The Belief in Angels (38 page)

I’m surprised to see Wendy’s car in the driveway. She rarely comes back to the house during the day. She’s been taking a full semester of classes at Northeastern to finish her degree and usually goes to her friends’ houses after class. She decided to focus on psychology. It makes sense, since she’s nuts, that she wants to immerse herself in crazy.

Jack’s been gone for about a month, sailing someone’s boat around the Panama Canal to California. When I walk in I find her sitting on the couch reading
The Feminine Mystique
by Betty Friedan, which I know is old because I took it off our shelves when I was little and read it.

“Did you have majorette practice?”

“Um, no … I haven’t had a practice since Homecoming—you know, last November? There are no more football games until next September. We’ll march with the band for the Memorial Day parade, but that’s it for the year. You don’t pay attention to anything in my life, do you?”

I know I’m being a bit dramatic about it, but she never fails to totally push my buttons when she reveals how little she cares about me. My good mood is sinking, as it usually does when I’m dealing with Wendy.

She shuts her book with a snap. “Don’t be rude. I’m trying to talk to you and find out what’s going on with you.”

“Why?” I challenge. “What do you want?” I’m suspicious now.

Wendy pats the spot on the couch next to her. “Sit with me.”

I hesitate and sit in the white, fur-upholstered, double chaise.

“Talk,” I say roughly.

I’m not sure when I started talking to Wendy like this, but it’s become our normal pattern of communication. I never give an inch with her. Of course, she never gives an inch with me, either. We’ve just fallen into this awful pattern of bitchiness with each other.

“Tell me what’s going on in your world. I want to know. I want to know what you’re studying in class, what kind of artwork you’re doing now, if you have a boyfriend?”

At this question, a burst of air escapes from my mouth in an annoyed “Pfffftt.”

“No boyfriend? Do you like anyone?”

“Why the sudden interest? Is this a therapeutic practice theory you’re testing out on me?”

It’s weird that she’s asking this question today of all days, but I’m sure it’s coincidence. For the past few months, she’s been trying to slide psychology weirdness into our interactions. One day she’ll tell me my behavior displays an “adolescent Electra complex” and the next day she’ll tell me I was “self-actualized” at the age of eight.

“You never share anything going on in your life with me. I have no idea what you’re thinking or how you’re doing,” Wendy says as her volume rises.

“Do you care?”

“What do you mean, do I care?” she practically screams.

I stand to leave then turn to face her. “I can’t talk to you. All you do is yell. If you cared about me, you’d pay attention to me and my life. You’d have a clue what I’ve been doing—like I haven’t been carrying around a baton, so how could I be at majorette practice? All you do is party, get high, and slide in around here once in a while. I cook my own meals. I keep the house clean. I do all the laundry and the dishes. I take out the garbage and I shovel the snow. What do you do around here besides sleep, read books, and polish your nails?”

Wendy sits on the couch saying nothing. I turn to go upstairs.

“I don’t do drugs.”

I turn back to her.

“You don’t do drugs?” I repeat incredulously.

“No. I don’t do drugs and I don’t want you to tell other people I do. And … if I’m such a good-for-nothing mother, then you won’t miss me if I go away for a while.”

Ah, this is what it’s all about.

“I leave on Monday for the Virgin Islands. I’m going to meet Jack and sail with him for a while.”

“What do you mean ‘a while’?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You just said you take care of everything around here, and you obviously don’t need me. So I’m going away for
a while.
You’ll be fine,” she says matter-of-factly.

“You’re right,” I say and turn quickly to walk up the stairs. Although it infuriates me, I burst into tears when I’m inside my room.

How typical. She wants to cozy up so she can go on a vacation with Jack and not feel guilty about taking off.

I hate that I still want her to express genuine interest in my life after all that she’s done to hurt me.

I decide to avoid her until after she leaves. The sole thing I have to work out is how I will cash the checks my grandfather sends every month for living expenses. I figure I can write checks off her account to send for bills, I’ve done that many times, but I don’t know how I’ll use checks to shop for food and things I need. I don’t have my own bank account.

Also, I don’t have my car license yet, although I’ve been driving with and without her permission for a few years. It started a few years ago during a snowstorm when she got stuck in Boston and David and I ran out of milk. I got David to swear he wouldn’t tell Wendy if I drove the car to the market down Withensea Avenue. Afterwards, he did the same, on occasion, when he needed to.

But I don’t want to take the chance of being arrested without a license if Wendy is going to be gone for a long time. So I need to ask her to stock up the cabinets with canned foods and fill the freezer with frozen stuff before she leaves.

I write a letter with instructions for her and leave it on the kitchen table when I go to school in the morning. In the afternoon, when I’m back from school, the cabinets and the fridge are absolutely stuffed with food.

This is the fastest response to a food request I’ve ever gotten from Wendy. This evening, when she comes back, I find out why.

“There’s supposed to be a storm coming in a few days. I’m flying out tomorrow so I’m not stuck here,” Wendy says as I walk by her bedroom.

“Tomorrow? Fine. Have a good time. Thanks for the groceries.”

“You’re welcome,” is all she says. She flicks on the TV and starts watching a show called
Dallas.
She becomes transfixed whenever it comes on. In my room I start a school report due on Monday.

I study more at the house lately because without Jack and the constant party there are actually more nights that it stays quiet and I can focus. The truth is, even though I yelled at Wendy about the parties and stuff, it’s been fairly normal around here lately. Wendy still smokes dope on a regular basis, but she’s slowed down on the drinking. I’m glad for this, but I’m not convinced it won’t change back to the way it’s been before. I hate Wendy. I hate the way she treats me. I hate the way she treated David before he left for college. I hate that she was such a rotten mother when Moses was alive, and even though she didn’t do anything directly to cause his death, I’m angry at her for leaving me in charge of him all the time.

I’ve been studying for about two hours when Wendy knocks.

“What?”

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“You won’t be up when I leave in the morning. I want to say goodnight and good-bye for a while.”

I realize I don’t know how long she plans to be gone. I assume it will be a few weeks, but now I’m curious. “How long are you going for?”

“At least a month, maybe longer.”

A month? At most she’s left for a couple of weeks in the past. All at once I’m shocked, angry, resigned, rejected—and, in the midst of this, almost giddy with a sense of adventure. I have no idea what will happen if I don’t have to worry about her and Jack. I know I’ll be able to do exactly what I want, when I want, but I’ve had this freedom for years. Still, this will be different; thirty days (or more) of previews of coming attractions for my solitary adult life. In a month, I can construct a new life.

“Give me a hug?” She steps toward me and awkwardly opens her arms.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I don’t move. We never hug.

“Give me a hug?” she says more insistently.

“I’m not going to hug you. I’m pissed at you. It sucks you’re leaving me alone here.” I say this not fully believing it, but I want to punish her anyway.

“Fine,” Wendy says. “You’ll be fine, and I’ll call and check in with you from time to time to see how you’re doing.”

She walks through the doorway and I call out, “Shut it, please.”

She turns around and smiles. “Okay, I’m shutting the door.”

She opens it again.

“By the way, I’m taking the car into Boston and Dorothy’s gonna give me a ride to the airport. I got the food, and I’m leaving you a hundred dollars. You can take the bus if you need to go somewhere. It’s not legal for you to drive without a license.”

“You do lots of illegal things,” I shoot back.

“And you can do them too, when you’re old enough to make those choices,” she says.

I think she feels as happy to be leaving me as I am to see her go.

Jules, 16 years | February, 1978

THE BLIZZARD OF ‘78

WHEN I WAKE up Wendy is gone.

The fog hangs thick and wafts up from the ocean as I make my way around the corner to Timothy’s. My nostrils fill with brine, the scent sticks to the insides of my nose. The fog rolls off the ocean quickly and the weather has grown colder than it’s been in a while. I wonder if the storm will come in more quickly than Wendy thought.

By the end of the day, long after I’ve come home and Wendy’s plane has left, the rain starts. It rains off and on all night as the temperature continues to fall.

In the morning it’s still raining. Leigh and Timothy and I decide to cancel our plans to meet at my house—we’ll wait until after the storm. We’re excited that we’re going to have a parentless place at our disposal for an entire month.

I spend the day in a blissful daze, drawing. I realize it’s the first time I’ve done an art project in the house since Moses drowned.

It was still raining this morning when I was on my way to the bus stop, but now the rain has turned to snow. When the buses come early to pick us up from school, everybody buzzes with the news that a major storm is howling toward us. School will probably be cancelled tomorrow, and we’ll have a snow day.

I feel elated. I usually hate snow days because they mean long days stuck with Wendy, who inevitably grows irritated and screamy. But now I have time to myself, and I feel like celebrating.

By the time the bus drops us off, Timothy and I are so excited we practically blow down the road. When he says good-bye and heads in the direction of his place, he tells me he’ll call me that night to check on me. As I turn the corner and change my direction, straight into the wind, I’m hit full force with the power of the storm. I swing my body forward into it, but I’m still blown back. My face stings with the sleety snow. I didn’t bother with a scarf this morning, so I’m especially glad for my warm hat and gloves. I curse my hastiness as my face becomes an icy mask.

The snow has already begun to pile up along the road, and the sky has grown so clotted with it I can’t see the ocean over the cliff. I can barely see ten feet in front of me. I walk in the middle of Alethea Road until I hear a car approaching from behind me. As I move to the side, the car pulls up next to me and Mrs. O’Connell rolls her car window down. “Would ya be wantin’ a ride?”

“Oh, no thanks, I’m almost there now.”

“Jump in anyway, dearie. Ya don’t want to be walking around in this mess.”

I slide into the passenger seat and almost instantly feel sorry I did.

“I seen your mother leave the other day with a big suitcase. Are you on your own through this storm?”

Before I can answer she continues.

“If you need anything, dearie, come over. Anytime, you hear, sweetheart? Come over and we can see about it.”

She passes her own driveway across the road and pulls into our driveway to drop me off. The electric blue of our house paint stands out like neon in the snow.

“No chance getting lost in a snowstorm with a paint job like this,” I joke.

“Well, we wondered at it when your mother chose the color, but to each their own, they say, right?” Mrs. O’Connell smiles and winks at me.

I smile back. “Thanks a lot. For everything. I appreciate the offer. I might take you up on it.” I pile out of the car and onto the snowy street. As I walk up the steps, hunting for the key in my pocket, I turn to wave her good-bye and slip a bit on the stoop, which is already layered with ice and snow. I can’t see her face through the snowy windshield anymore, but I smile and wave anyway as I let myself in.

Once inside, I peel away my coat, hat, and gloves, which are frozen stiff. I walk over to the thermostat and crank the heater up. I head up and savor a long, steamy shower.