Abigail’s own temper flares. “I don’t appreciate your tone or your language. I’m only trying—”
“You’re trying to live my life for me.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it? Where’s my coffee? What happened to the novel I left on the couch last night?”
Abigail lifts her chin. “It was a trashy romance. I’ll buy you something more—”
“Fitting?” I laugh, bitterly. “You’re going to control my reading material, too? What did you do with my book?”
“I threw it away.”
“You did what?”
“Daddy would—”
“He’s not here! What did you do with it?” I stomp into the kitchen, open the trash can. Sure enough, there is my half-finished book, a blob of oatmeal glommed onto the cover.
“I can’t believe you threw away my book!”
“I can’t believe you were reading that garbage! It’s disgraceful.”
“How do you know? Did you read it?”
“I looked at the cover. An objectified woman, broadcasting her wares for the men—”
I laugh again, this time for real. “That is a very strong woman with magical powers. Any man who dares to objectify her is probably going to be very sorry. And maybe dead.”
Last night I’d left said heroine in the middle of a life-and-death dilemma, and I really want to know what happens. There’s no bookstore in Colville, and the soonest I can get a replacement is through two-day delivery from mail order. I don’t have an e-reader, although I can suddenly see the appeal. Abigail would think three times before throwing away an electronic device.
I fish out my book.
“Mother! It’s covered in germs.”
“I don’t see any germs.” But I do see oatmeal. And coffee grounds. Decaf coffee grounds, insult to injury. The cover and half the pages are soaked and turning brown.
Abigail snatches the book from my hands and shoves it back into the trash. Turns on the water in the sink and scrubs her hands with soap.
“This is all the influence of that Val person. You need to stop hanging out with her.”
“Val is my friend, and I will hang out with her as much as I want.”
Abigail glares at me, both hands on her hips, and all of a sudden, the whole scene strikes me as funny. We’ve switched places somehow, she and I. She’s acting like the mother, I’m the rebellious teenager. The more I think about it, the funnier it gets, and I burst out in the sort of belly laugh I didn’t know I was capable of.
“I don’t see anything funny.”
I wipe my eyes and draw in a steadying breath. “Honey, I’ve been reading these books since before you were born. I used to hide them from your father, but I’m not going to hide them from you, because you are not the boss of me. You know what Val reads? Science fiction. Hard-core. Wouldn’t touch a fantasy romance if she was stranded on a desert island.”
Emotions chase themselves over Abigail’s face, visible for once, and I wait to see which one is going to land. She traverses through bewildered and worried and winds up right back at anger.
“You—you hypocrite! All those Bible storybooks you made me read as a child. The true-life inspiration stories when I was a teenager. And all the time you were reading fantasy?”
A memory hits, as clear as if it happened yesterday.
Abigail sits in her father’s lap in the big chair in the living room, watching the words as he reads. It’s the story of Peter walking on the water, a story she’s heard a hundred times and knows from memory.
All at once, in the middle of the part where Peter begins to sink because of his lack of faith, she dares to interrupt, laying her little hand flat over the page and looking up into her father’s face.
“How come there are no girl disciples?”
Thomas, in a relaxed and indulgent mood, laughs and hugs her tighter, planting a kiss on top of her head. “Women can’t be disciples.”
I’m sitting in my chair across from him, knitting, because it makes him happy when I knit and I love the moments when he reads to our daughter. My fingers fumble, and I drop a stitch, sensing what is coming, feeling it already like a strike to my heart.
Abigail looks up into his face. “Why?”
“Women are meant to take care of men—”
“Well, then, if there had been a woman there, she could have taken care of Peter.”
“He had Jesus to take care of him.”
“But,” Abigail says again, “there are no girls in any of the stories.”
“There’s Mary and Martha,” I say quietly, trying to forestall where this conversation must, inevitably, end.
“But they don’t do anything interesting. I want to walk on the water,” Abigail says. “And feed the people the fish and bread. And—”
“Are we going to finish the story or not?” Thomas’s limited supply of patience is up. So is Abigail’s.
“Not.” She slams the book shut with her little-girl hands. “I want to read a story about a girl who does something interesting.”
“Do something with this, would you, Elizabeth?” Thomas says, leaving me with a bag I didn’t pack and do not want to carry.
I keep my eyes on my knitting. “Well, there’s Esther—”
“That’s a stupid story!” Abigail says. “All she does is get dressed up and talk to the king. I want to be like David and kill giants. Why can’t I be a man?”
“Unfortunately, you are not.” Thomas bites these words off, one a time, and I know they’re meant for me. I, the woman put on this planet to be his particular helpmate, have failed to give him a son. “A woman is on this earth to be a helper for men.” He’s not shouting, but it’s his angry voice. His arm isn’t around Abigail anymore, and she’s perched unsupported on his lap. She starts to cry, but silently, because even at four she knows that her tears will not be tolerated.
“Women who try to be men are a disgrace and an abomination. I will not hear words like this from you again, you understand?” Abigail nods, but it’s not enough. Thomas grabs her chin and forces her to look up at him. “Tell me.”
“I understand.” Her voice is crumpled with tears.
My heart is breaking, breaking, and breaking again.
“Go to your room,” he says. “Elizabeth, go read her the story of Adam and Eve. It’s time she understands her place in this world.”
Abigail flees the room and burrows, sobbing, into her bed. I sit down beside her and smooth her hair, stroke circles on her back.
“Are you going to read me the Eve story?” she asks after a long time, rolling over to look up at me. Her little hand touches my cheek and comes away wet with tears. “Why are you crying, Mommy?”
I’m about to tell her that I’m sad, too, about the lack of girl disciples. I’m about to suggest a different kind of story, about a girl named Joan of Arc, but I hear approaching footsteps, and then Thomas looms in the doorway.
“You’re not reading,” he says.
And the best I can bring myself to do for my daughter in that moment is to say, “I think she’s had enough of stories for tonight.”
Now my little girl is all grown up, so very much the woman I was complicit in raising her to be. I would give anything to have that moment back. I’d tell her about Joan of Arc, and the warrior queens of the Amazon. I’d find her books about women who were doctors and missionaries, explorers and scientists. Women who went to space and to war.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the only thing I can do, and, of course, she takes that all wrong.
“I forgive you. Just don’t read them anymore.”
“Oh, I’m not remotely sorry for reading the books,” I clarify, tilting up my chin. “I’m sorry I hid the books from you. I’m sorry I didn’t insist on other things for you to read. But it’s not too late! We can both read whatever we want to, now.”
She stands there, hands on her hips, looking at me, and I begin to hope we’ll have a moment of breakthrough, of connection.<
br />
“You don’t understand the first thing about anything,” she says. Then she turns her back and stalks away, off to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter Ten
Abigail doesn’t come out of her room all afternoon.
Three times, I walk to her door and raise my hand to knock, wanting to tell her I’m sorry, to make things right between us. But what would I be apologizing for? I can’t say what she wants to hear—that I’m sorry about reading novels, or changing my hair, or finding a different way to be. And it doesn’t seem like the right time to tell her I’m going to be in the play.
I’m staring into the fridge, trying to think of something to fix for dinner, when my phone chimes with a text message.
Val: Some of the cast is meeting for dinner to celebrate. Rancho Chico. 5:30. Be there.
Liz: I don’t know. Abigail is here.
Val: She’s a grown-up. Pretty sure she can find herself some dinner.
Val: Or you could bring her leftovers.
I flirt with temptation. Abigail is barricaded in her room, and even if she comes out, dinner will consist of an awkward truce, at best. More likely it will turn into another battle. Besides, this is as good a chance as any to signal that I’m a free and independent woman living her own life.
I leave a note on the counter. Sorry to abandon you, but I’ve gone out for dinner. Leftovers in the fridge. Love you.
When I walk into Rancho Chico, the group is already there, seated around a long table. Tara and Bernie are both nearly to the bottom of what I think are margaritas. Lance holds a glass half full of beer. I just have time to hesitate, shy and uncertain, before Bernie shouts, “Lacey! Our leading lady has arrived!”
Val gets up and hugs me while the rest raise their glasses and cheer. There is one empty chair between Lance and Geoff, a fat paper script sitting where the plate should be. Both men get up and pull out the chair for me with an exaggerated flourish.
“Thank you,” I murmur, grateful for the dim lighting as the blood rushes to my face.
“About time,” Bernie says. “I was about to die of starvation.”
Tara snorts and finishes what’s in her glass. “I think it would take a little longer than that. Lacey, have you met the rest of this illustrious cast?”
“No, she has not,” Bernie cuts in. “I’ll do the honors. I’m Grace, your rival for Darcy’s affections. You also already know Lynetta”—Tara waves her empty glass—“and your best pal Emma.”
Val grins and ducks her head.
I feel dizzy and overwhelmed, although I get the gist of this introduction game.
“Bernie,” I start to ask, and am immediately interrupted by a loud chorus of “Drink!” and everybody else at the table picks up a glass and swallows.
“Come on, Lacey. Drink up.” Geoff nudges a glass a little closer to me. “Anytime one of us slips and uses real instead of character names, we all take a drink.”
I swirl the glass, greenish liquid over ice cubes with a frosted rim. Thomas did not approve of alcohol, and my only drinking experience consists of the occasional glass of wine when it’s offered at somebody else’s home.
“What is it?”
“Your favorite,” Lance—no, Darcy—says beside me. “Lime margarita on the rocks.”
I take a careful tiny sip. Salt, followed by lime and something sharper. It tastes good, and I take a bigger swallow.
“All of your drinks are on us tonight,” Bernie says. “Bottoms up.”
“And dinner is on me.” Lance hands me a menu.
“Oh, Lance, I couldn’t—”
“Drink!” A laugh goes around the table, and everybody does so. For a fraction of an instant, I’m embarrassed, but then I realize that the laughter isn’t aimed at me, and they are all delighted to have the excuse to drink.
“Lacey,” Lance intones in an exaggerated theater voice, covering my hand with his and gazing into my eyes meltingly, “your pleasure is my pleasure. The waitress will be back in a moment—what would you like to eat?”
He’s acting, I remind myself. None of this is real. But even so, his touch, his eyes, light up sensations in my body I’d thought were history. I shift my eyes away from his, so entrancingly blue, and to the menu, an unexplored treasure trove of tastes. Thomas and I ate out rarely, and when we did, it was never something exotic like Mexican food.
I scan the unfamiliar names and choose something called “camarones a la diabla,” not because I like shrimp so much as that I like the way the words sound in my head.
“You should meet the rest of these people,” Lance says after the orders are given and fresh drinks arrive for everybody, including an alcohol-free cocktail for Val, because she’s going to work from here. I have barely touched my first margarita, and now a second is waiting for me.
Already the unfamiliar warmth of the alcohol is settling in. I can feel myself relaxing into this group that seems to want nothing more from me than that I pretend to be Lacey.
“That guy over there”—Lance points at Geoff—“is your ex. And this is your son, Lyndon. He’s not drinking tonight, of course, because he’s underage.”
A thin, fragile-looking teenager with a face that will be beautiful when his acne clears gives me a sweet but hesitant smile. I smile back at him, and he says, “Hey, Ma. Can’t I have just one drink?”
“Behave,” Val says, elbowing him, and he snort-laughs, then blushes and drops his eyes.
“Down at the end is Jayce, who oversees all of the clothes we will be wearing. And DeeDee, our supplier of furnishings and all other things needful, otherwise known as props mistress.”
“Drink!” Bernie cries.
“What? Neither of them has character names.”
“Even so. You shall refer to them as ‘Props Mistress’ and ‘Costume Maven.’”
“Fair,” Tara says, burying her face in her glass and drinking half of it.
“Let’s play a game,” Geoff suggests, and the rest groan.
“Is there drinking involved?” Tara demands.
“Always. What do you take me for? Two truths, one lie. Guess wrong, and you take a drink.”
“Can we guess wrong on purpose?” Bernie grins impudently. “I’ll start. My nickname when I was six was Pip-squeak. I was a ballerina until I pulled a hamstring. My favorite movie is Die Hard. Miss Lacey, find the lie.”
I take a motivational swallow of my own drink, surprised to discover that I’m almost at the bottom. “Ballet. I don’t exactly see you as a ballerina.”
“Drink!” Bernie cries, triumphant. “I was an amazing ballerina.”
Try as I might, I cannot picture Bernie up on her toes doing a pirouette or wearing a tutu. And then I notice that the others are all thumbing through their scripts and realize my error. It’s not Bernie who was a ballerina, it’s her character in the play. Grace. My rival. “I wish I could have seen you dance,” I say, swallowing the last of my drink.
“Ha! You did. You tripped me—oh, it was quite by accident, I’m sure, and down I went. And you wonder why I’m getting in the way of your little romance.”
The hostility feels real. Does Bernie have a thing for Lance? Have I offended her?
“Hey, Bern,” Geoff intervenes. “Liz is new here. Maybe go easy.”
“Liz? I know no Liz, or Bernie, either. Drink up twice!”
“Hear, hear!” Tara says, slamming her empty glass down on the table.
“Refills?” the waiter asks.
“All around,” Tara agrees. “We’re just getting started. Your turn, Lacey.”
I flick through the script, speed-reading for information. “My husband left me for another woman. My son is gay.” Even as I say the words, I want to call them back, guessing that the boy who is playing my son really is gay. But he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the statement. “And, let me see, I own a pound dog named Nebuchadnezzar. Darcy, find the lie.”
“Well,” Lance says, considering. “The dog hates me, so it’s hard to fo
rget his name. And your son came out of the closet last week. So, the lie is that your husband left you. You left him.”
“You know me so well,” I murmur.
“And I’m only just beginning,” he replies. Something in his voice, his eyes, makes me pick up the glass and drink again without prompting.
“Easy,” he whispers, under cover of laughter from the others as Tara delivers her truths and a lie. “If you’re not much of a drinker, those go down way too easy.”
“My lips are tingly,” I confess.
“Drink lots of water, and let’s get some food into you.” He reaches for the chips and sets them in front of me. Pours more water into my glass.
I watch his hands, entranced by the way he serves me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, not as if he’s making some sort of tit-for-tat point he’ll expect me to pay for later.
“What does your husband think of you getting into this whole drama thing?” he asks. “I mean really. I’m asking Liz, not Lacey.”
I drop my eyes and twist the ring on my finger, imagining Thomas’s scathing reaction to my behavior.
“He died. Awhile back.” I try to make it sound like it’s been years, not just a few months. I don’t want to see Lance’s eyes and face close into sympathy as he locks me up in the widow box.
“Divorce, for me,” he says.
I try to read his face, assessing the damage, unsure why we are talking about our no-longer-here spouses.
“Hey, you two lovebirds.” Bernie’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Are you having your own personal conference over there?”
“Jealous?” Lance asks, fully Darcy again, claiming my hand in his own.
The warmth of him, the sensation of it being the two of us, together, a partnership of some kind, fills and feeds me more than the giant plate of food that arrives a few minutes later.
Chapter Eleven
Colville shuts down early, and when I leave the restaurant, Main Street is mostly quiet, even though it’s just past eight. Tara, Bernie, and Lance are still inside the restaurant, but the others have all departed. A few cars are parked on the street, outside the bar and the theater, but there’s very little traffic. A single car passes, the sad wail of a country song loud and clear through the open window. On the far side of the street, a man with a backpack moves quietly, a dog at his heels. The world feels big, simultaneously empty and full of adventure.
A Borrowed Life Page 7
