she'd tell my mom, but mostly afraid she'd send me away forever.

Instead of punishing me, Lila
brought me a tray with cool water and warm honeyed tea and a dish of lemon drop
cookies, my favorite from The Bakery Boys.

Without a word, she returned to the
kitchen where I could hear her preparing dinner. Chloe and Zoe were in there
helping her, and she carried on a cheerful conversation with them about the
adventures of their day. I drifted in and out of sleep, willing to believe the
afternoon hadn't happened.

I eased the tea poultices off my
legs and studied my wounds. The ones on the inside of my knees were bad, but
they weren't nearly as bad as I had imaged. The black tea left my pale skin
slightly stained, so it seemed I had two square birthmarks over the burns. The
ankle burns were only thumbnail size, and they barely hurt at all. I would live
after all.

I sat up, put the tea bags on the
tray, and sipped water. After a while, Lila called me to dinner, so I carefully
folded all the afghans and put them away, took the towel I'd been lying on to
the laundry basket, and carried the tea tray to the kitchen.

I didn't say anything during
dinner, and neither did Lila. We ate pork chops with gravy, steamed green
beans, and fresh bread. The food was warm and comforting. We washed and dried
dishes in silence, and when we were through, Lila went to her piano and played
some classical music I'd never heard before.

I knew she was letting me choose
the time and place to open the communication door, but no matter how many ways
I approached it in my head, I couldn't find a way in.
I'm sorry
was
wrong.
Why didn't you tell me?
sounded bratty.
Don't send me away
was too needy, even though it kept coming back as my top priority.

How do you open a door to a
lifetime of secrets, really big secrets that could break your heart all over
again? Wasn't it better to keep that door closed forever?