Wild Swans (5 page)

The moving van comes and goes within the hour. Two burly men cart boxes marked ERICA and IZ and GRACIE up to the second floor. I offer to help my sisters unpack, but Isobel snaps that they can do it themselves and practically slams the door in my face. The house feels as if it's holding its breath in the calm before a storm, so I hide in my room and reread some Edna St. Vincent Millay. Which poem did Connor love enough to tattoo over his heart?

I can't stop thinking about him, wondering what he thought of me,
if
he's thought of me.

Granddad has another collection of Millay in the library. I'm halfway down the hall when I hear raised voices.

Erica and Granddad are arguing already. And I bet I know what it's about.

I press against the wall, listening.

“Do you think it was
easy
for me to ask you for help? I'd rather bite off my own goddamn tongue. You always thought I'd come back home with my tail between my legs. Well, here I am. I'm broke. No husband, no house, no job. Happy now?”

“I only wanted the best for you, Erica. You may not believe that, but it's true.” Granddad sounds bone weary. “I don't think you've thought this through. The girls are going to find out. It's a small town. People gossip.”

“Like I could forget.” A can pops open. “The things they said about me—about Mom—”

“You can't erase Ivy because she's inconvenient for you,” Granddad interrupts. “I won't allow it. If you want to stay, you have to tell Grace and Isobel the truth.”

There's a long silence, and then:

“I can't. Rick threatened to take Grace away from me. You might not think I'm much of a mother, but I'm all she has. Girls should be with their mother,” she says, and the irony of that does not escape me. “If he knew about Ivy… I will not let that bastard use a mistake I made when I was eighteen against me.” Erica is pacing, her stiletto heels drumming against the wooden floor. “I will
not
lose another child.”

Lose.
Like it was an accident and not a choice she made. Like I'm dead and not right here, ten feet away from her.

“No one took Ivy away from you,” Granddad says. “You left. And you can't expect her to perpetuate this lie for you. She has feelings.”

“I don't care,” my mother says, and the absolute truth of it knocks me breathless. I lean against the cool plaster, dizzy. “Bad enough that we have to live in this goddamn mausoleum all summer. I will not have my girls look at me the way you do. The way
she
does.”

Granddad sighs. “And how is that?”

“Like a loser!” Erica bursts out. “What did you tell her about me?”

“Hardly anything,” he says. “She's old enough and smart enough to form her own opinions. If she's angry with you, perhaps it's because you deprived her of the chance to know her mother and sisters. Don't you think she has a right to be hurt by that?”

“I was never good enough for you,” Erica says.

“That's not true.” Their words are quick, familiar, like this part of the fight is a well-trod path. I wonder how many times they've had this argument. “You could have been amazing. You had a gift, Erica, and you threw it away.”

“I never wanted it in the first place! And that killed you, didn't it? I was happy singing with the band and being a waitress. I didn't want to go to college. Always liked boys better than school anyhow. You knew that, but you still acted like it was some kind of personal insult when I got knocked up again and dropped out. I was
sick
, Daddy. I was sick and I was sad!”

“You were
selfish
. You walked out on your own child.” Granddad's voice is like a whip. “I made some mistakes too. I'll admit that. But Ivy—she's a good girl, Erica. Smart. Healthy. Strong. I can't let you come in here and ruin that.”

“Healthy? Please. She's grown up here, hasn't she? With all this?” I can't see through the wall, but I bet Erica is pointing at Grandmother's twisted paintings or at Dorothea's portrait. “With you? I bet she's dying to get out of here.”

It takes a second for Erica to realize the cruel double meaning of her words. “I-I didn't mean—”

“Ivy's happy here,” Granddad insists.

“Sure.” Erica lets out a sour little laugh. “You keep telling yourself that.”

My heart pounds. She doesn't know me. She doesn't care whether I'm happy. She's just trying to hurt Granddad, and I will not let her use me as a weapon against him.

I stalk into the library.

“Don't talk about me like you know who I am or what I want.” I glare at my mother. “You don't know one single thing about me.”

Her gaze meets mine. “I know you're a Milbourn girl,” she says. “And I remember everything that goes along with that. The lessons. The expectations. The gossip.” She raises her eyebrows. “What's your talent, Ivy? What do you do?”

My name in her mouth is like spoiled milk. The question lingers in the air, curdling.

“Nothing. I don't have one,” I say flatly.

For once, Granddad doesn't contradict me.

“Really?” Erica's face softens. “Well, good for you.”

“Ivy.” Granddad reaches out a hand, but I shy away from him. “You don't have to go along with this. It's not fair for her to expect you to lie to your sisters.”

But
his
expectations are fair? Asking me to spend the whole summer with the woman who abandoned me?

The traitorous thought winds its way around my heart and squeezes.

Granddad has done everything for me. Raised me. Loved me. If I asked him to choose, he would choose me. He would send them away. I know that.

But this is his chance to make things right with his daughter, no matter how awful she is, and to get to know Isobel and Gracie. I won't take that away from him. I won't be like Erica, putting herself first and not caring about the casualties she leaves in her wake.

I turn back to my mother. “No, it's not fair. But if you want to tell the girls I'm their aunt, you go right ahead. I'm not going to be the one to tell them the truth. It's a stupid plan though.” She flinches at the word
stupid
, and I feel a small, petty pleasure at hurting her. We are
far
from even. “People around here have long memories and big mouths. My sisters will find out. And when they do, they'll hate you. Just like I do.”

“Ivy—” Granddad catches at my elbow.

I shake him off. “I'm fine. I'm going for a swim. Call me when supper's ready.”

I brush past my mother and head out the door, across the backyard, and down the sandy path to the beach. Earlier, I threw on a blue sundress over my bathing suit. Now I shuck it off and dive in. The cold water is a welcome shock.

All my life I've worried I would end up like my mother, but I was wrong.

Erica and I have nothing—
nothing
—in common.

• • •

I'm lying on the dock, staring up at the clouds, when Alex comes.

He stands over me, casting a shadow. “Hey. Ma says supper's almost ready.”

“You see that cloud?” I point. “Doesn't it look like a bunny rabbit?”

Alex cranes his neck. “Nope.”

I huff and sit up. “You have no imagination.”

“You have enough for both of us.” He plops down next to me. “How's it going?”

“Erica told my sisters I'm their aunt.”

“Seriously?” When I nod, he covers my hand with his. His fingers are warm against mine, still cold and pruney from being in the water so long. “What's the Professor going to do?”

I take my hand back and squeeze the water from my ponytail. “He said she has to tell them the truth or they can't stay. She said if we don't go along with it, she'll leave. I told her to go ahead and lie. I don't care. They're going to find out… I just want a chance to get to know my sisters.”

Alex is sitting nearer than he needs to. Our knees aren't quite touching, but close. “What are they like?”

I shrug. “Gracie's real cute. Smart too. Isobel's kind of a brat, but I'm not sure how much of it's just for show.”

“Well, you won't get to know them if you're hiding out here. Let's go see what Ma made for supper.” He stands and pulls me to my feet. I grab my sundress and yank it back over my head.

We walk up to the house and into the kitchen, where Luisa is stirring marinara sauce. Spaghetti bubbles on the stove, and the scent of meatballs—hamburger and oregano and onion—wafts out from the oven. My stomach rumbles.

Alex tries to grab a slice of garlic bread, and Luisa slaps his hand. “Stop that,” she says, then turns to me. “How you holding up, baby?”

“Okay.” I accept her hug, leaning down because I'm a good eight inches taller. Luisa's brown hair is graying at the temples, there are laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, and she's always saying she'd like to lose twenty pounds. But to me, she's beautiful. She smells like garlic and butter and home.

“Hang in there, Ivy. Will you two set the dining room table? For five,” she clarifies, and my shoulders slump. I thought for sure she and Alex would be joining us. She notes my reaction. “Sorry, honey. Just family tonight.”

I take out five dinner plates, and she hands me a pile of napkins. She gives Alex a stack of salad plates with silverware piled on top. “I'm not even eating here!” he protests, but he follows me down the hall and into the dining room.

We hardly ever eat in here. Only when there's more company than will fit at the kitchen table. That's what Erica and Isobel and Gracie feel like to me: company, not family.

Light streams in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, which open onto the wraparound porch. The effect should be airy and lovely, but it's ruined by two of Grandmother's sinister paintings. In one, gulls are caught in an updraft above savage, dark waves. In the other, the Bay has flooded its banks and filled our backyard after some big storm.

For the billionth time, I wonder why Granddad doesn't sell these. When he looks at them, does he still see Grandmother's talent instead of her sickness?
How?

“Sorry I can't stay for supper,” Alex says.

“It's stupid. You are too family. More than they are.”

He hip checks me as we move around the table. “Not really.”

“Technically, no. But you
know
me.” I fold the napkins into swans. It's a catering trick Abby taught me. I bet Gracie will get a kick out of it. “They're strangers. And they don't like me.”

“They don't know you yet. Once they get to know you, they'll love you.” Alex arranges the last couple of forks. “You kinda have that effect on people.”

On people in general? Or on him? Does Alex mean
he
loves me?

The thought sends a wave of panic rolling through me.

I mean, of course he loves me. I love him too. He's my best friend. That's all he means, right? So much is changing this summer; I need Alex and me to stay the same as we've always been.

Luisa bustles in, carrying a big glass pitcher of sweet tea. Granddad follows with the basket of garlic bread. Just as the grandfather clock in the corner begins to chime six, Gracie runs down the stairs. Erica and Isobel follow her, and we all stand clustered in the front hall, surrounded by pictures of Dorothea.

“This is Luisa Garcia, our housekeeper, and her son, Alex,” Granddad says. “Luisa, Alex, this is my daughter Erica, and my granddaughters, Gracie and Isobel.”

“It's nice to meet you.” Luisa smiles. “I'm going for groceries tomorrow. If there's anything special you'd like, let me know and I'll pick it up for you. If you have any food allergies—”

“We're not fancy,” Erica interrupts, her lipstick a slash of red in her unsmiling face. “No special requests. We're used to cooking and cleaning up after ourselves like normal people do.”

“It's really no trouble.” Luisa smiles, but I can tell she's flustered as she runs a hand over the apple-print apron I gave her a few years ago for Mother's Day.

I look at Alex, embarrassed that my mom is so awful, and he moves closer, his shoulder knocking into mine. His navy-blue Cecil Warriors Baseball T-shirt is soft against my bare arm.

“Luisa started taking care of us when Ivy was little.”
When you left
, Granddad might as well say. “We'd be lost without her. I'm useless in the kitchen. Ivy's getting to be a great cook though.”

The timer for the meatballs goes off, and Luisa steps away. I rush to fill the awkward silence. “I like to bake, mostly. I was thinking maybe I could make a strawberry pie for dessert tomorrow night. If you want.” I look at Gracie. “You like strawberries, right?”

“I love strawberries!” Gracie tugs on her big sister's arm. “Izzy likes to bake too. She makes the
best
chocolate-chip cookies.”

“Iz could stand to lay off the chocolate-chip cookies,” Erica mutters, and Isobel flushes and yanks on the hem of her T-shirt.

I bite my lip. I cannot
believe
Erica just said that.

Isobel's curvy, not all angles like Erica and Gracie. But she's not fat. Even if she were fat, who cares? It still wouldn't be okay to police what she eats and shame her in front of everyone.

“Well, you're welcome to use the kitchen any time, Isobel. Luisa keeps it pretty well stocked, but if there's anything else you need, you just let us know,” Granddad says.

“I don't need anything. I'm on a diet,” Isobel croaks. Her brown eyes are fixed on the floor like she wishes she could melt right through it.

Fury rises in me. She's beautiful the way she is. There's more to being pretty—or healthy—than being skinny.

But I don't know her, and I don't want to say the wrong thing and make her feel worse.