Things Unsaid: A Novel (14 page)

“‘Pizza face,’ that’s what you’ll turn into if you eat all that grease,” she said when Ann wasn’t around. “Nothing but zits. You’ll thank me some day. For saving your skin from disaster.” She told Joanne that over and over again, too many times to count, but never in front of anyone who was not family. “Look at my skin. Flawless. And I’m forty now.”

Joanne knew she lied about her age.

“Everyone has such ugly faces now—and teenagers should be at their peak. Not eating hamburgers or pizza.”

On those nights with Ann, Joanne would plop down on the faded, overstuffed sofa and sink into the cushions, feeling the pinpricks from the feathers that stuck out. Ann would curl up next to her, a few lumps in the cushions separating them. Usually her dad sat in the wing chair, fidgeting in the corner with one of their mother’s favorite pillows—puke green, embroidered with dogwood blossoms.

Her dad crept up silently, lurking from behind the curtains or near the solarium door, like a shadow. They hardly saw him. He usually napped on the living room sofa after dinner—if he got home in time
for dinner, that is. She and her mother were often asleep by the time he had finished examining factory workers after their night shifts. The three of them hardly ever ate together on weekdays.

One evening, watching TV with Ann, Joanne heard the weighted thud of footsteps overhead, footsteps of different weights. Ann gently reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“Come on, Daddy.
The Donna Reed Show
is on—your favorite!” Joanne shouted, singsong style, towards the upstairs, hoping that would make the footsteps and voices stop. On TV, Shelley Fabares was singing “Johnny Angel” while her sitcom mother, played by Donna Reed, grinned at her adoringly.

They both loved that song. Joanne liked that it was about dreaming. Dreaming about a true love who didn’t know she existed. So romantic.

Her mother entered the room and joined in, singing in her clear alto, a glass in her hand.

Ann giggled. “You sing better than Shelley Fabares, Mrs. Whitman. You really have a wonderful voice.” Joanne knew that her friend complimented all the other moms, but her mother was the only one Ann really thought was beautiful.

“I want to be a mom like Donna Reed when I grow up,” Joanne said to her friend, ignoring her mother. “The mother of my dreams.”

Her mom walked over, sat down on the couch next to her, and put her arm around her as she swept the hair out of her eyes with her free hand. “Do you think I’m a perfect mom? Like Donna Reed?” she asked.

“Sure, Mom. But your voice’s not as soft. You don’t smile and laugh as much,” Joanne said. “But we have a real family, not a fake family,” she said too late when she noticed that her mother’s smile had disappeared.
Oh no
. Her mother quickly left the solarium before either girl could add sweeter-smelling words, a sachet packet to improve her mood.

Next, the shadow moved into the room. “I always liked Donna Reed,” her father said as he nudged her over on the small couch. The program was half over. “You know I met her once. Might have even married her.” He stared at the television screen. “I might have been a different type of father,” he said quietly, to no one in particular.

Joanne didn’t ask why.

“Your mother was a looker. Always was a sucker for good-looking
women.” Her father’s voice sounded worn out, distant—he was almost panting. “You know, one of my classmates became Donna Reed’s first husband. It could have been me.” He waved his hand dismissively. “What the hell do you kids know about life? Wait till you see what it does to you. Life never turns out like you think it will.” He seemed wound up, perhaps from being upstairs with her mother. He had a glass in his hand, but it was almost empty. Plainer than the one her mother had been holding, not as pretty. Most of the other moms and dads drank from glasses like her parents’, too.

He went back upstairs before the program ended, without so much as a good night. Ann didn’t seem to notice. Joanne turned off the sound and they just watched the picture, making up their own script to
Father Knows Best
, their second-favorite show.

The house always seemed too quiet, even in those days, before her parents became seriously old. Just the softest tap of feet upstairs. It was sometimes scary, she recalled. Joanne remembered the sound of her father’s belt slapping Andrew’s body, a thud so heavy and sad, unrelenting. She had pretended to be busy watching TV. She was only a little girl then. Couldn’t say anything. Didn’t want to say anything either. But if her parents moved in now with her, instead of continuing to live at SafeHarbour, would it be even scarier?

One bright Saturday afternoon, Andrew dragged out the baseball bat and softball from the hall closet. He had just come back from lifeguarding at Lake Tamsin.

“Come on, Jo, I’ll teach you how not to hit like a girl.”

“Maybe some other time. Going to go shopping with Ann.”

“It’s either now or never. See if I care that you don’t make the team.”

Andrew had loved to teach her “boy” sports: wrestling, soccer, karate, and baseball. He liked to tell her he was more of a coach than a brother. That was before he left for George Washington Military Academy and forgot about his family. But the wrestling and karate moves he taught her did turn out to be useful later on.

The first time she brought Tim home—that summer, when Ann
was away on vacation—he had just gotten his license. He was a year older. Even after three years, she still wasn’t sure why he was her boyfriend. He seemed conventional and pretty. All the other boys seemed to stare at her breasts under all that wool: the scratchy blazer and starched white blouse, undershirt over the bra so no shadows peeked through, tucked into a plaid, pleated skirt, and thick argyle knee socks that itched. Sweat left a dark streak, soaking through her blazer, down the middle of her back, once the temperature hit seventy-five degrees. Maybe that was why she liked Tim. He didn’t pay attention to her, never stared at her breasts, and all the girls adored him.

“Hi, Mom. I’m home. I have a new friend I want you to meet,” Joanne shouted towards the living room.

Her mom came down the stairs, overhead chandelier brightly lit, even though it was daylight saving time and the sun wouldn’t set for another three hours. Backlit, in a pink see-through nightie—Valentine’s Day pink, her mother called it—she glided down to greet them. Joanne remembered how impossibly thin the material had been, and sleeveless, and far more low-cut than anything she ever saw the other moms wear.

“And who is this handsome young man?” her mother asked as she landed in front of them, turning her cheek for a kiss, a bit unsteady in her slippered feet. Those glamorous, pink-feathered pompom slippers. The kind Joanne’s Barbie doll had.

Tim looked startled. “Uh, uh, I … I’m Tim,” he stuttered. Joanne had never heard him stutter before.

Her mother kissed him—a firm, aggressive kiss. “It’s about time I got to meet one of my daughter’s boyfriends.” She looked more closely at Tim’s face, and Tim started picking at one of his zits, the big one in the center of his chin, and shuffled his feet, putting one shoe on top of the other.

It must hurt to do that
, Joanne thought,
with cleats and all
. He was still wearing his baseball shoes, having come straight from practice.

“Has anyone told you that you look like a blond Paul McCartney, my favorite Beatle?” her mother asked, reaching up on tiptoe to rake her fingers through his long, shaggy blond hair.

Tim mumbled something, but Joanne couldn’t tell what he was trying to say, if anything.

“You know what I think?” he said when her mother was done fawning over him, and he and Joanne walked out on the porch that edged the solarium. “You don’t think I’m good enough for you. That’s what I think. I’m just convenient, while you wait, biding your time until college starts. I may go on to college, too, you know. I’m just working at McDonald’s until I can save up enough. Not everyone has rich folks like you. You’re just a spoiled brat, if you ask me.”

Joanne looked up as she slipped her arms under his armpits, bringing her face close to his. “I would never dream of dating anyone but you. We’ve been together for three years now. Nothing’s changed. You’re my angel. You know that.”

“You’re lying, you little bitch. I see how the guys stare at you and your friend when you think I’m not looking.” He raised a hand, and before Joanne could pull away, he struck her across the cheek.

The slap was loud. She hoped her parents couldn’t hear from inside the solarium. The TV was blaring. Seeing neither one of them had looked up, she rubbed her cheek and looked back up at Tim. He hung his head, just for a second or two, but then he stormed off into the dark. She watched him start the car; then, when he turned out of the driveway, she ran upstairs to see what damage had been done to her face.

Ann stopped by twenty minutes later without calling first. She never called first. This time Joanne wished she had.

“Let’s see what the choices of dorms are,” she said. “Let’s pretend we have to make the selection for first choice and second choice right away. Before others take your spot.”

“I’ll want a dorm next to the boys’ dorms. That’s my first priority,” Joanne said, rubbing her cheek.

“This is so much fun. I’m going to be living at home—God, how awful. But you have the chance to get away from this place and meet all kinds of new people. You’re so lucky. I wish I could trade places,” Ann said, flipping through the flyers scattered all over her bed. She glanced up at Joanne and, finally noticing her cheek, gave her a worried look.

Just then, there was a tap at the window. A whisper. Tim. “Hey, beautiful! I’m so sorry, you know I am. I love you so much. I’d never want to hurt you.”

“Yeah, right, asshole,” Ann said. “Don’t say a word, Jo.”

Joanne flinched. Now her friend knew what had happened.

“But my Mom—she likes him so much,” she said, turning her back to the window and speaking low so Tim couldn’t hear. “Maybe it’s my fault. I’m to blame for putting him in a bad mood.”

“Does your Mom know how he treats you?” Ann seemed incredulous.

“I can’t bring myself to tell her. Mom always says it’s a woman’s charm and beauty that keep her man happy. I guess I’m not beautiful enough.”

Ann yanked her away from the window, and slammed it hard in Tim’s face.

Joanne finally did decide to break it off with Tim before college started—or maybe it would be more appropriate to say that Tim self-destructed. It happened when her parents took them both on an Alaskan cruise as a graduation present for Joanne.
The Seven Seas
, a luxury liner, had suites with adjoining rooms, each with its own little balcony and view. Her mother was slightly claustrophobic, so they had the spacious Silver Class suites. Not spacious enough to keep her mom from hearing what happened in Joanne and Tim’s room on the second day of the cruise, however.

“What’s all that racket? I hear knocking and pounding through the wall. What’s going on in there?” her mother shouted, pounding on the locked door that separated their suites.

Joanne could hear her tears catch in her throat. “I’m all right, Mom. Just fell. No need to worry. I’m just practicing my karate moves Andrew taught me with Tim. Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. I can tell. Open this door!”

Joanne folded up inside, and let her mom in. Tim slept and ate by himself for the rest of the cruise—in her parents’ walk-in closet.

Her mother was her hero. Forever and always.

Her sister was, too. Especially now that she could pay for more of their parents’ debts with the windfall inheritance she had received from their uncle. Thank goodness for Jules.

“Y
our luck will improve now, darling,” Joanne’s mother said after meeting Al, a fellow student majoring in art.

Santa Monica City College was all Joanne had expected it to be and then some. Jules had reviewed the flyers with her and they had both agreed on two things: that she had artistic abilities, and that putting some distance between her and her parents would be a smart move for her. The Gemological Institute of America had a joint program with SMCC so she could pursue a dual career as an artist and a jewelry appraiser.

“He may not be as handsome as Tim was, but he looks more agreeable,” her mother said. “Someone who can listen. Who appreciates your beauty, your artistic nature. I think he’ll make good money someday, too. Being with someone ten years older can be a plus, you know. He’s probably more mature, too.”

Her parents were more delighted than she had thought they would be. “I just don’t know if I want to get involved with anyone else right now, Mom,” Joanne said. “Tim made me such a mess. I just want to hang out with my new girlfriends. And draw.”

“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” her father said—during this conversation, and on more than one occasion throughout that first year of college. “The best age for having kids is in your late teens or early twenties. Before you know it, you will be perimenopausal. It’s a woman’s duty to be a mother, you know. It defines her essence.” Joanne
ignored her father’s medical opinion. She was eighteen, not eighty. But she couldn’t help but be influenced by her parents’ enthusiasm for the match.