Wild Swans (20 page)

“I'm really glad you're here,” he confesses, and I melt. “I'm nervous.”

“I wouldn't miss it. You're going to be amazing,” I say.

Katrina welcomes everyone, thanks Java Jim's for hosting us, urges us to tip the baristas generously, and begins to sing. Connor offers to save me a place on the window seat with him and Josh and Jay, but I decline. Better to sit with Granddad. Easier to keep my hands to myself.

I brush a kiss over Connor's cheek. “Break a leg.”

“What about me?” Jay pouts.

“I didn't know you were performing!” I kiss him on the cheek too. “What about you, Josh?”

“Uh, no.” Josh looks horror-struck. “I'm just here for moral support.”

“Me too,” I say, and we chat about our weekends while we get our drinks. When I get back to my seat, Granddad's doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper while he listens to Katrina. Jay's up next, and as he performs a spoken-word piece about growing up in Baltimore in a rough neighborhood, Granddad puts down his pen.

Jay's words have a quick, beautiful cadence to them, and the way he performs from memory—the rhythm and flow of it, the change from soft and thoughtful to driving and passionate—is powerful. When he's finished, everyone applauds like mad and Jay gives a big theatrical bow. Then he returns to his seat next to Connor, who claps him on the back and grins. I love that there doesn't seem to be any competition between them.

Peyton Cavanaugh goes next. She reads a poem that seems like it might be about being a lesbian. There are definitely she-her pronouns involved. Her voice wavers at first and she holds her notebook with shaking hands, but as she reads, she finds her rhythm and relaxes into it. The poem itself is not very good, but presumably it's hers and not her dead great-grandmother's, so yay for her being brave enough to get up and read it. Her friends clap and whistle when she's finished, and Peyton looks proud of herself.

Then it's Connor's turn. He adjusts the mic and props his Moleskine on the music stand. I know he's nervous, but it doesn't show. He has a natural stage presence; his low voice commands attention. The whole coffee shop hushes—the clink of glasses, the hiss of the steamer, the chatter at the back of the store—as everyone listens.

He reads about the power of naming things, about being afraid to lose his memories. The images that he paints are beautiful. One is of a girl on a bench in a yellow dress, and oh my God, that's
me
. My pulse dances as he meets my eyes. It feels like everyone else in the room disappears for a minute, and I know we're both remembering our first kiss down by the water.

I dart a quick look at Granddad, wondering if he's noticed.

But Granddad is watching Connor, his face full of pride.

Has he ever looked at me like that? Pure proud, without wanting
more
and
better
and
next
?

As Connor begins his second poem, Professor Paquin comes in. My heart sinks. If she sees us—and how could she not? Java Jim's is not that big—and she and Granddad get to talking, there is no way on earth my poem won't come up.

I wish I'd been brave enough to talk to Granddad before we came here. To tell him about the poem. To tell him about Connor and me.

Connor recites the second poem like he was born to do this. He's perfectly at ease behind the mic and in his own skin. I know he's struggled to get there, but you could never tell from watching him. He varies his volume and speed, and he has the audience utterly enthralled. The college girls on the couch are practically swooning, and I can't blame them. Watching someone do the thing they love most is attractive. Really attractive.

When Connor finishes, Granddad claps longest and loudest. “Such mature themes for his age,” he says to me. “I told you, didn't I, Ivy? He's very promising.”

I nod, jealousy a thorn in my throat. Connor's my boyfriend. I should feel proud. But I would give anything to have that kind of talent.

There's a break while Katrina encourages people to sign up for the next set. Music plays over the speakers. Connor starts toward us, but he and Jay are mobbed by the college girls. All three of the girls are pretty hipsters. The petite brunette with blue streaks in her hair puts a hand on Connor's forearm, smiling up at him, and I sort of want to break her arm off.

If I'd told Granddad that Connor and I were dating, Connor would be holding my hand right now and these girls would not be flirting with him. This is my own stupid fault. I wait for Connor to excuse himself and make his way across the room to us, but he's talking, his hands waving animatedly, that big, goofy grin on his face, while the girls ply him and Jay with compliments.

Well-deserved compliments.

A wave of self-loathing breaks over me. I will never be the one up there with people clapping and whispering about how good I am because I'm a liar and a cheat and a nobody. Connor wrote me into a poem. Any other girl would be dazed with happiness. What is wrong with me?

Professor Paquin makes her way to our table. She's tall with brown skin and curly hair and a ton of energy despite having a toddler at home. “George!” she says. “Ivy! How are you? I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. Maya refused to go to sleep.”

“We're doing very well. Ivy, tell Eleanor your news!” Granddad doesn't waste any time.

“Oh, it's really not a big deal.” I shift awkwardly in my chair.

“She's being modest. She had a poem accepted for publication in an online magazine!” Granddad brags. “The first of many, I'm sure.”

He means well. But it doesn't feel like pride; it feels like pressure.

“Oh, that's fantastic! Congratulations, Ivy,” Eleanor says.

“Thank you,” I reply through gritted teeth, trying to muster a smile.

“We'll see if next week we can't get her up there reading some of her work.” Granddad sips his coffee. “Do you think you'd have time to look at some of her poems? Sit down with her and give her some constructive criticism?”

Eleanor smiles. “Of course. I'd be happy to. I love working with young poets to hone their voices.”

“I'm not a poet.” My voice is a little too loud, but I told him no. I specifically said I didn't have anything else to share. That I didn't
want
to share it. When will he hear me?

“Everyone starts somewhere, Ivy,” Granddad assures me.

“It's really no trouble,” Eleanor adds.

I know I should wait until we get home. But the words spill out.

“The poem's not mine. Not the best part, the line the editor really liked. I plagiarized it.” I stare down at the pretty tiled table, at my half-empty iced tea,
anything
not to see the disappointment on their faces. “I didn't mean to, but I'd been reading Dorothea's journals and that last phrase—I didn't realize it wasn't mine until today. I'm pulling the poem.”

Granddad lays a hand on my arm. “Ivy, sweetheart, it's okay. It was an accident. There will be other poems.”

“No. There won't.” My voice is quiet but firm. “I'm not a poet like Connor or Jay or Dorothea. I don't know what my calling is, or if I even have one. I'm sorry. I know that's what you want for me. I'm sorry that I can't be what you want me to be.” I stand, still avoiding Granddad's eyes. I catch a glimpse of Eleanor's face, the pity written all over it. “Excuse me. I don't feel very well. I'm going to go home.”

“Sweetheart, wait,” Granddad says. “I'll walk with you. Let's talk about this.”

“No. Please. I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight. Stay. I know it means a lot to Connor that you're here.” I'm already moving toward the door.

Connor breaks away from his fans to intercept me. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Home.” My voice is sharp. “I'm sorry. You were amazing. I just—I can't do this right now.”

Connor steps in front of me. “Can't do what? Did you tell the Professor about the poem? If you wait a minute, I'll walk you home.”

I point to the sunshine outside. “It's eight o'clock. I'm perfectly capable of walking myself home. I don't want to ruin your big night. Go back to your fan club.”

“Ivy. Hey. Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I just need to be by myself right now.”

And Connor—the one person I don't want to listen to me—does. He lets me go.

I walk back through town as the shadows are lengthening into dusk. Fireflies wink in and out of view around me, and the air carries the scent of grilled steaks and burgers. Neighbors wave from their front porches as they sip wine or pull their dogs aside to let me pass on the narrow brick sidewalk.

I love Cecil. It's all I've ever known. I'm intimately acquainted with all its corners and quirks, with the unspoken rules of how things are done.

Over on Water Street, Susan from the Book Addict is in her front yard, spraying the pink roses that push right up against her wrought-iron fence. “Hi, Ivy!”

“Hi, Susan. Those roses are real pretty,” I say.

She tucks a strand of white hair behind her ear. “Thank you, honey. You out for a walk? Nice night now that it's cooled down some.”

“Just heading home. I was at the open mic night down at Java Jim's,” I explain.

“Oh, that's right. I saw the flyer.” She smiles at me conspiratorially. “That boyfriend of yours works there, doesn't he?”

I shake my head, both impressed and exasperated. Connor and I have been on
one
date. To a party filled with people a third her age. “He does, yes.”

Susan moves on to the next rosebush. “You have a good night, Ivy.”

“You too.” I'm thankful she has the tact not to mention the scene in the store the other day.

What would it be like to live in a place where everyone doesn't know my business, doesn't feel perfectly at home prying into my family troubles or my love life? What would it be like to walk down a busy city street and have to consult a map for directions? To pass perfect strangers who don't know my name and entire family tree?

It seems like it could get real lonely…but it could also be pretty freeing.

I could do whatever I wanted. Dye my hair pink like Katrina and buy those over-the-knee black leather boots Claire has that Eli—Ella—calls her “superhero shoes” and Granddad says look like something a streetwalker would wear. I could read all the romance novels I want right out in public. (I currently hide them on my Kindle so Granddad won't see and judge.) I'd flat-out refuse to eat celery because I think it's a ridiculous vegetable. Watch nothing but old black-and-white movies and BBC period dramas without Alex complaining that there aren't enough explosions. I'd take classes in psychology and film and history because the world is big and interesting—and why the hell not.

I'd still swim. I know that bone deep. I might compete for Granddad, but I swim for me. I'd still wear sundresses and quirky T-shirts with robots or ladybugs on them. I'd bake pies using Luisa's tips for the perfect crust, but I wouldn't worry if the lattice top wasn't perfectly symmetrical. And the only art classes I'd take would be those “paint and sip” nights where everybody drinks cheap wine and tries to paint trees.

Letting myself daydream like this is kind of terrifying because it means I have choices.

I do. I might not always feel like it, but I do.

The house is quiet when I let myself in through the front door. Erica's car is still in the driveway, but the living room is empty. She and Gracie have turned off their movie. Bottles of nail polish and Q-tips sit abandoned on the coffee table.

I wander through the hallway. Pause and look at Dorothea's pictures. When she won the Pulitzer, she was happy. But I know from reading her journal that she also fretted whether that collection of poems would be the pinnacle of her career, whether she'd ever write anything else half as good or popular as “Second Kiss.” And her fears came true, because the next year Robert Moudowney's wife shot her. Dorothea made the newspapers one more time, but it was for all the wrong reasons.

In the study, Grandmother's dark landscapes seem to suck all the light out of the room. I wonder for about the billionth time why she was so fascinated with storms. Was it her depression? People say she never got over her mother's murder; she was only twelve when it happened. Did she feel the same pressure I do, that Erica does, to live up to her famous mother? Did Granddad contribute to that? By all accounts he was a devoted husband, devastated by her suicide. But he made his career studying her mother's work. That had to be weird sometimes.

What would have happened if Grandmother had made a different choice? If she, like Erica, had run away from Cecil and Granddad instead of walking into the Bay?

These are big, unanswerable questions. But I stand in the middle of the room, staring at the dark clouds and trying to answer them anyhow.

Then Erica screams.

It's not a playful shriek or a frustrated shout. This is a terrifying, bone-chilling sound that makes goose bumps rise on my arms.

I dart to the french doors, looking for the source.

“Grace!” Erica screams. She's standing at the edge of the shore.

There is splashing from out in the water. My sister—my little, strawberry-bubble-gum-chewing, blond-braided sister—is flailing. Choking. Sinking.

I run, kicking off my polka-dot flats.

Her little hand waves in the air. Her head sinks below the water and then pops back up as she kicks and coughs and sputters. She's not a quitter, not the kind to let herself sink. Thank God. My feet thud down the dock, and then I'm in the water with her, cutting through it till I reach her. I snatch Gracie and kick furiously to keep us afloat. She's panicking, making it harder for me to keep hold of her.

“You're okay. Shhh, you're okay. I've got you,” I tell her, and she calms enough that I can paddle the few feet back to the dock. Erica leans over and I lift Gracie up to her.

Erica's sobbing, her mascara painting wet, black trails over her cheeks. She drops to her knees, cradling Grace in her arms. “You're okay, baby,” she says over and over again. Grace is crying too, and she coughs and throws up water while her mama rubs circles on her back. I haul myself out of the water and kneel next to them.

“Are you okay? Did you hit your head?” I ask. Gracie shakes it no.

I reach out and scoop up a sodden soccer ball, which Grace must have been chasing, and heave it back toward the shore.

Erica looks at me. “
Thank you.
I couldn't… I—” She starts sobbing again, holding Grace so tightly that she squirms in protest.

“I'm okay, Mama,” she says. “Ivy saved me.”

Isobel comes running down through the yard. “Oh my God. What happened? I was up in my room and I heard you scream and—” She takes in Gracie's wet dress, the water dripping from her braids. “Is she okay?”

I nod. “She's fine.”

The air is still sultry but Gracie's teeth chatter. “We should get her inside and into dry clothes,” Iz suggests. The four of us move together back toward the house, Erica carrying Grace with Iz and me on either side. I pause to grab two towels drying over the porch bannister.

In the kitchen, Erica sets Grace down and Isobel wraps her in one of the towels. Gracie clings to her big sister. “Let's go start a bubble bath,” Iz says. “I think Luisa got you strawberry bubbles.”

Grace gives her a teary smile. “Will you stay and read me Fancy Nancy?”

Iz nods. “Of course.”

“I'm going to make you some hot chocolate, okay?” Erica says. “I'll be up in a minute.”

Iz takes Gracie's hand and leads her upstairs. I wrap the other towel around myself, dripping onto Luisa's clean kitchen floor. Erica pours milk into a big mug and puts it in the microwave, then reaches for what I assume will be the hot cocoa mix.

Instead she pulls out a bottle of vodka.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Making myself a drink.” Erica doesn't meet my eyes, just pours a shot of vodka. Her hand shakes, knocking the bottle against the glass with a sharp clink. “You should probably get into some dry clothes too.”

I look at the recycling bin, at the empty wine bottle on top. I pick it up and brandish it at Erica. “Is this why you couldn't save Grace yourself? Because you were already drunk?”

Erica puts her hands on her hips. “I have been drinking, but I'm not drunk.”

“Right. Nice distinction. She could have
drowned
!”

“Don't you think I know that? I froze. I haven't been in that water since the day my mother walked in and never came back out,” Erica says. “I couldn't do anything to save Mama, and I couldn't do anything to save Grace. It was my worst fucking nightmare, and all I could think was that it was my own damn fault because I should have taught her how to swim.”

“You should have,” I agree. “Tomorrow, after I get off work at the library, I'll teach her. I taught Abby's little sisters. If we don't get her back in the water, she might get scared of it.”

“Like me.” Erica takes the shot of vodka and goes to pour another. I grab the bottle out of her hand.

“What do you think you're doing?” She claws at me, leaving a long, red scratch across my forearm.

“If you have one more drink tonight, I swear to God, I will call your ex and tell him what just happened. He deserves to know. And Gracie and Iz deserve a parent who can take care of them.”

Erica slumps against the counter. “I'm
trying
.”

“Try harder. Grace could have drowned, and instead of comforting her, you're down here comforting yourself with vodka? What the hell kind of mother are you?” I demand. “They deserve better. Hell,
I
deserve better. But I'm seventeen. I have Granddad and Luisa and Claire and Abby and Connor. Meeting you may not have gone the way I hoped, but I don't
need
you. Iz does though. And Gracie too. She's so little. She really needs her mama.”

“I am not this person.” Erica raises her mascara-streaked face to me. “I swear. It's being around Dad. Being in this house again. It makes me—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I don't want to hear it. Granddad can be pushy and drive me up the wall. Growing up with him is not always a picnic. But he loves me. He loves
you
, despite everything you've done. This town can be claustrophobic, but there are so many good people here who would've helped you if you'd asked. People who probably still would. You are an adult, and you need to stop blaming everything on your parents and me and this town. You need to own your shit.”

Erica stares at me, her lips pursed. “Are you done?”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “I used to worry that you left because of me. Because you couldn't be my mother. At least with Gracie and Iz you tried. Even last week, when you said I'm someone people leave—that was a really shitty thing to say.”

Her gaze falls to the floor, and she fiddles with one of her silver rings. “I know. I'm sorry.”

An actual apology. I take the words to heart because I suspect I might never hear them from her again. My voice softens. “I don't hate you. I tried to, but mostly I just feel sad that I'll never know what it's like to have a real mom. Even if someday in the future we can be in the same room without it being awful, it won't be like I grew up with you. And I don't know what you need to do to get better, whether you need a therapist or AA or rehab or what, but—”

“I don't need rehab,” Erica snaps. “Stop looking at me like that.”

I sigh. “Like what?”

“Like him,” she says, and I know she means Granddad. “Like I'm a failure.”

I wrap the towel more tightly around me. “Look, I don't care what you do, but you better do something—soon—or Iz and Gracie are going to start looking at you like this too.” I put the vodka down on the counter between us. “It's your choice.”