Julia's Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  I find Izzy sitting on the couch, an open book beside her. There’s no one else there.

  “Who were you talking to?” I ask, sitting down beside her.

  She stares straight ahead and bites down on her lower lip. It’s her guilty look. “No one.”

  “Oh. I thought I heard you talking.” I lean over. “Isobel,” I murmur. I kiss the top of her head, taking notice that she could use a shower.

  “Mom.” She rests her cheek on my arm.

  I take a shuddering breath and put my arm around her. You would think it would be comforting at a time like this to feel your child in your arms. When you’ll never wrap your arms around another child again. But it’s the complete opposite. Izzy’s warmth, her touch, only makes me ache for Caitlin more. I hang on to her anyway.

  “What are you watching?” I ask, staring at the TV.

  “A show about works of art that were lost during World War II.” She looks at me. “Did you know that Hitler stole all this artwork from Jewish people? Real art like van Goghs and Degases and Klimts.”

  “Klimt?” I ask. I had no idea Izzy knew who Degas and van Gogh were.

  We watch the screen. There are men in a World War II army jeep careening along a mountain pass.

  “He was an Austrian painter. He painted portraits and stuff,” she explains. “This guy named Bloch-Bauer hired Klimt to do a portrait of his wife. It had gold in the paint. Real gold. Then, during the war, the Nazis took the painting. Then it ended up in a museum somewhere. The guy’s family didn’t get it back until 2006. Can you believe that?”

  I look at her and almost smile. Almost. “How do you know all this, Miss Smarty Pants?”

  She points at the TV. “History Channel. And I think there was a movie about it.”

  An advertisement comes on for antacid and both of us sit there and watch it. The next commercial is for cat food.

  I feel like I should say something, start a conversation with my daughter, but I weirdly don’t know what to say. Too much time alone with the ceiling fan maybe. “How’s Mr. Cat?” I ask, grasping. The orange cat on the screen looks nothing like Mr. Cat.

  “Pretty good. Not puking too much.” She’s still nestled against me.

  “That’s good.” We’re quiet for a minute. Two more commercials: deodorant and fast food. “Have you seen your sister?” I ask.

  “You mean like her ghost?”

  When I realize she’s making a joke about her dead sister, I’m so totally taken aback that it takes me a moment to answer. This would be the perfect opportunity to talk to Izzy about Caitlin’s death. We haven’t really talked about it beyond the barest facts. But I can’t do it right now. I just can’t. Not yet. “Have you seen Haley?”

  She looks at me, then the TV again. I can feel her shoulders droop. “In her room, I guess.”

  I look down at my sweet daughter. I know she’s angry with Haley. I understand why. She blames Haley for Caitlin’s death. Of course she does. She’s at that age where she just can’t accept an accident as an accident. She has to hold someone responsible. I need to talk about it with her. Soon.

  We watch a segment of the episode about finding the stolen paintings at the end of the war. Izzy provides additional narrative to accompany the voice-over. I’m not really listening to either of them. I was thinking that Izzy needed a shower, but now I suspect it might be myself I smell. I can’t remember what day I last showered. Tuesday? Monday?

  They go to commercial again. Izzy is telling me about a salt mine in Austria where paintings were found. I hear a door open and I glance in the direction of the hall. I wonder if it’s Haley or Caitlin, but then I know. I remember.

  I’m surprised that I could have forgotten for a whole split second that my light, my sunshine is gone.

  Darkness comes to stand at the end of the couch. We all watch a preview for a show that promises to reveal the secrets of the real Jesus.

  “Jeezus,” Haley swears under her breath.

  I look up at her. Izzy picks up her book and starts to read. Or pretends to be reading. I notice that Haley is wearing her usual uniform: black jeans, long-sleeve black shirt under her black leather jacket. I feel the lines on my forehead crease. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out.” She’s got enough eyeliner rimming her eyes to make her look like an exotic half-girl, half-raccoon Japanese anime character.

  “No you’re not.” I keep my voice even. I don’t shout. If Ben were here, he’d bellow. I was never a yeller like him, although I’ve certainly been known to raise my voice with my daughters. Mostly out of frustration more so than anger. I haven’t, however, raised my voice to Haley since Caitlin died. What kind of mother would I be if I did, after what she’s been through?

  “You can’t go out because you’re grounded,” I point out, calmly.

  “You never told me I was grounded.” Her words are vicious.

  I glance at Izzy, who’s still reading, even though her show is back on. I rub my forehead. “Of course you’re grounded. You were expelled from school for drug possession.”

  “Not drugs. It was weed, and a couple of Percs,” she scoffs. She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She stares off into space.

  I glance at Izzy again. I didn’t tell her why Haley had been expelled. She hasn’t asked. I don’t want her to think her sister is a druggy. Izzy doesn’t understand how hard things are for Haley right now. She can’t see Haley’s pain for her own.

  I decide not to get into an argument with my daughter right now over what constitutes drugs. I still have Linda’s Percocet. In my underwear drawer, along with the marijuana. I’m not sure why. “You’re not going anywhere,” I say, still sounding calm even though a part of me wants to grab her and shake her. Or hold her down and scrub the black eye makeup off with a washcloth and some old-fashioned cold cream. Haley used to be such a pretty girl. Before she started wearing black clothes and black makeup and black nail polish last year. Before she invested in half a dozen black eye pencils.

  “I was going to take your car. Just for a while.” Now she’s looking at her clunky black shoes. Doc Martens. I’d bought them for her last fall.

  Izzy picks up the remote and turns the TV off, leaving us in semidarkness. “I’m going to bed,” she tells me. She kisses my cheek, gets up, and leaves the living room without glancing in her sister’s direction.

  Haley just stands there. Long enough for me to feel like I have to reiterate my point. “You’re not going anywhere, Haley. Not for a while. Not until . . .” I waver because I haven’t really thought about what we’re going to do about her. I’m too busy thinking about my other daughter turned to ashes, sitting in an urn. I don’t know how to deal with Haley’s expulsion. “Your father and I . . . need to talk.”

  She glances at me for the first time since she’s come into the living room. The look on her face, angry, defiant, makes me wonder what I’ll do if she grabs my keys from the hook by the back door and takes my car. Will I call the police? Call Ben? Or go back to my room and hope she comes back before Ben finds out she took my car?

  “I just want to go out for a couple of hours.” She tugs on a lock of black hair. “I miss my friends,” she says, but without emotion.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she misses Caitlin. I feel the sudden urge to get up from the couch and throw my arms around her and hug her tight. Tell her it’s okay to cry. I can’t even remember seeing her cry since the hospital, the night of the accident. She’s like her father. Keeps everything bottled up inside. Ben’s taken Caitlin’s death the same way, few tears. He doesn’t talk about how he feels, about anything, something I already knew from living with him all these years. He just plods on.

  I get up from the couch. “You’re not leaving this house,” I say softly, a slight edge to my voice.

  We both just stand there for a minute, staring at each other. It’s the first good look I’ve gotten of her in . . . weeks. She looks terrible: too thin, skin that’s patchy with break
outs, eyes that look sunken in.

  Haley stands there for another second, then walks away, thankfully, in the direction of her room. I go into the kitchen and turn off the lights, leaving the laundry room light on for Ben. I get into bed without taking off my clothes and bury my face in my pillow for a good cry.

  The sound of the vibration of my cell phone on the nightstand wakes me and I roll over, groggy, reaching for it. Did Ben not come home? Is it Ben? I squint to read the screen; I’m getting to the point where I’m soon going to need reading glasses. It’s not Ben. It’s Haley. Why would Haley be calling me from her bedroom?

  I drop back onto my pillow, bringing the phone to my ear.

  “Mom.” Her voice is so hushed that for a minute she sounds like Caitlin.

  “Haley?” I say into the phone, wishing I could stay in the moment for just a couple more seconds. The moment when it’s Caitlin calling me.

  “Mom, I need you to come get me,” she whispers, talking fast and breathy. I can hear pounding in the background, like someone banging on a door.

  “Ha—”

  “I need you to not ask any questions right now,” she interrupts. “I just need you to come get me.”

  I sit up, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. I brush my hair out of my face. “Are you okay?”

  A man hollers something indistinguishable in the background.

  “Mom, please,” my daughter begs. Then she shouts, obviously not to me, “Out in a minute! Jeeze.” Then softer again, “Please come get me.” She sounds like a little girl.

  I stand up, feeling for my flip-flops with my bare feet. I’m still dressed in sweatpants and T-shirt from the day before. I slip one foot into the first flip-flop. I want to ask Haley why she isn’t in her room where she was when I went to bed, but I’m now awake enough to know this isn’t the time to ask. Hairs prickle on the back of my neck; my baby’s in trouble. Suddenly, I’m wide awake. “Tell me where you are.”

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  I slide my other foot into a flip-flop. “O . . . okay. You’re at someone’s house?” I head for the bedroom door.

  Again, I hear the male voice and the pounding. I hurry through the living room. Ben’s asleep on the couch, a knitted afghan thrown over him. His mouth is open; he’s snoring. “Haley, what’s going on?” I whisper into the phone. I don’t want to wake Ben. He was asleep the night the police called about Caitlin. I can’t do that to him again. Haley’s okay; she just needs a ride.

  “Mom, my phone’s about to die. Just come. I—” Haley’s voice breaks. “I’ll be okay until you get here.”

  Then I hear that dead sound on the other end of the phone. She’s gone. “Haley? Haley?” I whisper into the phone. She hung up. Or the call failed. I consider calling back, but if the battery in her phone is about to die, I don’t want to risk it. What if I can’t find her? What if I have to call her back? I run through the kitchen to the laundry room, grab my keys from the key hook, and go out the back door.

  For some reason, Ben’s parked directly behind me. Maybe because I never go anywhere anymore? I race back inside, grab his keys, and drop mine on top of the clothes dryer.

  My phone dings as I get into Ben’s pickup. A text message. I start the engine with one hand and hold up my phone with the other. My heart is pounding now.

  Haley’s sent me the address. A not-so-nice part of town.

  Ben’s truck smells of fast food; it makes me slightly nauseated.

  I back down the driveway onto the road and pull away too fast. The tires grab and the pickup leaps. I’m not used to driving something with a big engine. The trash on the floor of the passenger side shifts and I hear the rustle of heavier objects colliding with paper wrappers and bags. It’s no wonder Ben’s getting chubby. I seemed to have lost my appetite since Caitlin died. From the look of the trash in his truck, he’s found his.

  I barely come to a stop at the end of our street. Speeding, it takes me thirteen minutes to reach the address Haley texted me. I only make one wrong turn and have to go around the block. It’s an area I’ve warned my teenage girls not to drive in. I pull to the curb. I’m not used to driving such a big vehicle so my parking isn’t so great. I shift into park and text Haley:

  I’m outside.

  I wait for her to text back. I study the dilapidated stucco bungalow I’m parked in front of. There are lights on and music coming from inside. There’s a chain-link fence. It looks like someone hit it with a car. Or possibly a bulldozer. I hear a dog bark behind the house. A big dog.

  I check the time on the dash. 2:57 a.m.

  I wait another three minutes and text again.

  Where are you? I’m out front.

  Three more minutes pass.

  Haley? I text.

  Still nothing. A police car rolls by slowly in the opposite direction. I wonder if I should flag him down. Tell him my underage daughter’s inside. Then I think about the drugs found in her locker. About what’s probably going on inside the house. I can’t let Haley get arrested. We’ve got to figure out how she’s going to graduate now. And I know she’s not keen on college, but she’s young. I think she’ll go to college one day. She’ll find her way. She really does have a future, even if she can’t see it right now. It’s my job as her mother to protect that future.

  I look at the house and the clock on the dashboard again. I’ve been here nine minutes. It took me thirteen minutes to drive over. Haley has to know I’m out here by now, even if her phone has died.

  I see the silhouette of two guys, hoods up on their sweatshirts, walking on the opposite side of the road from me. Two young guys who scare me. What could they possibly be doing on the street at this time of night? They have to be up to no good. Who am I kidding? What could my daughter be doing here this time of night except something she shouldn’t be?

  I grab the door handle, clutching my phone in the other hand. I open the door, then remember the car keys. I pull them from the ignition and get out. The light from the interior of the trunk blinds me temporarily. I close the door quickly and look around. The two guys I saw keep walking, but one is watching me over his shoulder.

  I’m scared. I wonder if I should get back in the trunk and call Ben.

  But Haley’s inside. She wouldn’t call me if she didn’t need me. Really need me. I walk slowly to the gate, hanging off its hinges, and follow old cement stepping-stones to the door. I take a breath and knock. My heart’s thumping again. I feel a little dizzy. I wish now that I’d had another breadstick.

  No one answers. The music, pounding, angry music, is too loud. No one inside could possibly hear me. I knock again, this time with my fist. I check my phone, hoping, praying Haley’s texted me back.

  The door swings open and the light from inside is bright in my eyes. The music offends my ears. It’s more screaming than music. It’s a man who answers the door. It’s hard to tell how old he is. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. His hair’s long and dirty. Dirtier than mine or Izzy’s. He’s got a sleeve of bad tattoos.

  “I . . . I’m looking for my daughter,” I say. “Haley.” My voice quivers.

  He leans closer to hear me. The house is smoky behind him. I smell stale cigarette smoke and fresh marijuana.

  “Haley Maxton,” I say louder. I dial her number on my phone with my thumb.

  He stares at me for a minute through heavy-framed black glasses. I hear my phone in my hand ringing. I can’t tell if his black hair is natural or dyed like my daughter’s.

  “Who?”

  “Haley. Five-five. Black hair.”

  The guy starts to close the door as Haley’s voice message comes on: “Leave a message, don’t leave a message, whatever,” she says in a bored-sounding voice.

  I hang up. “She’s seventeen years old,” I shout above a blast of music as a new song begins. It’s rap music. The kind I hate, the kind that talks about shooting cops and abusing women. The kind I’ve told my girls I don’t want them listening to. When I move to the left to keep him
in my view, I see two guys and a girl sitting on a couch passing a little pipe back and forth, lighting it with a lighter. Whatever they’re smoking, it’s not marijuana. I put my hand on the door. The phrase crack house comes to mind. Is this what they’re talking about in the papers when they say crack house?

  “Please,” I say. “I just want my daughter.” I look up at him. Make eye contact.

  “I said, she ain’t here.” His tone is more forceful this time. He’s scaring me. But I’m not leaving without Haley. I’m not leaving without my daughter. I know she’s here. I can feel her.

  “You hear me, lady? Take a hike,” he tells me with a hatred that can’t possibly be directed just at me. It’s a hatred meant for the whole world.

  I don’t know what makes me do it. I’m not naturally a bold person, but I put both hands on his chest and push him out of my way. I push right into the house. “Haley!” I shout. “Haley!” I’m almost screaming now. The house is full of people. Scary people. Most of them dressed in black like Haley, but with more piercings. Tattoos. “Haley, where are you?”

  Chapter 6

  Haley

  48 days, 4 hours

  I’m sitting on the lid of the toilet, bouncing my ball, when I hear my mom call me. Her voice is so out of place that it startles me; like hearing a bear in my calculus class. I stand up. “Mom?” I say coming off the toilet, which is stupid because obviously she’s not in the bathroom. No one’s here but me. I wouldn’t let Dodge in. He’s being a complete asswipe. He hit me because I told him I wasn’t going with him to go get his stupid money some junkie owes him. Then I ran in the bathroom and locked the door. That was when I called Mom. I caught a ride here with a girl I know, but she left with some guy hours ago. It was probably stupid to call Mom. She’ll blow this all out of proportion. I just didn’t know who else to call. I got scared when Dodge wouldn’t stop pounding on the bathroom door. If he got in, I knew he’d pound on me with those fists.