Spoils (5 page)

My mom sits at the breakfast bar, perched on a stool with her back to me. I'm in no mood to recount how class went, and strangely reluctant to mention that Gavin is back in town. Seeing him again after all these years has stirred up some weird feelings. Like how hard I tried not to like him and how awkward it's going to be having him as my lab partner. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Mom didn't notice me walk by, I have a clear shot to the staircase, but something about the way she's sitting stops me.

Her face is buried in her hands. There's a mess of paperwork on the counter. Even from the doorway I can see they're all bank statements and bills. The phone is next to her.

“Mom?” Her shoulders stiffen at the sound of my voice but she doesn't turn around. “You okay?” But damn it, it's obvious she's not. “Bad news, Mom?”

She wipes her eyes roughly, shaking her head before turning to face me. Her hair is messy and her blue eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.

“No, no, sweetie. Everything's fine. I'm surprised you're not still at Steeped.” She touches her hair, smoothing it in place, a nervous habit of hers. Her bandaged thumb catches in her hair and she hisses in painful surprise. Then she grabs the paperwork, shoving it in a haphazard pile, covering it like it's a stack of porn.

I reach out to touch her good hand and she jumps with a guilty conscience.

“You don't have to pretend, Mom.”

The phone rings and the sudden noise makes her eyes well with tears. It rings and rings and we both wait silently for the shrill intruder to stop.

It stops after five rings.

“Mom,” I say. “I can handle it. What's going on?”

There's a mulish look on her face. My mother has never admitted we're having financial difficulties. She likes everyone to think everything is perfect. And certainly, in front of me, the baby, she likes to be fully in charge, a soccer mom in her domain. But I'm not ten and it's my trust fund that she's counting on. If there were any other way, she wouldn't let me spend a penny of it on her. Which makes it that much harder not to give it all to her. She deserves it. She deserves everything good I have to give her.

“Okay, then, I'll guess,” I say, sitting on the stool next to her. “The bank wants to foreclose on the house because we can't pay the mortgage?”

Her chin wobbles.

“It's okay, Mom.” I lay my hand over hers, the one that covers the paperwork pile. The bandaged one. “I've known for a while there are problems.”

“It's not a problem,” she says stubbornly. “There have been some misunderstandings.” She glares at the phone. “There have been…miscommunications. That's the problem with a big corporation, there's not a human being to talk to. Every time I call, someone else answers the phone and no one knows what the other person promised, or what agreements we made. One person agrees to something and then the next time I call, some idiot says there's no record of what we agreed on. It's so aggravating!” Then she catches herself, and tries to smile at me. It's an unnatural smile and I feel pained about how oblivious I've been to her distress. Some of what I'm thinking must show on my face, and unlike me, my mom doesn't miss it. She waves her free hand as if blowing away a bad smell. “None of it really matters. We'll sort it all through. By next week, I'm sure we'll see eye to eye.” She sneaks a quick glance at me to gauge my reaction.

I squirm with guilt that I'm not being honest with her, that I'm letting her assume all these financial problems will disappear next week. Because maybe they won't. More and more I think that “fixing it” is not fixing my parents' debts.

“Really,” I say noncommittally.

She nods a bit uncertainly. I won't look at her, suddenly furious.
It's your own fault,
I think.
You created this mess. You and Dad blew away more money than the GDP of some countries.
Some of what I'm thinking must show on my face again. My mom presses her lips together, then forces her hand off the paperwork and makes a show of examining a small chip in her manicure. It's fuchsia, very Florida lady-of-the-manor. She used to wear only clear nail polish, back before the win. I remember her saying it was both flattering and practical since you can never tell when it chips.

“And of course this is coming at the absolutely worst time,” she says, in the false cheerful voice of the put-upon. “I'm still waiting to hear from the florist if the lilies came in like she promised they would. The caterer called to say they won't be able to serve chilled berries in cream, your very favorite dish, because there was flooding in California that ruined their raspberry crop. Honestly! I told them they grow berries in Chile, what's the big deal? Drive down to Costco and pick up some. But they insist no one is selling them. So now we have to figure out what to serve instead. What do you think of smoothies served in tiny shot glasses? That could be cute, right? Maybe with a little swirl of whipped cream on top? I saw some in a magazine and they were adorable.”

I keep forgetting she's planning a big party for my eighteenth birthday.

“I thought we were getting the food from Natasha's vendors,” I say in disbelief.

“We're getting the scones and finger sandwiches but I thought we needed a couple of signature dishes to jazz it up. A tea party is a nice idea, but we don't want to look cheap.”

“Mom, I don't even want a party,” I say, for the millionth time. “I don't need one.”

Florists? Caterers? The only reason I agreed to a party was because it would be at Steeped and, I assumed, practically free. It's not like I have a ton of friends to invite anyway.

“Who's coming?” I ask in sudden horror.

“Not that many people, really. Although a lot of people haven't RSVP'd, which means, of course, that they might be coming anyway.”

“How many, though?”

“Fifty?” she guesses.

I close my eyes.
Come on.
I want to shake her.
We're broke!

“You were born three weeks early,” my mom says suddenly. “It caught us completely by surprise. I couldn't even believe I was having true labor. I kept thinking it was some cramps, nothing serious, until it got so intense that Dad called the neighbors, told them to come watch the kids and pushed me in the car.”

I've heard this story before. I used to ask her to tell it to me all the time.

“Thirty minutes after we arrived at the hospital, you were born. I barely made it to the room in the maternity ward and the whole time, as I'm trying to breathe through the labor pains, I say, ‘It can't be the baby, it isn't time yet!' ” She laughs at the memory and looks at me with her eyes shining. “And there you were, tiny and perfect. The nurse wrapped you up and handed you to me. You had been screaming but as soon as you felt me, you stopped crying and looked up at me with your big, beautiful green eyes and I said, ‘Hi there,' and Dad said, ‘Well, what do you know, it is the baby.' We all laughed and laughed because there you were. You were so beautiful that all the nurses on the floor stopped by to take a look. My little miracle.” She swallows. “I never understood why you were born early. But now I do. Everything happens for a reason.” She draws a shaky breath. “We can't wait three weeks, honey. The bank wants to start foreclosure procedures next week. Your birthday is coming right in the nick of time.”

I suddenly unwish wanting her to flat-out ask for the money. It's so much worse this way.

“I don't know what we'd do otherwise.” She wipes her eyes, leaving smears of black liner on her fingers.

“Mom…,” I start.

“I didn't want to tell you,” she says. “None of this should concern you. I hate that you know any of it.”

“But—”

“I know, you're old enough to handle it,” she finishes for me, misunderstanding what I was trying to say. “I know you are, sweetie.” She touches my face softly and squeezes my shoulder. “You're so grown-up and amazing. You are. You are an incredible person but to me you'll always be my little girl. My perfect little baby surprise. And this financial mess isn't anything you should have to deal with.”

“But, Mom,” I say. “What's wrong with our old house? I liked it. I liked our neighbors. I liked the kids who lived on the corner. I liked our orange tree.”

She smiles fondly.

“It was a sweet little house. We had a lot of happy years there.”

“Exactly.”

But she doesn't get it.

“Once we get this mess fixed, I'll have a big party,” she says, with that old spark of excitement. “We'll spruce up the house a bit, you know, get some new furniture, freshen up the paint, and then I'll invite the old block. What do you think? Something to look forward to, isn't it?”

“No, Mom! No more parties!” I want to bang my head against the wall. “We don't need new furniture! We don't need a big party! I don't need a birthday party! We don't have the money and I don't have fifty friends! This party isn't even for me.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, clearly offended. “I thought you'd appreciate a party for your birthday. I've put a lot of time and work into it. And believe me, I kept the cost down. It would have been much more expensive if I hadn't pinched every penny until it squeaked!”

“We should move back to our old neighborhood,” I blurt out. “We never sold our old house, we could move back into it. We lived there just fine and we could do it again and everything will go back to the way it was.”

She forces a titter and rolls her eyes.

“Move back there? Honey, you don't remember, but it's not a great neighborhood. There were break-ins. The school zone is awful. There was a drug bust three houses down a couple of years ago. There's no way we'd live there. Not to mention that your memory is playing tricks on you. If you saw our tiny little 3/2 now, you'd never be able to live there. Old terrazzo floors, a tiny, sandy yard full of fire ants and weeds.”

“This isn't about me, Mom,” I snap back. “You're the one who's too good to live there now.”

She's out of her seat, rising to her full height.

“How dare you talk to me like that, young lady.” The fond, proud look is gone. “You are not too old to be grounded! When did you become such a spoiled, ungrateful child?”

I stand up too, and we're the same height. Our fists are clenched by our sides and both of us have our chins forward in a pugnacious tilt.

“I am going to say it, because you need to hear it. How did we get here? You and Dad got us here!” I gesture at the bills but in my anger, I misjudge and knock the pile over. They scatter and flutter like birds set free. We both stare at the mess. Bills and statements are everywhere, on the floor, on the counter, on the chairs.

“Oh, crap,” I say sadly.

“It wasn't our fault, honey,” my mom says, her anger deflated in the face of this mess, physical and metaphorical. “We had the worst luck. The investments…then the economy turned at the worst moment, no one could have known that would happen.…”

I don't want to hear the excuses. With a sigh, I kneel down to pick up the papers.

“No,” she says, stopping me. “I'll do it.”

“But it's my fault. Let me help.”

“No,” she says firmly. “I'll clean up. Go do your homework. You don't want to fall behind.”

She's not furious anymore and neither am I. But nothing has been cleared up and I still haven't told her I might not give over the money. It's hard to do it in the face of her quiet dignity and defeat.

“We can't move back to the old house,” she says tiredly, kneeling by the bills on the floor. “We haven't paid the taxes on it in three years. There's almost ten thousand dollars due. The county's putting it up for auction soon.” She speaks so quietly, it's almost a whisper.

My deflating anger leaves me empty and all stretched out. I bend down again to help pick up the mess but she shoos me away. “Go do your homework.”

“Okay, Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “I love you, you know.”

She nods, still kneeling, and I can't see her face.

“I know you do,” she says, her voice nearly muffled. “I know.”

I leave her on her knees in the kitchen, picking up the mess we all made.

Climbing the wide staircase, grasping the railing, its tendrils of wrought iron like frozen vines from some enchanted land, I have never felt more alone.

Give all my trust away?
I ask, my heart pounding at the thought of an angel visit right here in my house. Yet I have to ask.
How will that fix this?

But angels don't answer unsolicited questions. Maybe he's busy with other chores. All is quiet as I slowly trek upstairs. There are only us lost human souls in the house and we have to make our way as best we can.

I used to be dismissive of people who prayed to God for answers. My literal, scientific mind used to believe that unless some heavenly voice answered you with the correct answer, you were wasting your time. You might as well be asking your invisible friend what she thinks about the situation.

Yet even without a dramatic reply, simply asking the question calms me. Giving the money away is the starting point. But it has to be done right, or it's as pointless as all the spending my family has already done. My money has to buy the right thing.

I have eight days to figure out what that is.

Jennifer was the first one who noticed Aiden wasn't acting right. Drew ignored her at first. All kids go through weird phases. Jennifer overreacted a lot, every fever meant a trip to the doctor, every scrape was gooped in antibacterial gel. Aiden was fine. Of course he was fine. He ate nothing but organic food. Slept in organic-cotton pajamas and played with wooden toys made in America and certified lead free. How could anything be seriously wrong with a three-year-old? But as Aiden started losing what the pediatrician called “milestones,” even Drew started to worry.