“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Just shaking off.” He thumps my back, then puts me in a neck hold and ruffles my hair. “Good work finding the guy,” he says. “That’s awesome.”
I dust him off me and shake my head. “You’re such a strange boy.” I start to walk away from the pier and the three of them follow me. I feel like a mother duck.
WE WALK UNTIL there aren’t any more houses, all the way to the part of the beach where the current makes the waves come in then rush back out so that two waves clash, water casting up like a geyser. We watch that for a while and then Scottie says, “I wish Mom was here.” I’m thinking the exact same thought. That’s how you know you love someone, I guess, when you can’t experience anything without wishing the other person were there to see it, too. Every day I kept track of anecdotes, occurrences, and gossip, bullet-pointing the news in my head and even rehearsing my stories before telling them to Joanie in bed at night.
It’s getting darker, and I’m worried that we won’t find him, that I won’t be able to ever do anything right for her. Even now, shouldn’t we be crying, paralyzed with grief? How are the three of us walking? I can’t help but think we don’t believe it yet; we’re used to being saved, to never falling into the depths. I feel guilty that Scottie doesn’t even know what’s truly happening.
“Can we swim with the sharks?” Scottie asks. “I read in our hotel magazine that they put you in a cage in the ocean and throw feed in the water and sharks swim right up to you. Can we?”
“Your mom got chased by a shark once,” I say.
“When?” Alex asks.
We turn around and walk back down the beach. Sid trails behind us, smoking a cigarette.
“She was surfing on Molokai and saw a shark beneath her when she was on a wave. She got down on her stomach so she wouldn’t fall and rode the wave closer to the shore.”
“How did she know it was a shark and not a dolphin?” Scottie asks.
“She just knew,” I say. “She said it was wide and dark under the water. The wave eventually flattened out. She kept paddling toward shore. She looked in the water and looked behind her and didn’t see anything. Then she looked back again and saw the fin.”
My girls are so quiet, I look to make sure they’re still there. Both of them are slightly behind me, their heads down, their feet shuffling through the wet sand.
“She kept going as fast as she could, not looking back. Instead of paddling all the way to shore, she headed to a sharp peninsula, and when she got close enough, she paddled right up onto the rocks.”
“And the shark bit the board!”
“No, Scottie. She never saw the shark again. She climbed up the rocks and walked back to the camp. That night we had fish and your mom sank her teeth into the flesh of the tuna and said to me and the Mitchells, ‘I could have been dinner today,’ and then she told us what had happened.”
At least this is the ending of the story she told her friends. In the real version of the story, she ran back to camp. The Mitchells were hiking to the waterfall and I was cooking the tuna. I was sitting beside the fire circle. I saw her from a distance, maneuvering over the slick black rocks. I knew something was wrong and stood up and walked toward her. Her posture was collapsed, her body shaking and her steps unsure. I saw her lean over and knew she was throwing up. When I finally got to her, I saw that she had the chills, her face was white and her bathing suit filthy, and there were scratches on her knees and thighs. I thought she had been attacked by someone and I started to yell. I don’t remember what I yelled. But she shook her head and then did something she had never done before. She sank down to the rocks, pulling me down with her, and then she lunged into my chest and wept. We were in the most awkward position on those rocks, but I remember not being able to move, as though the slightest movement might upset either her or the moment. Even though she was sobbing in my arms, it was a nice moment for me, to be stronger than her, to be needed by her, and to see her so fragile. At last she told me what had happened, and I smiled slightly because the way she delivered the story in between hurried breaths and sniffles made her seem like a child in my arms, waking from a nightmare, and only I had the wherewithal to show her that nothing was going to hurt her. I was there. Nothing was in the closet or under the bed.
“I thought that this was it,” she said. “I thought it was all over. I was so angry that it was time.”
“It’s not time,” I said. “You beat it. Here you are.”
Around the fire circle that night, she was back to her old self, posturing, acting, entertaining. She wouldn’t look at me. I wanted to ask her, What’s wrong with saying you were afraid?
“I could have been dinner,” she said again at the end of the telling, and then she picked up her fish and tore into it with her teeth, and everyone, myself included, laughed. I enjoyed her performance, and the fact that I was the only person in the world who truly knew her. Imagining Brian knowing her this way, or her crying in his arms the way she cried in mine that day over twenty years ago, is unbearable.
“She used to tell that story all the time,” I say to the girls.
We are back to the part of the beach that’s populated with homes. People have brought down beach chairs and glasses of wine to watch the sunset. I search everyone’s faces, looking for him, no longer sure I can be so giving and forgiving.
“Why did she stop telling it?” Alex asks. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“I guess she got new stories,” I say.
The girls seem confused, perhaps stunned that their parents have done things they’ve never heard about.
“Like the one about streaking at Lita’s wedding,” Scottie says. “I like that story.”
“Or the one when the gorilla at the zoo reached through the bars and grabbed her,” Alex says. “Or the one about beating a wild boar with her shoe.”
“Or how the back of her dress was stuck in her panty hose for the entire party and she wasn’t wearing any underpants,” Scottie says.
“She thought all the men were whistling at her because she looked good,” Alex continues.
Now I understand why Scottie needed to create better dramas that were worth repeating. She was searching for a perfect offering, the promise of a legend. I look at my feet stepping on the sand. Nothing ever happens to me that’s worth repeating. Except perhaps these past few days.
Sid catches up to us, and I know it wasn’t a cigarette he was smoking. He’s totally stoned. His eyes are heavy and he has a stupid grin on his face. It pisses me off that he doesn’t even bother to hide it.
“What do you love about Mom?” Scottie asks me.
For some reason I look at Alex, as if for an answer. Her face is expectant.
“I love…I don’t know. I love the things we love together. Just the way we are with each other.”
Alex looks at me like I’m weaseling out of something.
“We both love to go out for dinner, for example. We love our bikes.” I laugh and then say, “We love the montages in romantic comedies. We admitted this to each other one night.” I smile and the girls look at me strangely. I wait for Scottie to ask me what a montage is, but she doesn’t. She looks almost angry.
A couple ahead of us walk hand in hand.
“I love that she forgets to wash the lettuce and our salads are always pebbly.”
“I hate when she does that,” Scottie says.
“I mean, I don’t like it,” I say, “but I expect it from her. I’m used to it. It’s her. It’s Mom.” More thoughts come to me and I laugh to myself.
“What?” Scottie asks.
“I’m just thinking about the things we didn’t like.”
“Like what?” Scottie asks.
“We didn’t like people who say, ‘That’s funny’ but don’t laugh. If something’s funny, one should laugh. Or people who use the words ‘do’ and ‘did’ instead of the appropriate verb. Like ‘For lunch I “did” a salad.’ We also thought men who went to n
ice salons were weird.” I could go on and on. The recollections make me giddy, almost. What fun we had. What laughs we shared. I thought I was marrying a young model, just as my friends married their secretaries, kids’ nannies, and Asian women who weren’t fluent in English. I was marrying a woman who was fun and easy, and she would raise my children and stay by my side. I’m happy to have been so wrong.
“Hey, I think that, too,” Sid says. “About men who go to nice salons.”
“What are we talking about?” Alex says. “This is fucking nonsense.”
The couple ahead of us turns slightly.
“What are you looking at?” Alex says to them.
I don’t bother to reprimand her, because really, what are they looking at? I slow my pace and Alex punches Scottie in the arm.
“Ow!” Scottie screams.
“Alex! Why are we still on this pattern?”
“Hit her back, Dad,” Scottie yells.
Alex grabs Scottie’s neck.
“You’re hurting me,” Scottie says.
“That’s kind of the point,” Alex says.
I grab both children by the arm and pull them down to the sand. Sid covers his mouth with his hand and bends over, laughing silently.
“‘What do you love about Mom?’” Alex says, mimicking her sister. “Shut up, already. And stop babying her.”
I sit down between them and don’t say a word. Sid sits next to Alex. “Easy, tiger,” he says. I look at the waves crashing down on the sand. A few women walk by and give me this knowing look, as though a father with his kids is such a precious sight. It takes so little to be revered as a father. I can tell the girls are waiting for me to say something, but what can I say that hasn’t been said? I’ve shouted, I’ve reasoned, I’ve even spanked. Nothing works.
“What do you love about Mom, Scottie?” I ask, glaring at Alex.
She takes a moment to think. “Lots of stuff. She’s not old and ugly, like most moms.”
“What about you, Alex?”
“Why are we doing this?” she asks. “How did we get here in the first place?”
“Swimming with the sharks,” I say. “Scottie wanted to swim with sharks.”
“You can do that,” Sid says. “I read about it in the hotel.”
“She’s not afraid of anything,” Alex says.
She’s wrong, and besides, I think this is a statement and not something that Alex truly loves.
“Let’s get back,” I say.
I stand up and wipe the sand off of me. I look at our hotel on the cliff, pink from the sunset. The girls’ expressions when I told them about their mom made me feel so alone. They won’t ever understand me the way Joanie does. They won’t know her the way I do. I miss her despite the fact that she envisioned the rest of her life without me. I look at my daughters, utter mysteries, and for a brief moment I have a sick feeling that I don’t want to be alone in the world with these two girls. I’m relieved they haven’t asked me what it is I love about them.
28
WE GO BACK to our room empty-handed. I call the hospital, and they assure me Joanie’s doing really well. I find myself getting happy before I remember that doing well, to them, means she’s breathing. She’s not dead. We order room service and watch a movie about World War II that is uncomfortably violent. Bloody bodies everywhere.
“The director’s showing us how it really was,” Alex says in response to my complaining. “I read that somewhere. He’s making a statement against violence.”
We all fit on the bed. The girls and I are on our stomachs, and Sid is at the opposite end of me, sitting up against the headboard.
“I wonder what Mom’s friend is doing right now,” Alex says.
“Probably watching pornos,” Scottie says.
Sid laughs. Scottie has a look of both innocence and calculation.
“Why would you say that?” I ask. “Are you being funny?”
“Reina’s dad watches pornos.”
“Do you know what a porno is?” Alex asks.
“Football highlights,” she says.
I look at Alex for a clue. Am I supposed to enlighten my daughter or let her think the wrong things?
“A porno is a movie of pretty women and ugly men having sex,” Alex says.
I can’t see Scottie’s face because she’s looking down. “Scottie?” I say.
“I know that,” she says. “I was just joking around.”
“It’s okay that you didn’t know,” Sid says.
“I knew!” She turns to face me. “I know what they are, I just thought they were called something else. Reina calls them masturbation movies. She plays them when her parents aren’t home, and one time she invited boys so she could see if they grew down there. One did.”
“Reina sounds awesome,” Sid says. “I’m digging her more and more.”
“Were you there?” I ask. “Have you seen one of these movies?”
“No,” Scottie says.
“Scottie,” Alex says, kicking Sid in the ribs. “Reina is a fuckedup ho bag, and you need to stay away from her. I’ve already told you that. Do you want to end up like me?”
“Yes,” Scottie says.
“I mean the earlier me, when I was yelling at Mom.”
“No,” Scottie says.
“Well, Reina is going to be a crackhead, and she’s going to get used. She’s a twat. Say it.”
“Twat,” Scottie says. She gets up and runs across the room, saying, “Twat twat twat twat twat.”
“Holy shit,” Sid says. “This is some messed-up parenting. Isn’t it?”
Alex shrugs. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “I don’t know what to do. These things she does, they keep happening.”
“It will go away,” Alex says.
“Will it? I mean, look at how you kids talk. In front of me, especially. It’s like you don’t respect authority.”
The kids stare at the television. I tell them to get out. I’m going to bed.
IT’S ALMOST midnight and I’m still wide awake. I get up to use the bathroom and see that the hall bathroom light is on and the door is slightly open. I’m suddenly afraid to catch Alex doing something bad, like snorting lines off the toilet bowl. I almost turn around but gently approach and peek inside and see Scottie in front of the wall-to-wall bathroom mirror. She’s standing on top of the counter, her legs on either side of the sink. She slides into a stiff pose and holds it for a few seconds before finding another. She’s modeling. I’m about to say something, to tell her she needs to go to bed, but then she pushes her arms against the sides of her breasts to form cleavage and I don’t want her to know what I’ve seen. She looks in the mirror and then down at her body, as if the mirror’s wrong. Then I hear her have a dialogue with herself: “Why didn’t you ever stop her? I didn’t know how. You didn’t notice, you bastard. Come here.”
She leans into the mirror and starts kissing it, openmouthed, her tongue on the glass. Her hands are pressed against the mirror. Then I hear, “Ooh, baby. Put your junk in my trunk. Get your condom, baby. The one that glows.”
Oh God. I walk away as quietly as possible and lean against the wall and take deep breaths. Then I panic, thinking that she’s imitating her sister and Sid, and I go to the main room to make sure Sid is sleeping on the foldout bed. I see a lump on the bed and wonder if it’s really his body or if he put pillows under the covers. I rush over, my heart racing. His head turns and he looks right at me.
“Hey,” he says.
I feel foolish for being out of breath and standing over him. The moonlight cuts a line down my chest. “Hey,” I say.
“Checking on me?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Scottie. She’s in the bathroom.” I stop talking.
“Yeah?” he says and sits up.
“She’s playacting.” I don’t know how to say it. I don’t need to say it. “She’s kissing the mirror.”
“Oh,” he says. “I used to do some messed-up things as
a kid. Still do.”
I feel wide awake, which always makes me angry in the middle of the night. I’m useless without sleep. I can’t get myself to go back to my own room. I sit on the end of the bed by his feet. “I’m worried about my daughters,” I say. “I’m worried there’s something wrong with them.”
Sid rubs his eyes.
“Forget it,” I say. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“It’s going to get worse,” he says. “After your wife dies.” He holds the blanket up to his chin.
“What does Alex say about it? What does she say to you?”
“She doesn’t.”
“What do you mean? I heard her say she talks to you.”
“No,” he says. “We don’t talk about our issues. We just…I don’t know. We just deal with them together by not talking.”
“Do you have any more of that pot?” I ask. “I can’t sleep. I need to sleep.”
He lifts up his pillow and retrieves a joint.
“You sleep with it?”
He ignores me and lights it, then draws his knees up and hands it to me.
I look at the joint. Joanie liked it, but I never did. “Never mind,” I say. “I don’t want it.”
“You can take it out to the patio,” he says.
“No,” I say. “I really don’t want it.” I think a part of me was trying to impress this idiot, and now I feel foolish.
He puts it out on a magazine on the side table. “I don’t want it, either. But thanks for letting me, you know, smoke. It helps.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Whatever. I can’t deal with all these things you kids do right now. It makes you moody, though, I’ve noticed. The pot.”
He drums his fingers on his quilt. I look around the room. There’s a TV remote on the bed. I press a few buttons.
“What would you do?” I ask. “If you were me. How would you handle my daughters? How would you handle the man we’ve come to get?”
“Notice how in movies, actors always overdo the whole smoking process?” he says. “It’s always so exaggerated. And they always pick something off their tongue. And try to talk while holding in the smoke. It’s so lame.”
The Descendants Page 16
