Wild Swans (4 page)

I steady myself against the house, pulling strength from the warm, white bricks. My heart is racing as I poke my head out.

She doesn't look like somebody's mom.

That's my first, maybe uncharitable, thought. Abby's mom is a part-time real estate agent who wears capris and pastel T-shirts from the Gap. Claire's mom is a history professor who wears a lot of belted fifties-style shirtdresses. Erica is wearing black shorts so short they'd get her sent home from school and a black tank top that show off her long, skinny limbs. Her bleached-blond hair is swept to one side in a chic pixie cut. She's carrying a huge iced coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and her eyes are hidden behind enormous sunglasses. She's tall—taller than me, I think, till I see the strappy gladiator sandals that give her a couple extra inches.

The front door bangs and Granddad's loafers slap across the porch, then the driveway. “Erica. It's good to see you.” He goes to hug her and she takes a step back.
Ouch.

“Dad.” She gives a curt nod. “This is Grace.” Grace is tall and skinny for six, with all of Erica's sharp angles. “And this is Isobel.” Isobel is short and curvy, with a heart-shaped face that makes her look younger than fifteen. She and Grace have the same white-blond hair that Erica had when she was a little girl, which apparently skipped me.

The three of them stand together in a little triangle. A team. A
family
.

Loneliness knifes through me.

Stupid. So stupid. These people are strangers. Why do I care how they stand?

Granddad shoves his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. “Well, it's real nice to meet you girls.”

“You're our grandpa, huh? Is that what I call you?” Grace pulls off her pink, star-shaped sunglasses and gazes up at him. “I never had a grandpa before. Daddy's daddy died before I was born.”

“You could try Granddad. See how that feels,” he suggests. “Or you could call me George.”

“George!” Grace laughs. “Like Curious George?”

I can hear the smile creep into his voice. “Yep.”

“You can call me Gracie. Everybody does, 'cept Mama,” Grace says. “Oh, Mama, look! A porch swing! I
love
porch swings.” She bounds past Granddad up to the porch, and I dart back before she can see me. “I think I'm going to like it here!” she announces.

“Mmm-hmm,” Erica says, noncommittal, and I peek out in time to see her take a long drag from her cigarette. Gross.

Isobel looks around at the gabled old farmhouse and the fields that stretch out as far as the eye can see. “That makes
one
of us who wants to be here,” she mutters, loud enough that I can hear. I know Cecil must be real different from what they're used to in New York and Washington, DC, but that's no excuse to be rude.

Enough. I can't let Granddad stand out there by himself.

“Hi.” I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake or squeak.

Granddad turns. “There's our Ivy.”

I resist the urge to hide behind him. I step up next to him instead and square my shoulders. Even with her crazy heels, I'm Erica's height. My eyes meet her mirrored sunglasses and I wonder what she's thinking. Am I how she pictured me?

She takes another drag of her cigarette and stares long enough that I want to squirm. “Jesus, you're tall.”

I wait for her to say more.

She doesn't.

My mother hasn't seen me in fifteen years, and that's all she has to say to me?

“Five ten,” I mumble, fighting the urge to slouch.

“I'm tall too,” Gracie calls from the porch swing. “I'm going to be practically a giant. Like my daddy. He's six feet two inches tall.” She scrutinizes me. “So you're my aunt Ivy, huh? I never had an aunt before. Just uncles.”

My stomach drops like a stone.

“Your—” I choke, turning back to my mother. “
Aunt
Ivy?”

Erica pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her big, brown eyes are rimmed in black and framed by long lashes. Fake, probably.

She stares at Granddad. “You didn't talk to her about this?”

“No. I thought we decided—” Granddad's voice is a teakettle just about to boil.

“No,
you
decided.” She purses her lips. “I never agreed to anything.”

The pavement is hot beneath my bare feet and the sun is scorching the crown of my head, but I go icy with rage. This is what she and Granddad were arguing about on the phone. It has to be.

Granddad looks over his shoulder at Gracie. “This isn't… We'll talk about this once we get the girls settled.”

Erica shrugs. “It's not up for debate. I told you that.”

Why is she doing this? To hurt me? To prove that I'm nothing to her? The way she stands, head thrust forward, it's obvious that she's spoiling for a fight.

But not, I realize, with me. Her gaze never leaves Granddad. Alex was right; her problem is with him. She doesn't care about me or my feelings at all.

Hurt slices through me, like the time last summer I stepped on a shell and Alex had to carry me back to the house.

If Erica cared about me, she wouldn't have run off. Or she would have stayed in touch. Christmas cards. Birthday presents. Emails. Visits.
Something.
I don't know why I'm surprised.

I guess I'd hoped that maybe, deep down, she still felt something. A little bit of curiosity or interest or regret or—

Love.

Stupid. My mother doesn't love me. She never has.

My throat aches. Tears well up, and I blink them back. I will not cry in front of her.

Behind us, Gracie jumps off the porch swing with a thud. “Don't fight already, Mama,” she pleads, all blond bounce and sparkle. “We just got here!”

I glance at Isobel. She's texting furiously on her blinged-out phone like she's not paying any attention to our argument. But her body language, tense and hunched, gives her away.

Gracie peers up at me. She's standing so close I can smell her strawberry bubble gum. “I thought you'd have yellow hair like Mama and Iz and me,” she says.

I finger a wet brown curl. “Nope.”

“Were you swimming?” she asks.

I wonder how often she does this. Jumps in and smooths things over for her mother. A six-year-old shouldn't have to do that. My frostbitten tongue thaws.

“Yep.” I rewrap the gray towel around my waist. I've spent half my life in bathing suits. I know I look okay—not model skinny, but swimmer strong. Next to Erica though, I feel like a goddamn Amazon. “You like to swim?”

Gracie pouts. “I don't know how.”

I gawk at her. I can't imagine a life without waves and weightlessness.

Gracie thaws Granddad too. “Well, we'll fix that,” he declares. “Ivy'll teach you. She's going to be captain of her school's swim team next year. She came in second at regionals in the one-hundred-meter backstroke.”

“No!” Erica's voice is louder than it needs to be. Loud enough that we all turn and stare. She throws her cigarette to the pavement. “I don't want you in the water, Grace.”

“But, Mama!” Gracie whines.

“I said
no
!” Erica snaps, and Gracie wilts like week-old lettuce.

Granddad rubs a hand over his beard. “Erica, she can't spend the summer here without learning to swim. Don't be—”

“Don't you dare say ‘ridiculous.' Considering what happened, what Mom—” Erica breaks off and her gaze darts past us, past the house to the glittering blue Bay, and for a second I think maybe she
does
have a heart. Coming back here after so long, back to the place where her mother drowned, can't be easy. I feel the tiniest pinprick of sympathy.

Doesn't last long.

“Of course not. I didn't mean…” Granddad says. “But the Bay's in our backyard. It's not safe for—”

“I said no, and I'm her mother.” Erica stalks close, gets up in his face. “I make the decisions for my kids. Or else we're leaving right now.”

“And going where?” Granddad mutters, but he throws his hands up in the air, conceding. “All right. Fine. But we're going to talk about that other thing later.”

That other thing
being me.

Erica will make the decisions for her kids—except me, because I'm not hers anymore. Not according to her and not legally either. She signed away her rights to me when I was four. Granddad had to hire a private investigator to track her down. She was waitressing at some vegetarian café on the Upper East Side while her boyfriend, Isobel's dad, acted in plays off-off-Broadway.

Erica sets her coffee down on the hood of her beat-up silver car and searches through her bag. “Where the hell are the movers? They should be here by now.”

I can tell Granddad is biting his tongue.
Language, Erica.

“Girls, would you like to see your room?” he asks instead. “Ivy can show you.”

“I'll do it,” Erica says quickly. Like she's worried that if I'm alone with them, I'll spill her secret.

I should. I should tell them right now.
I'm not your aunt. I'm your sister. Your mama's my mama too. She ran out on me when I was a baby. She's a liar and a terrible, selfish person, and you can't trust her. Better you learn that now.

I step forward. Open my mouth to say it. But then the wind shifts and I'm hit with the scent of strawberry bubble gum. I look down at Gracie's sunny, gap-toothed smile and I can't.

I don't know where Erica would go, but I believe she is just selfish enough to pack the girls back in her car and drive away, and Granddad and I would never see Gracie and Isobel again.

And I want to get to know them. It kind of punches me in the gut how much. Who is Isobel texting? Does she have a boyfriend? Does she play sports or maybe an instrument? Is Gracie obsessed with Disney princesses and dogs like I was at her age, or is she into soccer and nail polish like Abby's little sisters?

Has either of them inherited some marvelous Milbourn talent?

Maybe it's different if you don't grow up here with the weight of all those expectations. But between Isobel's slouch and Gracie's worried eyes, I'm not so sure.

“Are you putting us in my old room?” Erica asks.

Granddad shakes his head. “The girls can have the guest room. The
nursery
last time you were here. Ivy's up in the attic now.”

“You get to sleep in an attic?” Gracie asks. “Is it
haunted
?”

Isobel looks up from her phone long enough to roll her eyes. They're like Erica's, big and brown, coated in sparkly purple shadow. “Don't be stupid. There's no such thing as ghosts.”

“Iz, don't call your sister stupid,” Erica snaps, and Isobel curls into herself.

“No ghosts. We've got a widow's walk though.” I point to the roof. “That balcony up there. Have you ever seen one before? We can go watch for the moving truck if you want.”

“Can I go see, Mama?” Gracie asks. “Please?”

Erica turns her dark gaze on me. Watching. Weighing. Will I tell?

I stare back, chin up, game face on. But I can't help wondering what she thinks of me.

“All right, Grace,” she says after a long moment. “Go ahead. But be careful.”

She says it like she cares. Gracie squeals and throws herself at Erica, hugging her around the waist. Erica pats Grace's shoulder, and her face softens when she looks down at her little girl.

“You want to come?” I ask Isobel.

“No,” she scoffs. I don't miss the way she glances at her mother afterward, seeking her approval, rewarded when Erica tosses a scrap of a smile her way.

“Suit yourself.” I lead the way inside, Gracie skipping after me.

“Izzy's mad because she wanted to stay in DC with Daddy,” she confides the second the screen door bangs shut behind us. “She was supposed to go to theater camp and she didn't want to leave her friends. And her
boy
friend.” She draws the word
boy
out like it's seventeen syllables long. “You got a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” But I think of Connor and his tattoos and the way his eyes trailed over my legs, and I feel myself blushing. “What about you?”

“Ew! No! I'm
six
, silly!” Gracie giggles, climbing the stairs next to me.

“I meant are you okay with being here for the summer?” It must be hard, leaving her father and everything familiar to come live with strangers.

She shrugs. “Daddy says I can visit him on the weekends. Izzy too. Or he'll come and visit us. He says there's a hotel here where you can have a tea party. Like with the
queen
!”

I laugh as I open the attic door. “There is. I've been there.” I had my seventh birthday party at the Blue Heron Inn. My friends and I wore poufy dresses and little hats. We thought we were incredibly fancy. Alex was the only boy and Luisa made him wear a suit and he was so mad. Only till he saw all the cookies though. We both ate ourselves sick.

“Is blue your favorite color?” Gracie points at my navy comforter and the navy-and-white-striped curtains. “My favorite color is pink.”

“I like pink too. My prom dress was pink.” I grab the picture of Alex and me off the nightstand and show her.

Gracie plants her hands on her skinny hips. “You said you didn't have a boyfriend!”

“I don't! This is Alex. He and his mom, Luisa, live in the carriage house in our backyard. Luisa is our housekeeper, and Alex is my best friend. You'll meet them at supper.”

“A boy best friend?” Gracie wrinkles her nose as she examines the picture. “Your dress is pretty.”

“Thank you.” It was bright pink with a V-neck and an A-line skirt that flared out when I twirled, and I twirled a lot that night. Claire went solo, and Abby went with her boyfriend, Ty, a friend of Alex's from the baseball team. The five of us had dinner at the Crab Claw beforehand and went to the bonfire at the cove after. It was a pretty perfect night, right up until the very end.

I guess more-than-friendship had been brewing between Alex and me for a while, but that night it became impossible to ignore. It was there between us when Alex wrapped his arm around me as we posed for a million pictures for Granddad and Luisa, and it was there when we were dancing to a slow song, swaying together with my arms looped around his neck. As we were leaving the dance, he put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd, and it felt different. Possessive. Even though we've raced and wrestled and dunked each other about a million times, I suddenly felt so aware of his touch, his thumb brushing against the curve of my hip. Like he was claiming me as
his
.

I wasn't sure I liked it.

Later, when he walked me to my door at three in the morning, he stopped and looked at me. Really
looked
, like I wasn't the Ivy he'd been looking at his whole life—or maybe I was, but I was also more. Ivy-plus. He tucked my hair behind my ear, and his fingers hesitated on my neck. Then he leaned in, and I knew he was going to kiss me.

I ducked away and laughed. Told him his judgment had obviously been impaired by the beers he'd had at the bonfire. Told him we were friends,
best
friends, and I didn't want to screw that up.

Then I ran inside like a third-grader scared of catching cooties.

It felt like the right decision then, and now that I've met my mother, I'm even more relieved that Alex and I are just friends. I don't think I could handle any more big changes this summer.

I pull open the trapdoor in the ceiling and climb the stairs to the widow's walk. Gracie follows me up. The briny air feels good after the stuffy heat of the attic. The white floorboards shine in the sun, surrounded by a waist-high fence. Gracie slides her starry, pink sunglasses back on, and together we squint out over the Bay.

I can see across the channel and down to the Garrettsons' gray house. In the other direction is the old Moudowney place with its red barn and silo. Fields of corn and potatoes and soybeans stretch out like a green-and-gold patchwork quilt. Robert Moudowney was Dorothea's lover—the one she wrote her most famous love poems about. They were in and out of each other's houses when they were kids, then grew up and married other people, and then she took to sneaking over to his law office on Queen Street in the afternoons. She wasn't real discreet about it. Dedicated her last book to him and everything. Granddad used to joke about me and Ian Moudowney getting married, but Ian came out as gay last spring, so that seems unlikely.

Gracie stares at the sun twinkling on the Bay. “Is that where you go swimming?”

“Yep.” I wonder if she knows why Erica won't let her swim. I point to the brick carriage house in the backyard. “See that little house? That's where Alex and Luisa live.”

Gracie twirls a strand of blond hair around her forefinger. “Does he have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. Just him.”

Her little mouth twists. “Izzy is a pain, but I'm glad Mama didn't let her stay in DC. I'd miss her too much.” She scuffs her pink sneakers against the floorboards. “Weren't you lonely when Mama went to New York?”

Erica ran away in the middle of the night. Left me in the crib and left a note for Granddad on the kitchen table. Said she just couldn't do it anymore.

Did she mean being his daughter?

Or being my mother?

Seems like she's managed just fine with Isobel and Grace.

Why them and not me? Was there something wrong with me? Something that made her incapable of loving me the way a mother should?

I thought I was long past wondering why she left. Past wanting her to provide the answers. But her showing up here with Gracie and Isobel has brought back all my old questions. Maybe they were there all along, bobbing right under the surface.

Gracie's still waiting for her answer.

“I was real little when your mama left. And I had Granddad and Alex and Luisa. I was okay.” I smile down at her. “But I'm glad you and Isobel are here now.”

“And Mama,” Gracie adds.

“And Mama,” I agree. But it tastes like a lie.