We Are Water (42 page)

“Hell, yeah. A skull and crossbones, maybe. And under it, I’ll have them put, ‘Don’t mess with Grandpa.’ ”

She smiles, rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure Tracy would love that.”

I smile, too, thinking about the tattoos Tracy has: a little butterfly above her left breast, a starfish at the small of her back—both of them highly kissable. I finish my drink, get up off my chair. “I’m going in for a refill. You good?”

“Uh-huh.”

Inside, the girl’s scouring the kitchen sink and the vacuum’s droning upstairs. The house doesn’t really need it; I just vaccumed yesterday. But hey, they’ve got to make a living, too. And it’s not like
I’m
paying them. “So how long have you and your brother been in the cleaning business?” I ask her.

“Us? Since our mother got sick. It’s really her business, but she’s got cancer.” I ask her how she’s doing. “Better,” she says. “But the chemo kind of wipes her out. My brother’s taken over the business mostly, but I help him out during the summer. I’m in grad school.”

“Really? What are you studying?”

“Business administration.”

“You must be getting ready to go back pretty soon, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” She goes back to her scouring. Guess she’d rather get her work done than chitchat with the clientele. Can’t blame her for that.

I go a little easier on the vodka this time. I’m starting to get a nice little glow from the first one. But then I hear Ari’s question again.
Daddy?
Do you think Mama was a good mother?
I change my mind. Tip the bottle and pour myself a little more.

Back outside, I ask her again why she was asking about her mother’s parenting. “Oh,” she says. “I don’t know. No reason, really.”

No? Then why can’t she look at me? I wait.

“It’s just . . . the way she used to go off on Andrew sometimes.”

“Meaning?”

“The way she’d get so mad at him. Hit him.”

“Hit him? As in, give him a swat on the tush, or we’d better call Child Protective Services?” I meant it as a joke, but she’s not smiling.

“She just . . . She got abusive sometimes. Not with me or Marissa. Just with him.”

“Abusive? That’s a little strong, don’t you think?”

She shakes her head. “She was different when you were at work, Daddy. Not all the time, just sometimes. She’d get furious at something he did. Or didn’t do. And then . . .” I stand there, waiting for her to finish. She takes a sip of her soda. Looks out at the trees instead of at me. “I don’t really want to go into it. Okay?”

But no, it’s not okay. “You’re talking about her yelling at him mostly, right? Verbal abuse, not physical. Except for a slap here and there.”

She shakes her head. When she looks back at me, she’s in tears.

“Then how come Andy never said anything?”

“Because he used to cover for her. You’d come home and ask about some bruise he got and he’d say he fell down or something. Or bumped into something. That he was being clumsy.”

“Well, he
was
pretty clumsy.” No smile, no nod in agreement. “Right?”

“Daddy, please. Why does it even matter now?”

“I mean, granted, she may have had her faults, but it’s not like she was a child abuser. Was she?” She looks at me but doesn’t answer. “
Was
she?”

“Not with Rissa or me.”

“Look, kiddo. I’m a trained psychologist. If something like that was going on in my own home, don’t you think I would have picked up on it? Whether he was ‘covering for her,’ as you put it, or not. I would have read the signs. Or one of you would have come to me. That’s the pattern with kids in an abusive situation. If one parent is dangerous—
physically
dangerous, I mean, not just hotheaded—the kids may try to hide it for a while, but eventually they disclose it to the ‘safe’ parent.”

“No, you’re right. Forget I even said anything. I was just being stupid.”

“Stupid? You? No way. But I bet I know where this is coming from. You’re getting ready to be a parent yourself, so naturally you’re analyzing everything about
your
parents. Deciding what you want to re-create in your relationship with your own child, and what you want to do differently.”

“Yeah, but . . . that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Meaning?”

“What if I lose control? Hit
my
child? Don’t kids who grow up in abusive homes become abusers themselves?”

“Sometimes. But you
didn’t
grow up in an abusive home. Look, your body’s changing. It’s probably just your maternal hormones kicking up—sending you into overdrive so that you start worrying about all the what-ifs that are never even going to happen. And sure, your mother might have swatted him once or twice when he was bugging her. God knows, he was good at
that
. But it’s not like she was . . . dangerous.”

“Daddy, you don’t have to defend her. Not from me. And yeah, my hormones probably are—”

“Trust me, honey. If she had been abusive, I would have known.” But she’s looking at me skeptically. “Okay, you’re not convinced. So let’s examine it a little more. Give me an example.”

She frowns, thinks about it. “Well, one time—”

“Knock knock,” someone says. When I look back, there’s Tracy standing behind the slider. “Am I interrupting something?” she says. “You both look so serious.”

“No, no, come on out,” I say, standing. And then to Ariane, “To be continued.” Tracy slides open the screen and steps onto the deck. When I ask her if she’d like a drink, she shakes her head.

“I’ve spent the afternoon analyzing the contents of a twelve-foot basking shark’s abdomen. Trust me. I need a shower more than a cocktail. Don’t get too close.” Turning to Ariane, she asks her how she’s feeling.

“Okay, thanks,” Ari says. “Daddy’s been very solicitous.”

“Well, I should hope so. Hey, I went online this morning and looked up morning sickness remedies. Made a list and had Megan, my grad assistant, pick up some stuff that might help. She was pregnant last year and had a go-around with morning sickness, too. So she added a few things that helped her.”

“Oh my god, that’s so nice of you,” Ariane says. She takes the bulging plastic bag that Tracy’s holding out to her. Reaches inside and pulls things out one by one. Ginger candies, peppermint tea, Saltines, a box of something called Preggie Pops.

When I ask Tracy what we owe her, she points a finger at me. “Don’t even go there, buster,” she says. I throw up my hands in surrender. She turns back to Ari. “I’ve also written down some of the foods they recommend—things that are rich in Vitamin B-6. Fatty fish, baked potato, oatmeal, spinach. Oh, and there’s a little bottle of lemon oil in there, too. Megan says during her first three months, certain odors would make her queasy. So she’d sprinkle lemon oil on a handkerchief and keep it in her pocket. When some smell was bothering her, she’d take it out and sniff that instead.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ari says. “Tell her I said thanks.”

Again, Tracy declines my offer to get her a drink. Says she really wants to go clean up. “Then come back after you do,” I say. “Join us for dinner.”

“Not tonight,” she says. “I’m teaching that online course, and I’ve got a bunch of my students’ lab reports to get to. I’ll take a rain check, though. How about tomorrow night?”

“Sounds good.”

“And thank you so much,” Ariane says. “I really appreciate it.”

“No big deal. I just hope it helps. Okay, I’m out of here.”

I walk her back through the house. The cleaning woman’s dusting now. When we’re out the front door, Tracy says, “My, my, maid service? Some guys really know how to live.”

I shrug. “Not my idea. The realtor sent them.” We head over to her car.

“Hey, I hope I didn’t barge in at the wrong moment back there,” she says. “Whatever you two were talking about, it looked heavy-duty.”

I shake my head. “Just some old family history.” I thank her for helping Ariane. Reach over and kiss her. She gets in her car, starts it and backs up. I wave to her as she drives off.

Back on the deck, Ari’s holding her Preggie Pops—reading the back of the box. I ask her about dinner. “We can go out for a bite, or I can run up to P’town, get some groceries and cook us something. Maybe buy some of the things on Tracy’s list.”

Ariane chooses option number two. “If you don’t mind, Daddy.”

“Nope. Not at all. Now let’s get back to what we were talking about.” She shakes her head. Changes the subject to how much she likes Tracy. Okay, message received, but we’re not finished with this yet.

Inside the house, my phone goes off.
Love shack, baby love shack, bay-ayy-be-ee
. Ari gives me a quizzical look. “Cell phone,” I say. “I should have known better than to have your sister choose my ring tone.”

She smiles. “Don’t you need to get it?”

“Nope. Whoever it is can leave a message.”

But then, another interruption. The cleaning guy’s at the screen. “All set,” he says. “See you a week from now.”

“Okay.” I reach into my wallet and pull out two tens for a tip. I grab the register receipt from Tracy’s bag of stuff. “Let me jot down my number for you. If you call the night before and let me know when I should expect you, I’ll make sure I stick around.”

“Will do,” he says. He takes the number and stuffs it in his pocket. “All right then. Later.” He waves the two tens at me. “Thanks, man.”

I wait until I hear their van start up, the tires crunching against the clamshell driveway. But Ari gets up and starts toward the house. Says she’s going to take that shower now. “No, wait. Sit down,” I tell her. When she does, I pull my chair closer to hers. “Okay, help me out here. You said your mother was abusive toward him. So give me a specific.”

“Daddy, please. It’s been such a nice day. Can’t we just drop it?”

“No.”

She sighs, resigned. Struggles to begin. “This one time, Mama and I were making supper and . . .”

“And what?”

“Andrew was sitting on the kitchen stool, okay? And he started bugging her. He wanted to skip supper and go off someplace with Jay Jay. I don’t remember where. But Mama said no. And when he asked her why not, she just ignored him. So he got off the stool. Went over to her and said it again: ‘Why not?’ And instead of just saying something like ‘Because I said so’ or ‘Because I want you home for dinner,’ she just kept not answering him. So he
kept
asking her. You know, like goading her. I could tell she was getting madder and madder, but she still wouldn’t say anything. So he got even closer. Right up in her face, you know?”

Annie’s always hated that. Close talkers, people whispering in her ear: it makes her skittish. “How old were you guys when this happened?”

Sixteen, she says. It was right after she’d gotten her driver’s license. “You and Mama wouldn’t let Andrew get his until he brought his grades up,” she reminds me. “And he was so mean to
me
about it. Like it was
my
fault. If he needed a ride someplace, instead of asking me, he’d
order
me to take him. And when I did, he’d tell me all the way there about what a bad driver I was. How
he
should have been the one who got his license, not me.”

“Yeah, okay. Back to the kitchen. He was goading her.”

“He just kept repeating it over and over, right into her ear. ‘Why not, Mom? Why not? Why can’t I?’ And then . . . and then . . .” She’s shaking. Her breathing’s fast and shallow, as if she’s back there. “She just snapped.”

“Hit him?”

She looks down at her lap. “You know that wooden mallet she used to use to pound out meat if it was tough?”

“Yeah. You’re not saying . . . ?”

“She had that mallet in her hand and . . . she went after him with it. He put his hands up over his face to protect himself, but his forehead was . . . She hit him on his forehead. Hard! I heard this sound and
. . .
It was awful, Daddy. He went staggering across the kitchen. Grabbed onto a chair like he was going to pass out. I was so scared. I thought she had really hurt him. Cracked his skull or something.”

For the next several seconds, I’m speechless. “And you’re telling me you actually saw this?”

“Yes! I was standing right there!”

It’s hard to watch the pain she’s in, but I have to know. “Deep breaths,” I tell her. She obeys. Calms down a little. “It’s okay, Ari. Just get it out, and then you’ll be done with it.”

“Don’t be mad at her, Daddy,” she pleads. “She couldn’t help it.”

“I’m not mad.” But I am. I’m furious. She took a weapon to our son and I’m just hearing about it
now
? “What happened after—”

“She reared back and was going to hit him again with it, but I grabbed it away from her. And I was like, ‘Stop it, Mama! If you don’t stop it, I’m calling Daddy!’ When I said that, she just looked at me. Stared at me like . . . like she was coming out of some crazy trance or something. She looked over at Andrew. And when she realized what she’d just done, she . . .”

“What?”

“Dropped to her knees and started . . .
wailing
. It was horrible.”

“But your brother was okay? He didn’t pass out?”

“No. He was just holding on to that chair and looking at her.”

“What about Marissa? Was she there when this happened?”

“In the house, yes, but she didn’t see Mama hit him. She came into the kitchen when she heard her crying. I remember her just standing there, staring down at Mama like she was a freak or something. When Andrew and I finally got her up off the floor, she was like, ‘Just get away from me! All of you! Leave me alone!’ Then she ran upstairs to your bedroom and locked the door.”

I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Don’t want to believe it. “And what did you kids do?”

“Andrew left,” she says. “Got on his bike and took off.”

“Which was the last thing he
should
have done. He could have had a concussion and . . . What about you and Marissa?”

“I finished making dinner. Put it on the table. Mama wouldn’t come down, so the two of us ate without saying anything. Did the dishes. Then Andrew came back and he ate. You got home late that night, I remember, and by then things were back to normal, almost like nothing had happened. I was at the kitchen table doing my homework, and Mama and Marissa were in the den watching TV. I don’t remember what Andrew was doing. Probably up in his room, playing his music.”