Second Child (22 page)

Tag’s head tilted slightly and he placed his hands on his hips. Melissa had been like a sister to him almost since the day she was born, and she’d never been very good at hiding her feelings from him. “So if you’re okay, how come you’re crying?”

“I’m not crying,” Melissa replied.

Tag shrugged. “Big deal—you were a minute ago. What
happened?” When Melissa still hesitated, he moved toward her. “You might as well tell me,” he said. “I’ll just keep pestering you till you do.”

Almost against her will, a tiny smile crept into the corners of Melissa’s mouth. “You can’t. You have to get the ivy off the wall, and if you don’t do it, I might tell Mother on you.”

“Sure,” Tag agreed. “And I might jump over the moon.”

A giggle escaped Melissa’s lips, and she fell in next to Tag as they started walking toward the house. By the time they came to the tangle of ivy that was heaped on the ground next to the east wall, Melissa had told him what happened at the club. “I know I can’t beat her,” she said, sighing heavily. “But how come she has to make a fool of me?”

’Cause she’s mean as shit, Tag thought, but decided he’d better keep the words to himself. Then, his eyes falling on the machete, he had an idea. “You want to beat up on her?” he asked. Melissa frowned in puzzlement.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you should try doing what I do,” he said. “Sometimes, when I get real pissed off at someone, I start hacking away with the machete, and pretend whatever I’m hacking at is the person I’m mad at.” He handed the machete to Melissa, and nodded toward the heap of ivy. “I’ve got to chop all that up to get it out of here anyway,” he went on. “Try it.”

Melissa gazed at Tag for a few seconds, trying to decide if he was serious. At last she reached out and took the machete from him. She grasped it with her right hand, but when Tag released it, she almost lost her grip.

“Careful,” Tag cautioned. “If you drop it on your foot, you can kiss your toes good-bye.”

Melissa grasped the handle of the huge blade with both hands, eyeing the pile of ivy. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “I feel stupid.”

“Who are you mad at?” Tag countered.

“My … my mom.”

Tag tilted his head toward the pile of vines. “Then pretend that’s her,” he said.

Melissa stared at the pile of ivy, trying to figure out how
she could pretend that it was her mother. Then she had an idea.

She pictured the ivy as hair.

Human hair.

Her mother’s hair.

And suddenly her rage of a few moments ago, the rage she had carefully gotten under control as she walked home from the club, welled up inside her.

“I hate you!” The words erupted from her, and as she spoke them she raised the machete over her head. A second later it arced downward, and as the blade slashed through the tangle of vines, she imagined it was her mother she was hitting.

She slashed at the ivy again, and inside her she could feel the dam she’d built around her anger begin to crumble. Her pent-up fury raged like a torrent, down into her arms and out the slashing, hacking blade of the heavy machete. She kept at it, moving forward a step at a time as the pile of vines disintegrated under her attack.

She pushed on, chopping away at the vines, and as her arms rose and fell, she kept seeing and hearing her mother over and over again.

Ridiculing her clothes, criticizing her figure, correcting her manners.

Standing over her bed, the dreaded restraints held in her hands.

The machete kept moving, rising and falling, as Melissa slashed away at the hateful images.

Then, as suddenly as the rage had built up inside her, it was gone.

She dropped the machete to the ground and stood panting for a moment as she stared at the destruction she’d caused. And then she heard Tag’s voice behind her.

“Feel better?”

She blinked, and turned around to face him. Her arms were sore from swinging the blade and she was sweating all over.

But she felt better.

The anger—the simmering fury that had threatened to overwhelm her only a few minutes before—was gone. A crooked grin spread across her face. “That’s weird,” she
breathed. She was silent for a moment. “But it felt good. Really good.”

An hour later, his match with Teri over and Teri herself already involved in another—this time with Brett Van Arsdale—Charles sank down at a table on the terrace and gratefully took a sip of the drink Phyllis had ordered for him. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said, finally catching his breath. “Whoever taught her how to play did a good job.”

Phyllis, watching Teri volley with Brett, smiled happily. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she? And isn’t this nice, finally being able to spend a Sunday morning at the club while our daughter plays tennis with her friends?”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. His voice took on a hard edge. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he said, dropping his voice so only Phyllis could hear it,
“our
daughter went home in tears, thanks to you. Just once in a while you could give her a break.”

Phyllis’s smile froze on her lips. “I’m just trying to do what’s right for her,” she countered. “You’re not helping her by constantly letting her win.” She paused for a moment, waving to Kay Fielding, who nodded back at her, then returned her attention to her husband. “She’s not stupid, you know—she knows exactly what you’re doing, and all it does is undermine her self-confidence even more.”

Charles took another sip of his drink while he considered his wife’s words. Was she right?
Was
he spoiling Melissa? Probably he was—after all, during the summers, he only got to see her on weekends, and even when they were in the city he was often so busy he only had an hour or so a day for her.

And he still remembered what Burt Andrews had told him two years ago, when Melissa’s sleepwalking had first manifested itself. The morning that Cora had found her in the little room in the attic, sound asleep, with no memory of how she’d gotten there, neither he nor Phyllis had had any idea of what to do. But at last he’d called their family doctor in the city, who had immediately recommended a psychiatrist in Portland. And Andrews, if nothing else, had at least eased their worries.

Sleepwalking, he’d told them, was not in and of itself a terribly serious problem. He’d suggested a light restraint—just something strong enough to wake Melissa up when she started to leave her bed at night.

But most of Andrews’s advice had been directed at Charles himself: “You have to be careful, Mr. Holloway. All fathers have a tendency to spoil their daughters, and since you gave Teri up to her mother, you’re going to have a very strong tendency to over-indulge Melissa. It’s simply a matter of guilt.”

“But I don’t feel guilty,” Charles had replied. “I gave up Teri because it was best for her. It was either that or drag her through the courts for God-only-knows how long.”

“I’m not arguing that,” the doctor had interrupted. “I’m sure you did exactly the right thing. But I’m afraid guilt isn’t rational, and no matter how logical your actions were, you’re going to have to guard against spoiling Melissa to compensate for your subconscious feelings that you abandoned Teri. It puts both Melissa and your wife in a difficult position. Phyllis becomes cast as the disciplinarian, and Melissa gets mixed messages from her parents, and becomes confused. And out of the confusion …” His voice had trailed off, leaving the thought hanging, but Charles had understood it perfectly well.

Whatever Melissa’s problems were, the root of them lay within himself.

And Andrews, he supposed now, was probably right. But still …

“I guess I just don’t see how humiliating her in public is going to help,” he began. Before he could go on, Phyllis cut him off.

“And I don’t see how airing our dirty laundry at the club is going to help anything at all,” she said, her voice brittle.

Charles’s eyes fixed coldly on his wife, and when he spoke, his voice had a note to it that told her she had pushed him far enough. “Then don’t do it,” he said. “If you can’t bring yourself to let Melissa have some fun at tennis—no matter how poorly she plays—then don’t play with her at all.”

Phyllis’s jaw set angrily, but she said nothing, and for the next half hour the two of them sat at their table,
nodding to the people who passed by, talking briefly with Marty and Paula Barnstable when they paused on their way to brunch.

To each other, they spoke not another word.

“Ready to go home?” Charles asked Teri after she’d finally lost her match with Brett and joined them at the table.

Teri’s brows rose questioningly. “I thought we were staying for brunch.”

Charles smiled sympathetically. “I know, but don’t you think we ought to go see how Melissa’s doing?”

Phyllis stirred in her chair, her head turning almost imperceptibly toward her husband. “Why don’t you go?” she suggested. “Teri and I can stay here, and perhaps Melissa might feel like coming back with you.”

“No,” Charles said, his tone once more conveying that he would stand for no argument. “I can’t imagine she’d want to come back here today, and I don’t blame her. So if you’re finished with your drink …” He let his voice trail off, signed the check, and rose to his feet.

Phyllis, on the verge of arguing, suddenly changed her mind, but did her best to smile at Teri. “When your father makes up his mind,” she said, not quite bringing off her attempt to make light of their quarrel, “it just doesn’t do any good to argue with him.”

Ignoring his wife’s comment, Charles strode across the terrace, Teri hurrying after him. Phyllis, seething silently, followed more slowly, deliberately taking her time.

Ten minutes later, as they climbed up the gentle rise from the beach to the edge of the lawn, Phyllis came to a sudden halt. On the lawn in front of the house, Melissa and Tag were engaged in a playful wrestling match, with Blackie doing his best to join in.

“Melissa!” Phyllis called, the sharpness in her voice instantly bringing her daughter to her feet. “How many times have I told you you’re too old for that sort of thing? You’re a teenager now, and I expect you to act like one.” She strode across the lawn, but as she approached Melissa, Blackie put himself between the two of them, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

Phyllis stopped short, glaring at the dog, then turned her anger toward Tag. “This is the last time I’m going to
tell you, Tag. If you can’t keep that dog under control, I’m going to get rid of it. And as for you, young lady,” she went on, refocusing on Melissa, her eyes raking the grass stains on her daughter’s white shorts and blouse, “I want you to get upstairs right now and get yourself cleaned up. Those clothes you’re wearing are brand new, and I’ll be surprised if they’re not ruined.”

Her happiness while playing with Tag having evaporated like dew in the morning sun, Melissa turned and fled into the house.

“Very good, Phyllis,” Charles said tightly before he hurried after his younger daughter. “At this rate, we should have her back to Dr. Andrews before the end of the summer.”

Teri lay restlessly on her bed. A book was propped on her lap, but she was no longer even trying to concentrate on its pages. Instead, her mind kept replaying the scene after dinner, when her father had left to go back to the city for the week.

Once again she’d stood silently to one side while he gathered Melissa into his arms, whispering into her ear, making plans with her for the next weekend. Finally, glancing at his watch, he’d turned to Teri, giving her a quick hug.

“Take care of Melissa for me?” he’d asked.

Take care of Melissa! What was she? A baby-sitter? Wasn’t it bad enough that Melissa had thrown one of her tantrums at the club and ruined brunch for everyone? But she’d given her father her sweetest smile and promised to take care of her half sister. “We’ll have a great time,” she’d said. “Maybe I’ll even give her some tennis lessons.”

That, she reflected now, would be a real thrill. She could picture herself, standing in the center of the private court behind the swimming pool, lobbing one easy shot
after another to Melissa and keeping up a steady stream of encouragement, no matter how clumsy her half sister might be.

“Good, Melissa! That’s a lot better!”

“Great shot, Melissa! Right past me.”

The whole idea of it made her want to throw up, but she could do it—she
would
do it, if she had to.

Just as long as Melissa kept thinking of her as her best friend.

And by the time Melissa caught on, if she ever did, it would be too late.

Far too late.

She shifted on the narrow bed, her hips aching slightly from the too-hard mattress, and an image of Melissa flashed into her mind, lying in her own oversized bed in the huge room next door.

My room, Teri thought. My room, in my house, with my father.

But not for long.

She got out of bed, pulling on her bathrobe as she moved restlessly to the open window. Outside, a thin layer of fog was drifting in from the sea-—no more than a gentle swirl of mist that eddied around the treetops, blurring their forms just enough to give them an eerie, ghostly look.

D’Arcy weather, Teri thought to herself. Just the kind of night when a ghost would be wandering around the beach.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a nearly inaudible whining sound, followed by a faint scratching noise.

Blackie.

It had to be the dog, sniffing around the back door, trying to sneak into the house again.

Maybe she should let him in. She could bring him upstairs and slip him into Melissa’s room.

And in the morning …

Her mind shifted gears as another idea came to her. She thought about it for a few seconds, playing it out.

It would work.

She went to the highboy next to her closet door and opened the top drawer, feeling around until her hands
closed on the string of pearls her father had sent her for Christmas last year, the string of pearls identical to the ones in Melissa’s own drawer. Slipping them into the pocket of her robe, she went into the bathroom, listening for a few seconds at the closed door to Melissa’s room.