This Raging Light (14 page)

“I called,” he says, then, “when I could.”

When he could what? Face me? Face us? Face that he put his hands around Mom's neck and he
dragged
her. Why the hell am I here?

“So, your mother—”

“Yeah?”

“She okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, “she's okay.” What am I going to tell him? And does he really care? He said he didn't love her. So what about me, us?

“Are you guys okay for money? I mean, did she get a job?”

“At a restaurant.”

He nods.

My mother. Nurse/waitress/who knows what. It's cool. His denial is working for me right now.

“So everyone's good, then?”

“Sure. Totally. It's a damn Unikitty party at home.”

He lets out the most awkward laugh ever, and it is bigger than the broom closet. “I guess that's a stupid question, hunh?”

“Kind of,” I say. “But that's what you want to hear, isn't it?”

“And Wren?”

“What about her?”

“Well, what's she doing?”

“Starring in the school play. She's taken up macramé and the flute, and on weekends she figure skates.”

“Come on, Lucille. Really. Is she okay?”

“She's fine,” I say. “Getting big.”

“She didn't want to come with you, though, hunh? Laura either?”

“Guess not.”

“Yeah.” He leans all the way back in his chair and slouches down, dips his head back, and considers the ceiling. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“It makes sense for sure,” I say, even though Wren would die if she knew I was here.

I look up too. There are yellow spots everywhere in the popcorn mess up there. They should try covering them with some of Eden's smart words. Or they could make up their own, maybe. Troubled people have a lot of interesting things to say, and that's who lives in halfway houses, right? Troubled people.

“Man,” he says, still staring at the ceiling, “you're being a little tough on me. You know I'm doing the best I can here, right?”

I can't help but stare at his hands. They are so big. Hands to hold you and swing you high above his head, to blaze across the strings on a bass, to force the reckoning in the music, hands that guide you and make you safe. Hands to hurt. Powerful.

“So, why are you living here?” I ask. “Why didn't you come back or go somewhere more interesting?”

He drums on his own chest. “I'm not ready to go back out there. I don't think I'm strong enough yet. I had a nervous breakdown. This was an option they gave me, and it seemed like the right one. I know it's hard to understand—”

“No, not at all. I mean, how nice for you.”

He lets out a whistle whoosh. “Come on, Tigerlily, start over with me.” His eyes are trying to show me he's safe. “Let's go for a walk.”

It's such a ridiculous suggestion that I agree.

“Can you just walk around?”

He snickers. “Sure. I'm not on lockdown anymore, you know. I'm just under supervision. Got rules. But yes, we can go for a walk.”

As we head to the backyard, he checks in with Carlos, who pads a few steps behind us.

“You know what the worst thing is?” he says.

“Hmm?”

“They won't let me drink in this place. It shouldn't be a big deal, but it's almost enough to make me want to break stuff sometimes. There are days when I'd give almost anything for an ice-cold beer.”

“Nice, Dad.”

“Look, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you get your priorities straight in here quick.”

I think he's trying to be funny, but I've got no patience for it. I brake. My feet skid on the floor, and I turn just before we get to the doors that lead outside.

“What?” He puffs up his shoulders. “What is it?”

“That's your priority?” I have to keep myself from lunging at him. “You think you get off with a few questions about how things are at home and then it's okay to talk about beer?”

His eyes ignite, then water down. He's off balance. I see him trying to smooth his fiery parts. I don't care.

“What is it, Tigerlily? Something going on?” He dares a hand on my shoulder. He's trying to corral me and it pisses me off. “You can talk to me.”

He looks like a man, but all I see in front of me is a little boy. He has no right to that.

“Don't you touch me,” I say. “Don't you put one hand on me.”

He drops away. “Hey, relax. I'm just trying to take my daughter for a walk, my daughter I haven't seen in five months. That's a long time. I missed you.”

I can't hear that. He's twisting everything around to suit his reality, somehow making this my fault. When I think of all the times Mom came back from the clinic crying because they had turned her away, and for him then to not even tell her where he was going . . . I stride over to Carlos.

“Why is he in here?” I demand.

He glances around. “For the calm. It's a good place to get your head straight.”

“Really?” I say. I swing back to Dad, who is watching me from the doorway. “I don't think you're all that agitated. I think you're weak, and I think this whole thing is a sham. It's a cop-out.”

“I know it's hard to be here,” Carlos says. “Maybe you should come back when you're less emotional. It's no good for people to hear yelling. Triggers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I know. Calm.” I take a breath. “You're right. I'd like to go now, please.”

Carlos starts to lead me to the front, but I turn back to Dad.

“Go to therapy for real,” I tell him. “Figure yourself out. Figure out how to tell the truth, take some responsibility. What you did to Mom, the way you treated us, the things you said, none of it was okay.”

He grimaces but doesn't say anything.

“And you know what else?” I say. “While you're at it, grow up.”

The next day I hover over my phone
all afternoon. I pace. I pull pots and pans out of cabinets and then put them back in a different order. I start texts to Digby. I'm sure he could help me make sense of everything that has happened. And then I think, what if he's with Elaine, what if they're cuddling or something.

But I need.

I need something. I scroll through all the people I might be able to call. I keep coming back to Eden. Eden. Eden.

She touched my shoulder. Maybe I can call her. Maybe she's not off-limits anymore.

Wren has been in a funk since she talked to Dad. I only heard her half of the conversation, but enough to know he didn't say any more to her than he did to me.

What he said. What he didn't say. What
we
didn't say.

I'm usually happy when it's a Sunday, since I don't work and all I have to do is focus on the house and my homework, but today is gloomy, heavy again. I go so far as to touch all my paints, but nothing wants to come out.

Finally, shaking, I tap a few words into my phone and hit send.

It's done, I tell myself. Even if you don't get a response, you hit send and so now we'll see.

Mom never called. She didn't miraculously appear at the door. She missed Wren's tenth birthday. Wren won't talk about it, no matter how I try to keep it all open like Mrs. LaRouche said to. I think I was making her more miserable pushing the issue, so I finally dropped it and we watched TV all day long. I know how to make a whole bunch of family-friendly meals now.

We both fell asleep to the sounds of
Iron Chef
.

And now Eden has woken me up. She answered my text. I steal out of bed, dig in Mom's closet for a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt.

Maybe, maybe I am forgiven. Maybe she is going to yell at me, for Digby, for everything. It doesn't matter. I'm not alone either way.

I fly to Eden.

Fly.

I say silent prayers that Wren won't wake up and be scared, and then I sprint toward the river. I am sweating under my jacket, running, running in the cold, past the naked trees and all the familiar doors.

The Beast is parked on the sidewalk by the entrance to the tow path. Did Digby come with her? My whole body thumps.

Once I'm off the path, I slip some. The black ice hides against the dirt, and even with the full moon I can't see it. I'm glad I wore my big fat snow boots.

The train car is so close now, and before I see her I smell a cigarette.

“You drove?” I ask. “I saw the Beast.”

“Yeah,” she says, flicking. “He's not here.”

“I know,” I say with too much in my voice.

She points her smoke at the moon. “That.”

I sit down next to her. The moon is the brightest I've ever seen it from right here. The trees are hands grasping for it, ready to scoop it up with long and gnarly fingers, just missing it, so it hangs there just out of reach.

“It's perfect.”

“Yup,” she says.

“What do you think happened to the train? How did that one car end up sitting by the river like that?”

“Laziness, probably,” she says.

I baby-step my way across the ice until I'm next to her, then scoot down.

“Like it fell off and someone said screw it, just leave it there?”

“Something like that.”

“I hope someone had something really amazing happen inside it and decided to put it there so they could always come to it. Maybe someone in love.”

“Jesus, Lucille.”

I hunch in on myself.

We sit a while, and the moon sings brightness to me until I relax again. All my inside chatter stops, and I am here—next to Eden, who knows me, who is maybe, miraculously, talking to me again.

“You know that Dylan Thomas poem?” Her hair drips down her back from underneath her little black hat.

I shrug.

“You remember, I know you do,” she says. “Last year we had it in English.” We always have that class together.

“Just the last two lines,” I say. By the light of the moon her eyes are a wicked bright green. “‘Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'”

She smirks, puts out her cigarette. “Well, color me shocked. You quoted.”

“I did. You can color me shocked too.”

“Do you get sick of me spouting quotes?”

“I missed them so much,” I say.

The truth is, I forgot her wise words from other people, her easy way of being passionate and graceful. The peace I feel, the calm, when I'm with her. I forgot about how I need her. She knows life is a pillow that's all on my face, almost almost suffocating me. But whoever is holding the pillow lets me breathe just enough so I don't die. I almost forgot that when I'm with Eden, she slaps away at the pillow and I can see something else.

Maybe everyone has a pillow like that.

Everything is more than one thing.

She pulls out a tiny bottle and hands it to me, rubs her gloved hands together.

“Tequila.”

“Yeah?”

“Mom made tequila lime pie. Leftovers just sitting on the shelf. Seemed like a waste. Besides, it's ass cold out here.”

It burns going down and I hate the way it tastes, but I drink it anyway. I get warm, warmer all over. Everything slows down and I settle back on the rock.

“So what's going on with you?” I ask.

Her eyes get huge and she clutches at her heart and looks at me like she's so surprised.

“Oh please,” I say.

“It's been a while since you asked,” she says.

“I've had a lot going on.”

“Yeah.” She takes another pull off the bottle. “I know. So much.”

“No . . .” I falter. “Not that.”

“I know,” she says. “A lot of everything.”

She reaches into her inside pocket and pulls out her pack of American Spirits. Yellow. It takes her a while to light her smoke, and her fingers shake some. She's chain-smoking.

“I went into the city the other day to take class with the Bolshoi,” she says.

“Oh my gosh!” I picture her swooping across the stage and being flawless. “That's incredible!”

“I sucked,” she says, and then something like a laugh comes out. It reminds me of Digby's not-laugh laugh.

“That's impossible,” I say.

“No, Lu. It's not. It turns out that around here I'm pretty spectacular.”

“You
are
spectacular—”

“For here, sure.”

“Okay, so what?”

“So, there I'm not so awesome. There I'm barely average.”

“But that doesn't make any sense. What you can do. How you bend.”

“It's not good enough. Not by a lot. And according to the teacher there, if I'm not in the game now, I might as well forget about it. In ballet years, I'm practically middle-aged.”

I look closer. She has bruisy crescents under her eyes and she is extra bony.

“I'm sorry, E.” I put my arm around her shoulder while she takes more drags. It's an odd sensation to be the one doing the covering. “This is my fault. I distracted you.”

“Stop trying to make everything about you, Lucille. This is about capacity.”

I pause. “There has to be one of your quotes for this.”

“If thou sucketh at balleteth, go ye into the darkness?”

“No.” I squeeze. “Something else. It's in there.”

I'm starting to feel woozy.

“Your turn,” she says. “Tell me what's going on with you. Start with your mom. Anything?”

“Nothing from her.” I take my arm away. “I saw my dad, though.”

“Shut the front door!”

“Yesterday.”

“And?”

“He's a douche too. Living in some halfway house, avoiding reality, dreaming about beer. I got double douched in the parent department.”

“He was the coolest.”

I grab the tequila off the rock and polish it off in one swig.