by Dian Cronan
I finally break the stare-off and get out of the car. Liam must have spied us through a window because he’s waving goodbye to the Bauers and flinging himself off the porch before I make it passed the car. I force myself to smile as I help him into the back seat.
As I’m swinging the door closed, the crunching gravel and rumbling diesel of Beckan’s truck behind us surprises me. I’m more surprised when I see Beckan isn’t alone. Sitting next to him in the cab of the truck is Letta.
I realize I’m clenching my jaw so tightly my muscles actually hurt. Beckan and Letta hop out of the truck and approach cautiously. Another emotion is fighting its way to the surface, competing with my anger at Mother.
“Hey,” Letta says, looking concerned. “Are you okay? I heard about what happened with Mary.”
“I’m fine,” I reply curtly. “What’ve you been up to?”
“I played hooky,” she says, indicating a notebook she’s holding. With a wink, she says, “We need to talk.”
“Not right now,” I say coolly. What does that mean anyway, playing hooky? Was she playing hooky with Beckan all day?
Letta’s shoulders slump. “Okay. Tomorrow then.”
“Maybe.”
Beckan stands next to Letta, eyeing me carefully. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, dammit,” I snap. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Gee, I dunno,” Letta says sarcastically, “because Mary baited you into a fight because she’s pissed that Ronan dumped her so he can ask you to be his date for the Fall Dance, and then the principal suspended you for two days, basically confining you to Wolfhowl Mountain. That might put someone in a bad mood.”
“Wait, wait.” My brain is stuck. “Go back. What did you say about a dance?”
“The Fall Dance?” Letta says. “It’s Friday.”
“So?”
“Ronan wants you to be his date.”
“What are you talking about?”
Letta rolls her eyes. “How can you be so oblivious, Rose? It’s been around school for weeks. It’s on the announcements every morning!”
“I guess I haven’t really been paying attention,” I say bitterly. “Been a little preoccupied.”
“Well you better get your head out of the sand,” Letta says. “Suspension or not, Ronan’s going to find a way to ask you to the dance. What are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug, stealing a glance at Beckan, but his face is unreadable.
“You can’t seriously tell me you’re considering going with him?” Letta is incredulous.
I shrug again, frustrated. “I don’t know, Letta. I’ve had a heck of a day and I can’t think any more.”
The tension is broken with a sharp beep. Liam is leaning on the horn, and mouthing “Let’s go!”
“I gotta go,” I say. “Enjoy playing hooky.”
“Later…” Letta says, watching me carefully as I climb back into the station wagon.
I barely have the door closed before Mother starts backing up, forcing Beckan to run to his truck before we run over it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Diary and the Note
I stomp up to my room the second we get home. I don’t go down for dinner and don’t say goodnight to anyone. I’m too angry and confused.
Mother’s been gallivanting around town with a married man. How can she break up another family? How can pious Mrs. Delaney be such a hypocrite? As if the town needs another reason to hate the family on the mountain.
Where had Letta had been all day, and why Beckan was bringing her home? I don’t know why I even care; I have no claim to either of them. If they want to spend time together, so what? It doesn’t mean anything to me…does it?
And what kind of game is Ronan playing dumping Mary like that, making a spectacle for the whole school to see?
And the dance! I have no idea what to do about the dance. It’s only two days away. I’m filled with conflicting emotions. I desperately want to go to the dance, to dress up and be seen by everyone. The Texas Rose in me wants everyone to see how beautiful I can be. I want to be who I was once, when things were easy and simple. I want all the boys to crave me and I want all the girls to drown in envy, choke on it, especially that bitch Mary Donovan.
On the other hand, I dread and fear what might happen. Mary could make a scene, attack me again, maybe this time backed up by her girlfriends. If she does, I’ll have to fight back and then I’ll be expelled for sure. The principal put me on a short leash this afternoon and won’t tolerate any more disruptions from me, no matter who the instigator is.
And I’m not sure if I want to be Ronan’s arm candy either. Thinking about slow dancing with him reminds me of his bony embrace and his thin frosty lips when we kissed. He’s great looking, and his personality exudes the kind of flare people want to be around, but his touch is a dead fish compared to Beckan’s strong, warm arms and friendly smile…
Beckan. I’m suddenly angry all over again. I don’t even know why I’m thinking about him, or why I’m so angry. I’m seventeen and he’s twenty. He’s a tough, brawny social outcast, some hick from nowhereville, and I’m his total opposite – or at least I was. Nothing will ever happen with those train tracks between us. Let Letta have him if she wants. They can be social outcasts together.
I lay awake for a long time before falling into a restless sleep. I dream about Dad again, his pale lifeless body floating in the murky, ruby red water. His eyes wide open, his hands reaching for me with desperate urgency.
I’m so lonely, Rose!
***
The house is quiet and deserted when I wake, but it doesn’t feel empty. I’m groggy and disoriented, like I haven’t slept at all. The late morning sun filters through the front windows and looking at my clock, I realize it’s nearly noon.
Yesterday’s events flood back, clawing their way to the surface, begging for my attention. The fight, the suspension, Mother bedding Mary’s father, Beckan and Letta together, laughing and smiling…
I stomp downstairs, still wearing my pajamas, my hair a wild bird’s nest. I mope on the couch for an hour, trying to pay attention to Days of Our Lives and a is-she-or-isn’t-she-a-she Maury. My mind wanders back to school and the drama surrounding Ronan and Mary. I wonder what Letta, Shane, and Patty are doing, and if they’re worried about me. Do they even miss me? Why would they? The other students are probably jeering at them for being so friendly with Ghost Slut and her slut mother. Maybe they’ll join in, smearing my name with the rest of the town.
I wonder where Beckan is. I thought for sure he’d stop by to check on me by now. Didn’t he say something about wanting to talk to me yesterday? But then, so did Letta. Maybe they want to talk to me about the same thing.
By one-thirty, I’m angry and jealous. Again. I turn off the television and try to figure out what I can do the rest of the day. I need a distraction from my depression, from the helpless sense of my world spinning out of control, from the feeling of being watched. I feel my feet moving without any real direction.
I find myself at Mother’s door.
Without thinking, as if some spectral force guides my hand, I twist the knob and push the door open with a loud, echoing creeaaaaak.
The bedroom is dark and damp. As soon as I enter, I feel the chilly darkness creeping in on me. The curtains are drawn across the windows and balcony door, creating a dusty glow. Usually fastidiously neat, Mother’s left her room in contradicting disarray. A trashcan near the bed overflows with crumpled tissues. Dresser drawers are crunched closed on top of unfolded and rumpled clothing. The walk-in closet is a tornado of un-hung dresses and nurse uniforms, mismatching shoes littering the floor.
I stare at the disarray in shocked silence. Mother used to yell at Liam if he left a single sock on the floor or neglected to tuck in a corner of his sheets. Her bedroom is usually a pristine example of the kind of order and cleanliness she expects in the rest of the house. Maybe she just hasn’t been able to get settled
since the move, between work and her new friend. I want to believe this is the truth, but having been in the house more than two months now, I know it’s not.
My immediate instinct is to take advantage of the disorder and ransack Mother’s room – and that’s exactly what I do. I have no idea what I expect to find, but I’ll know it when I see it. I spend half an hour pulling open drawers and tossing around their contents, throwing shoe boxes around in the closet and rifling through the medicine cabinet in the master bath. It’s only when I give up on plundering that I see it– a small leather bound book, tangled in the sheets of Mother’s unmade bed. I nearly faint when I realize what it is – a diary.
I snatch it up with trembling fingers, turning it over in my hands. It’s exactly like the diaries from the basement. Mother’s neat cursive initials are on the front and a bookmark sticks out of the top, nearly a third of the way through the pages. Mother must’ve been very busy with the diary. Where did she get it?
I pause. Do I have the right to paw through Mother’s personal thoughts? Do I even want to? Maybe she’s written detailed descriptions of her romps with Mary’s father. Or about her frustration with her rebellious and hateful daughter. Do I really need to read Mother’s innermost thoughts? I think about our move to this unbearable hell, about Mother’s callous behavior after splitting from Dad and her apathy after he died. Most of all, I think about what Mother would do if she found my diary.
I open the diary.
The first entry was written mere weeks after the move, before I even knew the other diaries existed.
Where did you come from, Dear Diary? I found this neat little book sitting on my pillow when I came to bed this evening. I want to believe it is a lovely gesture from Rose, a peace offering after the months of hate and anger she has been spewing at me, but something tells me that is not the case.
I have no one to talk to, here or anywhere else. I haven’t had a confidant in years. Andrew used to be my one and only, the only person who knew me better than I knew myself. He used to ask me about my day and listen intently. He was the type of man every woman wants. He didn’t try to solve my problems. He just listened. But it’s been years since we shared that. The unhappier we became, the less and less we talked or listened to each other. We both retreated into ourselves and began to really hate each other for no real reason at all. I think we just fell out of love. Isn’t that sad? I’m not even sure how it happened. It just did.
I pause. This is the first real glance into my parents’ split I’ve ever had. Neither of them had ever spoken of it in specific terms to me or Liam. I digest this new information, trying to figure out how it makes me feel. Undecided, I keep reading.
Looking back on it now, I think that I had a foot out the door about five years before we separated. Andrew had become withdrawn. He spent most of his time with Rose, and when I told him I was pregnant with Liam, I don’t think he was happy, though he pretended as best he could. (We are Catholic, after all.) Ironically, after Liam arrived, I lost my husband completely to my children. It was almost like I no longer existed, like I was an outsider looking in on another family through their picture window. And I began to resent my own children for having the relationship with my husband that I used to have, that I so desperately wanted. So I began looking for this attention somewhere else, and eventually found it, in the arms of one of the doctors at the hospital.
It was just harmless flirtation at first. A smile here, a wink there. But then Doctor Robert Jackson asked me to dinner under the guise of complaining about our respective bosses away from prying ears. But it was romantic from the start, our own little Grey’s Anatomy. He took me to The Melting Pot, an expensive and romantic fondue place. We did talk about work at first, but somewhere between dipping apples in cheese and strawberries in chocolate, it turned to other things. Then, before I knew it, he was feeding me chocolate covered cherries and then pawing at me in his car in the parking lot. It felt so wonderful to be wanted again.
Robert was a passionate man. He sent me flowers and left me presents. He took me out to lunch. We “worked late” at a local hotel and talked for hours (among other things). And then, we became careless and the rumors started at work. Andrew began to notice the late nights, the odd charges on the credit card bill. It was then that I realized two things. One, I no longer loved my husband. Two, I didn’t love Robert either. That was when I decided to break it off with the both of them and really take time to find myself.
Time for herself?! All Mother’s ever seemed to want is time to herself. That’s part of the reason Liam and I spent so much time with Dad. Mommy Dearest needed a quiet moment, or a bath, or time to sit and think. And all that time it was because she’d overextended herself by having a family and a lover? In a sudden burst of fury, I throw the diary across the room as hard as I can. It smacks into an open dresser drawer and then flops onto the floor, a piece of folded paper fluttering along beside it.
I take deep, calming breath before picking up the diary so I can tuck it back into the bed covers to hide my snooping. I pick the loose paper up, assuming it’s a bookmark. It’s only when I hold it in my hand I realize it isn’t a bookmark at all. It’s a note, folded over, printed with slanted block lettering I immediately recognize as Dad’s.
Mother’s name is printed neatly over the top fold, just like Dad used to do. He’d leave us notes, all three of us, littered around the house; some historical factoid, some brief little moment in time, to make our days a little more special.
Salt is the most common seasoning mentioned in the Bible. Eat your vegetables!
The average bullying incident lasts only thirty-seven seconds. Be nice today!
China is contained within one time zone. Don’t miss the bus!
The first rhinoplasty was performed in the late 1700s. I love you just the way you are!
One in ten students drops out of school because they’re being bullied. Seriously – be nice today!
They weren’t daily notes, but they were frequent and always ended with an exclamation point. I have all of mine saved in a shoebox in my closet. Liam’s too young to understand how important these notes will be to him one day, so I saved his too. And I know, despite everything, Mother has her notes saved in a scrapbook somewhere. They go all the way back to when my parents first started dating. The first note Dad ever gave Mother read: It usually takes six to eight dates before couples enter into exclusive relationships. Let’s get ahead of the curve! I used to think it was really romantic.
And now, here’s one of Dad’s notes, but it’s larger than usual, written on a regular piece of computer paper instead of one of his monogrammed note cards. The fold is well worn, having been worked open and closed many times. A corner is wrinkled by a drop of rosy pink water.
It hits me like a bullet to the gut. It’s his note. The Note.
I hold the smooth paper in my hands for a long time, staring at the careful lettering of “Moira” from each side. I study the fold, flipping it halfway up and back down again. What does it say? Do I want to read it? Can I read it?
I flip the note open.
Moira,
How does one begin such a note? If you are reading this – no, too cliché…
My darling Moira… I used to think we’d do such beautiful, wonderful things together. Where did we go wrong?
I snap the note shut. I can’t do it. Not yet. It’s still too soon, too fresh, and my dreams have only washed the sadness back up onto the beach of my emotions, eroding my carefully constructed barriers. I’m not ready to read his words, to forgive or understand his sin.
I flip back through Mother’s diary to slide the note back in. I have the diary half-closed when Mother’s most recent entry catches my eye. It’s from last night.
Rose knows about Alec. Of course she knows. What an idiotic little town this is. And what an idiot I am.
Honestly, I wasn’t being very careful, not around Rose and Liam. I figured they’d recognize the old pattern, or Rose would anyway
. I had even talked myself into thinking that they did know, and we’d just determined not to speak of it.
Alec, apparently, was just as careless – although I’m not wholly surprised. He has a string of affairs behind him, but mostly out-of-towners. If the rumors around the hospital are true, his wife knows about them. But his daughter... He is very protective of her. I didn’t even know her name until I heard it in the principal’s office this afternoon. But his daughter found out somehow and confronted Rose at school. As is typical of my daughter, Rose punched her and dragged her to the ground. As annoyed as I was to get that call from the school (yet again), after I heard what the girl had said to her... I silently cheered Rose for standing up for her family. Even if she wasn’t doing it for me.
Poor Rose. She’s so angry and withdrawn from me. Soon, she’ll be lost to me forever. Every time I look at her, I see myself. I see the mistakes I’ve made, the mistakes that I have taught her to repeat. I desperately want to make things right, but I barely have the energy to keep myself together, much less worry about how she’s adjusting her ego to this little town.
