The Anatomical Shape of a Heart (23 page)

“Cabaret?” What in the world was that?

“A piano bar,” he elaborated. “Singers, not strippers.”

That's not what Mom had told us. But who was I going to believe? The woman who worked her ass off to keep a roof over our heads, or the man who abandoned us for a newer model?

“Strip club.” He said this like he was spitting out rancid food, shaking his head. It took me a second to realize he had darted a look toward the Jaguar.
That
was “Suzi”? No wonder Mom had gone ballistic. Suzi couldn't have been that much older than I was! And by then she was standing outside the Jag, arms crossed over her breasts. Wearing designer clothes, which my father had probably paid for.

I wanted to vomit.

My father just shook his head and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And I haven't been too busy to see you. Your mother won't let me near you or Heath.”

“Maybe that's because you're too
broke
to pay child support.” I used finger quotes on “broke” and crossed my arms over my chest, mimicking his new wife's stance. “Guess those car payments are more important than our utility bill.”

My father growled. “Oh, that's rich. Is that what she's telling you? She refused child support. It's in the divorce papers, Beatrix. Go look at them. She had her lawyer strike right over the payments. She said she wasn't taking a dime from me—that she'd rather the three of you live at the YMCA than accept a ‘handout' from me.” He, too, used finger quotes. And his Dutch accent began creeping out of his Stanford-educated crisp words.

“A likely story,” I said. But if I was being honest with myself, it did sound a little like Mom. A
lot
, really. But, still, she wouldn't have lied to us about something that big. Maybe there was a misunderstanding about the so-called cabaret—maybe—but not this. Not when we lost the house in Cole Valley. Not when she struggled to work twelve-hour graveyard shifts that barely kept us in generic shampoo and those weird-tasting tubes of discount ground beef.

“Not a story,” my father said firmly, hands on his waist, elbows pushing the tails of his sport coat back like angry wings. “Truth, Beatrix. It's the goddamn truth.”

“Truth is action, not words. Mom helps me with my homework. Mom cooks me dinner. Mom takes care of me when I'm sick.”

“I know she does.”

“Do you know? Really? Did you know Mom received a Distinguished Nurse award from the chancellor in May?”

“That's wonderful.”

“
She
's wonderful. And she's there every day for us. But what have you done? Have you even tried to write me or Heath a single postcard?

“As a matter of fact—”

“Did you know I lost all my friends when we were forced to move and I had to change schools? Did you know I'm one of the poorest kids in my class, and I've had to work since I was sixteen to pay my own cell phone bill and Muni pass? Did you know I can't afford to go to the college I want, and that I'm spending my summer busting my ass for an art project because the only way I can go to any school at all is to win a stupid scholarship in a competition? Did you know Heath has dropped out of two colleges and gotten in all kinds of trouble? You wanna know why? Because
you fucking left us
.”

His face jerked back as if I'd slapped him, but the hurt left as quickly as it had appeared, and the calm and reasonable Vice President Van Asch got control over himself. “I can't apologize forever.”

“Forever? Try once!”

“I'm sorry, Beatrix. I should've done better. Tried harder. But I want to now. It's one of the reasons I moved back—I took a provost position at Berkeley so I could be closer to you and Heath. Just let me try. Come have coffee with me. Meet Suzi—”

“Never.”

He was livid. And for a second, I saw a familiar look on his face—the same one he'd given me when I spilled a bottle of drawing ink on his precious Moroccan rug. He wanted to take me by the shoulders and shake me. His hand twitched, and he reached out as if he might just do it.

My shadow stepped between us.

Jack towered over Dad by a good head. And at that moment, with his face tight and his dark brows lowered, he looked like more of a man than my father.

“You don't want to do that,” Jack said in a deep, scarily calm voice.

Oh, my father
did not like this
. Not at all. And for a moment they were two bulls, one young, one middle-aged. One wrong word and they'd be going at it,
mano a mano.

“Lars,” a feminine voice called from behind him. His new wife, Suzi. It was a plea and a gentle warning. And it was enough to break up the pinballing tension.

“Let's go,” I said to Jack.

Without hesitation, he curled his arm around my shoulders and pulled me away from my father.

“Beatrix,” Dad said as we started to turn away from him. “Please contact me when you're ready. My university email address is on the campus website. We can talk on your terms.”

I stopped long enough to dig the artist's mannequin from my bag. My father's face twisted with hurt, eyes quietly pleading, and that made my throat catch. Just for a second. I steeled my resolve and hurled the mannequin down on the sidewalk between us. The carved body cracked at his feet, splintering in half.

23

The sky darkened as Jack and I strode down the sidewalk. Like the heavy clouds above us, I held myself together until we got back to Ghost. Both the quiet side street and the cover provided by tree branches drooping over our parking space must've given my brain the illusion of shelter, because once I shut the Corvette's door against the sudden deluge of rain, I let go and broke down.

It wasn't pretty.

The older, cooler fantasy me was horrified to be ugly-crying in front of Jack. But the present me was hurting too much to care. And when his hand warmed the back of my neck, it felt like permission to sob even harder.

Before I knew what was happening, Jack had leaned his seat back and pulled me sideways into his lap. I buried my face in the collar of his vintage bowling shirt and cried a little longer while steady rain battered the convertible top.

His hands stroking down my back were soothing, and little by little, I pulled myself together.

“I'm sorry,” I said, wiping my face.

His muscles flexed as he strained to reach across the seat. He retrieved a rumpled fast-food napkin from his glove box. “I don't know why,” he said, handing it to me. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

I turned my face away and blew my nose, then looked for a place to throw the napkin away.

“Go on,” he encouraged, cracking the window. “Berkeley's too clean anyway.”

I croaked out a chuckle and tossed the napkin outside. He started to roll the window back up, but I stopped him; the rain smelled good, and I didn't mind the occasional drop or three on the back of my neck when the wind blew. It felt nice.

His thumb swiped beneath one eye, then the other. “Makeup goo,” he explained, cleaning up my running mascara. “Better?”

I nodded and let my head loll back against his shoulder. “I don't know why my father got to me that way. It's not like my family problems are anywhere near as epic as yours. You must think I'm a whiner.”

“I think no such thing. You have every right to be upset. My family's been through a lot, but I can't imagine what it would be like if my dad left us. I love her, but my mom is no Katherine the Great. She's a cheerleader, not a provider.”

“Your mom's fought her own battles,” I reminded him.

He grunted his agreement.

“What if my father wasn't lying? Why would Mom turn down child support?”

“I don't know. Maybe she's too proud. Maybe it made her feel weak.”

“If that's true, okay, but she lied to us. All this time, I thought he was this deadbeat dad. Why would she do that?”

“Because she's human, and she makes mistakes? Or maybe your father wasn't telling the truth, either. Maybe he's feeling guilty and saying whatever it takes to win you over. Confront your mom and ask her.”

“I can't. Then she'll know I lied about coming out here. And she'll know I kept the artist's mannequin from her. And she'll feel betrayed.”

“Don't
you?”

I thought about that for a second. “I'm not sure what I feel. All I know is that I'm tired of being the innocent bystander who gets punched in the gut. It's their fight—Mom and Dad's. But how come Heath and I are the ones who end up bruised?”

He rearranged one of my braids and wound the loose tail around the tip of his index finger. “Because everything we do in life affects someone else. Buddhists say that inside and outside are basically the same thing. It's like we're all trapped together in a small room. If someone pisses in the corner, we all have to worry about it trickling across the floor and getting our shoes wet.”

I chuckled again. “Or clogging up the escalator.”

He smiled against my forehead. “Or someone painting a message on the escalator you don't understand.”

“I don't want my mistakes to affect everyone else in the room,” I said after a moment. “I want to keep to myself and do as little damage as possible.”

“That's one way of living, sure. But it's lonely, and doing nothing can cause as much damage as doing something. We're part of a machine, whether we like it or not. If one piston stops working, the engine will run poorly. And I for one would much rather that you piss on my shoe than that I watch you withdraw into the corner.”

“Gross.”

“What? It's how you get rid of jellyfish stings.”

“That's an old wives' tale. If you ever pee on me, I'll hurt you.”

“So violent.” His splayed fingers danced over my back like a spider.

I squealed as he attacked my side, tickling me with gusto. I couldn't pry his fingers away from my ribs. “St-top!” I protested in the middle of a fit of laughter.

“Say the magic word.”

“Uncle!”

“That's not it.”

I changed tactics and tickled him back. He jumped, lifting us both off the seat. “All right, girl,” he purred roughly. “You're asking for it now.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

He cradled the back of my head with his hand and reeled me closer. His mouth covered mine, strong and confident. I laughed against his lips, just for a second, and then gave in.

The kiss deepened, and his hand drifted down my neck to my side, tracing the curve of my waist, over my hip, and back up. Like he was trying to imagine what I looked like beneath my clothes. That thought thrilled me almost as much as his roaming hand … until he boldly cupped my breast.

Breathing heavily, he broke the kiss—barely—and said against my lips, “Okay?”

I put my hand over his to hold it in place.

“You feel fantastic,” he murmured, his breath teasing my neck.

“You sound surprised.”

“I've fantasized about you in every possible way, but the real thing … God, Bex. You're so soft. And—oh. Well.”

I gasped. I couldn't help it.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, running his thumb over my nipple.

I didn't answer; he was too full of himself, sounding all pleased with his discovery. A field of goose bumps bloomed across my arms and warmed me from his hot mouth, down my chest, my stomach … and lower. I knew that heat followed the same path in him, because he stiffened against my hip, which excited me even more.

As rain drummed against the car, he slouched lower in the seat and silently urged me to straddle his lap. I didn't care that the steering wheel poked my back when I got carried away. We kissed forever, leisurely, until his big hands palmed my butt, greedily tugging me against him. The bump in my jeans where the seams converged between my legs was wedged between the softness of me and the hardness of him.

“You're killing me,” he murmured huskily against my ear.

I closed my eyes and grinned. “Am I?”

“I want you.”

“I know.”

His low laugh sent chills down my neck. “I did warn you I wasn't a monk.”

“Definitely not if we keep this up.”

Exhaling heavily, he pulled back and cupped my cheeks in his hands. “We should probably cool it anyway. I promised Katherine the Great I'd get you to work on time, and the rain will gum up traffic on the Bay Bridge. Plus, it's going to take me a couple of minutes to … calm down.”

I cleared my throat and tried not to smile. “I don't think I could stand up right now if I tried. Just hold me a little while longer, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and gathered me closer. I rested my head on his shoulder and breathed in the scent of his old leather jacket while our breathing slowed and synced. Everything that had happened with my father felt a million miles away. Like it had happened to me in another lifetime. Jack made me feel safe and strong and good and calm.

Maybe he was my lake, too.

24

Two days later, I covered for another girl at Alto Market and worked a ten-hour shift. By hour number eight, I was completely exhausted. How did Mom work twelve hours like it was nothing? I didn't understand, but as I scanned my kajillionth block of imported cheese, I wondered just how little I understood about my mom in general.

I googled cabarets in Santa Monica and found the Freckled Rose, a cabaret slash piano bar formerly owned by one Suzi Cameron. Guess Dad was right, because it really didn't look like a strip club. Most of its performers were older than my parents, and they were all wearing (awful) clothes. I
so
wanted to call Mom out on this, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell her how I found out. So I told Heath instead.

“Sometimes people exaggerate when they're upset” was all he said.