“Look at this hair, will you?” he’d say. “Look at those dimples! Isn’t she just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”
So it was hard for her to begin to realize that her father wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t the tough-minded truth-teller he often proclaimed himself to be. In fact, ever since he’d told her to keep the details about what happened that night to herself, she had started to realize that there were things about her father that she didn’t much like. He had a way of manipulating Phoebe’s mom to get what he wanted—either pressuring her or making her feel guilty. And he was starting to do the same thing to her. When they were alone together—or clearly out of Wanda’s earshot—he’d taken to giving her little pep talks.
“You heard what the lawyers said—the media coverage on this is only beginning. The spotlight’s going to be on you. So you can never forget that you were the victim in this situation. You’re going to have to play that part with real conviction, you know what I mean? It might help if you thought of it as just another acting role—like the great job you did with that Shakespeare thing you were in.”
“But this isn’t pretend, Daddy.”
“You’re right. It’s absolutely for real! This is your future we’re talking about here. Your reputation. Right now, you’ve got everybody on your side. But if people start to think that you’ve been having second thoughts—if they hear that you might be waffling about what happened—I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re going to be damaged goods in this town.”
What if Phoebe’s mom found out what her dad was up to? A part of her longed to confide in Wanda. At certain moments, when they were alone together, the words were right on the tip of her tongue. But then she hated to consider the consequences of such a confession. It wasn’t just her father’s wrath that made her hesitate. She was worried that the argument that would inevitably erupt after such a revelation would undo the signs of détente between her divorced parents.
“This is cozy, isn’t it?” she overheard Troy ask her mom late one night. Actually, it was almost two o’clock in the morning. Phoebe had slipped out of bed to use the bathroom and had stopped at the top of the stairs when she heard her father’s voice. The Netflix movie they’d been watching together had to have ended hours ago. She didn’t catch what her mom, who tended to speak softly, said in reply, but she did hear Troy’s response:
“Yeah, and I miss the old times. I miss them so badly some days I want to cry. Listen, I know it might take a while, but when this money comes through, things are going to be different for me. I’m going to be able to get back on my feet. I’m going to be able to start taking care of you and Phoebe again.” Whatever Wanda had said then, Troy’s tone of voice changed:
“Oh, I know that! You’ve been great on your own. You’ve been fantastic! I realize you don’t need me. I don’t pretend to think that you’ll ever really need me again. But, come on, admit it: every once in a while—like tonight, for instance—you still want me, don’t you? We’re still good together, Wanda. We’ve always been good together.”
Phoebe would do just about anything to have her parents remarry. It was a cherished dream she’d never given up on—not once during the nearly five years that had elapsed since Wanda threw Troy out of the house. She respected the no-nonsense way Wanda had gone about making a living—and a life—for herself and Phoebe. But something was always missing when it was just the two of them. Troy’s presence—outsized and demanding—loomed over them even when he wasn’t there. Over the last year or so, as Troy slowly started to insinuate himself back into the little clapboarded Cape, Phoebe began to let herself hope that he’d eventually be coming back for good.
Phoebe was pretty sure her parents still loved each other. You could see it in the exasperated smile Wanda would give Troy after he’d said or done something particularly outrageous. Or the hungry, wounded way Troy’s gaze followed his ex-wife when he thought no one was looking. The idea of her parents’ ruined but still smoldering love appealed to the romantic in Phoebe. They were good together! And the last thing Phoebe wanted was to put any new obstacles in the way of a possible reconciliation.
Even if it meant going to jail. Which was something that—when she took a moment to really think about it—appealed to Phoebe’s romantic nature, as well. Yes, she’d lied! She’d lied to hurt the boy she loved. And she’d done it to get revenge—she’d hoped to wound him just as badly as he’d wounded her. Though in her fantasies she never actually faced a jail cell. Instead, she’d imagine herself being cross-examined during a trial. Liam would be there, too, of course, looking pale and lost. She could see the remorse in his eyes. And then—just as her testimony was about to end—she’d stand up before the court and confess: Yes, I lied. I lied to hurt the boy I loved.
Some nights, Phoebe would imagine Liam running to the front of the courtroom and embracing her. Other nights, overwhelmed with relief, he’d sink his head into his hands. She tinkered with what happened next, as well. Did they walk out of the courthouse together, media swarming the front steps—or escape through some back exit, hand in hand? Once again, Phoebe retreated into her daydreams.
Late one Thursday night in early March, as Phoebe was getting ready to go to sleep, her smart phone jiggled briefly by her pillow.
Hi, Liam had texted.
Hi? She stared at the word. It looked so innocent and straightforward, but she realized immediately that the two letters presented a serious dilemma. For one thing, her dad had made her promise that she would not communicate with Liam in any way. For another, though she’d been longing to hear from him, what she really had been hoping for was an apology. She felt she deserved an I’m really sorry at the very least. But Hi? It took absolutely no responsibility for what Liam had let Brandon do to her. It did nothing to take back his claim that Phoebe had had sex with him. Or what he’d said about Phoebe’s dad only really caring about the money he could get. She was furious all over again just thinking about it.
Sorry. So so sorry.
Phoebe stared down at the second text that followed quickly on the first. It was almost as though he’d been reading her mind. She sat up, cradling the phone in her lap. Her dad would kill her if she responded. The lawyers, too, had made it clear that she shouldn’t have any contact whatsoever with “the defendant.”
Just say hi back. Pls?
She thought of that brief, thrilling moment when he held her in his arms. She remembered the tender way he’d kissed the top of her head—the warmth of his body against hers.
Hi back, she typed.
• • •
In the beginning, his texts were simple enough. Little news blasts.
Snowed again 2day.
Warriors 5, Hartford 3.
By then Phoebe had learned that Liam played on the ice hockey team at his prep school. The Warriors’ victories clearly meant a lot to him.
Way 2 go, Warriors! she texted back. She never let her phone out of her sight now, and deleted his messages as soon as they came in. He wrote her only at night. Soon it was every night. Sometimes pretty late, but Phoebe always waited up to reply to him. She guessed that it was the last thing he did before he went to bed. They never wrote about anything particularly important. By some unspoken agreement, the subject of the lawsuit and the terrible night that had spawned it was never broached. It was all pretty mundane stuff. But what could be more comforting when you’re feeling a little lonely than to share the details of your day with someone you cared about?
U awake?
It was past midnight, the latest he’d ever contacted her, and in fact, she’d fallen asleep with the phone nestled under the pillow by her ear.
Yep. Where were u?
Down.
Like in sad?
Yeah. Bad day.
Why?
Feel fucked up.
Uh oh.
No—not drinking!
What then?
Can we talk? 4 real?
Give me 15 mins. I’ll call u.
Phoebe dressed as warmly as possible and tiptoed down the stairs. Her mom’s bedroom door was ajar, but Phoebe wasn’t worried. Wanda was a heavy sleeper, and Phoebe had snuck out so many times in the past to meet Liam that she’d developed what seemed to her a foolproof procedure. She knew how to avoid every loose floorboard, each creaky step. How to find her way through the darkened downstairs by the glow of the stove’s LED panel in the kitchen. How to ever-so-slowly ease open the back storm door so that the aluminum framing wouldn’t squeak. She slipped her winter coat off the peg in the mudroom as she left. She made it to the playground with two minutes to spare.
“Hi,” Liam answered on the first ring. His voice sounded as close as a whisper in Phoebe’s ear. She was frightened by the reality of it suddenly. She had to adjust her thinking. Replace her imaginary Liam with the boy who was very much alive and breathing on the other end of the line.
“Hey,” she said. “Where are you?”
“In my room. Carey’s at a piano competition in Hartford.”
“So. Wow. Hi.”
“Where are you?”
“On our bench,” she said. Then, realizing he might not think of it in the same way she did, added, “You know—the one in the playground.”
“Sure. Our bench. I can just see you there so clearly! I wish I could be there with you, Phebe.”
“Me, too,” she said. She was beginning to feel a little better. His voice was becoming familiar again. “So like—what happened today?”
“Nothing really. The Warriors lost a big game, but it’s not that.”
“You said you were feeling bad.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I guess I’m just beginning to realize some stuff. About me. About what happened. I really let you down.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not!” he said. “After everything I did to you—that I let Brandon do—I can’t believe you’re still so sweet to me, Phebe. You’re so good. I don’t deserve it.”
“Hey,” she said. “What happened? Where’s all this coming from?”
“I guess I just finally figured out that I’m nothing but a fuckup.” His voice didn’t sound right. It wasn’t until he took a deep breath and she heard the ragged hitches in the inhalation that she realized he was crying. “And I’m always going to be a fuckup.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Listen, Liam—I’m sorry but I have to ask you this: have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“You can tell me! It’s okay. You can tell me anything. I just need to know what’s going on.”
“It’s nothing like that,” he said. “I’m just—it’s just me. I feel like I’m nothing inside. Like I’m never going to be anything. I’m just this worthless piece of shit. And then I start thinking about all the ways I’ve fucked up. With you. With my dad. I just don’t see how I’m ever going to be able to make it up to you.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“I feel like I’m at the bottom of this big hole,” he said. “And I’m never going to be able to climb out.”
“Hey, there, listen to me,” Phoebe said. Her hands were shaking. She knew she needed to say just the right thing now. She had to find the perfect tone. She couldn’t get this wrong. “Remember last summer when we made that pact? When you promised me that you’d tell me if you ever thought you might—”
“I remember, Phebe. This isn’t that call, okay? I just wanted to hear your voice.”
• • •
But still, she was pretty shaken up after they said good-bye. She made her way home through the dark, preoccupied and worried. Even at Liam’s most confessional that past summer, Phoebe had never heard him cry. What did it mean? Was he telling her everything? In some ways, his desperate mood was even more upsetting if no outside event had precipitated it. If it arose solely from within—from what he’d told her once felt like an “empty pit” inside him—what could she do to help? Phoebe couldn’t imagine feeling that way about herself. Sure, she had her problems, but she never had any doubt about her essential self-worth. It frightened her that Liam could be so down on himself. And that nothing she could say or do seemed to help him. Despite his denial, she sensed that whatever he was going through was far more serious and dangerous than anything she’d ever imagined.
She had so many other things on her mind, she didn’t think to erase Liam’s recent texts or delete the cell phone number. She didn’t notice the glow coming from her own bedroom window. She even failed to keep the kitchen door from closing behind her with a metallic screech. But she did notice, far too late, the figure slumped in the dark at the kitchen table.
“Where’ve you been?” her father asked.
23
Liam dreaded Sunday afternoons when he was expected to call home. He usually waited until two thirty or so, until after his family had finished their long, leisurely Sunday lunch. He phoned them on his cell. These days, he made the call from the common room to avoid the possibility of Carey listening in. Not that anyone would be able to make very much of the almost entirely one-sided conversations.
“Hi, it’s me,” he’d say to Tilly, who invariably answered. He could tell from the breathy sound of her voice that she’d run to pick up the phone. This was the only easy part of the call: Tilly filling him in on her school projects and friends, the class visit to Mark Twain’s homestead in Hartford, or the trip she and Brook were planning to New York City to stay with PeterPop. As she chattered away into the receiver, he’d let the sweet, familiar flow of her words wash over him—warming him with their innocence. But then, all too soon, he’d hear his mother’s voice in the background and Tilly would say:
“Mom wants to talk to you. Bye-bye! Love you forever!”
“Love you, too,” he’d tell her as he tried to steel himself for what was coming next.
“Sweetie, how are you?” It was the tone—more than the words—that defeated him. She tried to make herself sound cheerful and unconcerned, but he knew her too well. The anxiety came through as scratchy and disturbing as static on the line. It was the knowledge that he’d done this to her—and was powerless to undo his mistakes—that made it so hard to respond with any warmth. He couldn’t even pretend to be the normal, carefree boy she deserved.
“Fine.”
“Good! That’s great. We’re doing fine here, too. We finished up lunch a little while ago—and Tilly was just saying that it was about time you called and . . .”
She never told him what was really going on, though he knew both she and his dad had to be going through hell because of him. She usually went on for another couple of minutes in the same upbeat and innocuous vein. Occasionally she’d mention something about the case—like they were going to Boston to consult with another lawyer—but by her description it almost seemed that they were planning some little spur-of-the-moment adventure.
“So this new firm thinks we should just settle it,” his mom told him one Sunday in mid-March. Someone listening in would never guess by the tone of her voice that “it” was a lawsuit accusing her and Liam’s dad of being negligent parents. His mom—who was probably the most caring and concerned person in the whole world! And his father—Liam could hardly stand to think about what this was doing to his dad. The whole thing had become such a mess—a rat’s nest of cover-ups and lies. And all because of him.
“What do you think of that?” he heard his mom ask gently.
“Of what?”
“A settlement. A trial would mean even more media attention and distractions. Settling things before all that starts would just seem to be the fastest way to put this behind us—behind you.”
He wanted to tell her: No! Don’t even think about giving in! Taking the blame! You know perfectly well it’s my fault. It’s all my fucking fault! It seemed so damned ironic that the two people he wanted most in the world to please—and have be proud of him—would end up being punished for his failings. Because that’s
what he was: a failure. And preparing for a settlement confirmed it somehow. What was the point of his parents fighting the lawsuit when it was obvious that their son had screwed everything up once again?
“Sure,” he told her. “Whatever.”
“Nothing’s decided,” his mom said. “We’re just talking about it.”
“Right,” Liam said, getting ready for what was always the worst part of the call: the brief, stilted exchange between himself and his dad. When his mom told him that his father was out at a meeting with a client in Harringdale, there was a hesitation in her voice that he didn’t pick up on at first. He felt only relief. He was off the hook! Then, almost immediately, he was overcome by the awful certainly of what his mom didn’t want him to know: his dad actually was there, but just didn’t have the stomach to talk to him.
A darkness descended on Liam after that, as crushing as a migraine.
• • •
The following Thursday, Brandon, clanking past Liam on his way to the rink, rubbed his knuckles brutally against the younger boy’s scalp. It was just a practice game, but the Warriors were gearing up for a major showdown that Saturday with the only other undefeated team in their league.
“Hey!” Liam complained, yanking his head away.
“We need extra luck today, man!” Brandon replied, moving on.
The other players, filing in behind Brandon, obviously picked up on what the captain had done and, each in turn, gave the top of Liam’s head a nasty working over. The jabs and knuckle burns hurt like hell. The humiliation added fuel to the bitterness that was already building inside of Liam. He watched the game in a haze of indignation, thinking back on the many insults and put-downs his role as team mascot had cost him. The coach didn’t call on him to hit the ice until the final period, but by then he realized that he had come to the end of something. He was through being Brandon’s sidekick—and kicking object. Ever since he’d joined the team, he’d been careful not to get in Brandon’s way—on or off the ice. But now, joining the opposite side in the intramural matchup as a forward, propelled by weeks of unacknowledged anger, he was able to maneuver the puck past the Warriors’ star goalie in the last minute of play, scoring a goal and winning the game.
A Place For Us Page 20
