by Diana Wagman
Please don’t call my mother, she thought. I can’t let them call her.
“I’m late.”
She pulled her arms free, turned and ran to orchestra.
28.
“I want to go home.” Winnie whispered, but every damaged bone and muscle, every nerve, even her blood was screaming, “I want to go home.”
It was all she wanted. Home. With the damn dog, the dirt, her daughter. Oh God, Lacy. Lacy. Lacy. She closed her eyes and leaned her face against Oren’s chest, just above the scoop neck of his undershirt. His skin was damp and cool. His sparse red hairs tickled her cheek. If only his body would listen—not his mind, but his body—he would respond. His heart would hear hers crying and reach to it.
“I’ll take you with me,” she said.
She could take him home with her. They would stand together at her kitchen window and stare out at the hazy Los Angeles sky and the ugly telephone wires. Together they would go to the foot of the stairs and yell at Lacy to get up for school. He could hear them argue about vegetables and cigarettes and homework. She would teach him to fold the laundry—just so—and together they would open Lacy’s bottom drawer to put the clean clothes away and together they would sigh at the chaos inside. He could be with her at home. She found his hand and held it. When Lacy was a baby, her fingers curled around Winnie’s pinkie and her grip was so strong. She nodded against Oren’s chest. She wanted to bury her face in her daughter’s pillow and breathe in her smell, the vanilla oil and the watermelon shampoo and even the smoke, but also the baby girl she had been. Still there. Still there.
“Oren,” Winnie said, her voice muffled against his chest. “I lied to you.”
“What a surprise.”
“I was scared, I’m sorry. But listen, listen, I have to go home. My daughter, she’s not all grown up. She’s young. She needs me.”
Oren took a deep breath. He didn’t mind her sweaty cheek against his skin or even holding her hand. His other hand gently patted her back. He was so glad she was telling him the truth. It was the beginning. Now she would confess all the terrible things she had done to Lacy, the abuse, the punishments. He had her promise, now he would hear the truth.
“Tell me,” he breathed.
“She doesn’t live far away. She lives with me.” Winnie stepped away from him to look into his face. “I’m her mother. She’s just a girl.”
“Not so young,” Oren disagreed.
“She’s a child.”
“She’s eighteen.”
Winnie shook her head. “I never said that. Lacy is only sixteen. A baby. So much younger than you.”
But instead of being moved, Oren frowned and all his features went dark. His eyes grew smaller, his lips disappeared. Anger rolled in like a cold front across his freckles.
Winnie backed further away. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I was scared you’d hurt her.”
“Hurt her?”
“You were probably very grown up at sixteen.” She desperately tried to soothe him. “Capable. Independent. She’s not. She’s young for her age. Maybe she’s not as smart as you—”
“How old is she? Tell me the goddamn truth.”
“I swear to you she is only sixteen. She won’t be seventeen until April. She’s in tenth grade.”
“I thought her birthday was in August. I thought she was a Leo.”
“Why did you think that?”
It seemed he didn’t know as much about her as he had implied. He was so confused. Winnie wondered if he had kidnapped the wrong mother. Poor kid. He turned away from her. She saw his hands clench into fists and relax, clench and relax. He was taking deep breaths. He was trying to control himself and she wanted to touch him, to tell him she recognized his effort and appreciated it. He was hardly any older than Lacy. Just a boy in over his head. “Oren?”
He turned and exhaled. “I can do that,” he said slowly and even proudly. “If all you want is to go home, I can give you that. You’ll be home tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “Maybe later tonight.”
He gave her a strained little smile. She closed her eyes. She could not bear it. If he was lying to her, she did not want to see it in his eyes. If he was not lying, she did not want to see that either. Kindness as painful as another injury.
“Come on.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Forty-five minutes more and everything will be cleared up. Everything.”
Fucking bitch! Oren screamed to himself. She had told him she was eighteen. She had told him her mother was cruel. She had told him nothing but lies. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Even her birthday was wrong. He told her he had always been attracted to Leos and she’d said her birthday was in August. His dreams evaporated like sweat in the breeze—the cold, shocking breeze of truth. Fuck her. She was too young for him. He called up his picture and saw them sitting around her mother’s dining room table. He and Winnie were drinking wine while Lacy was drinking soda pop. The only thing she leaned forward to whisper was, “I got an A on my history test.” He could take her out for an ice cream cone. That’s what he could do for her. A balloon and an ice cream cone. Maybe a ride on the goddamn merry-go-round.
He should just open the door and let Winnie go home. Or he could take her back to the car place. Her car was probably done by now. He could take her out someplace nice for lunch and apologize. She was fine. She looked bad, but it was hot in the house, people always got sweaty when they came over. She tried to smile at him. She swayed on her feet and he reached out and caught her arm to steady her. Fuck! He had nothing to apologize for! It was Lacy! Lacy. She had to get her butt over here to his house and apologize to both of them.
He took out his cell phone. He dialed. She was in orchestra, of course. Her cell phone was off. He sent her a text. “Hey, Baby.” Baby was sarcastic, but she was probably too young to get it. “Come over to my place. Do you know how to drive?” He could not help the anger. He took a deep breath. “Call me for directions.”
It was obvious Winnie did not know what Lacy had been saying about her. Poor Winnie. She was good and nice. She wanted to go home and help that bitch of a daughter. If she only knew. Wait until she found out. Wait until Lacy showed up and Winnie learned what a lying sack of shit her daughter really was. He stepped forward and pulled her to him again. Her forehead was slick against his chest. It made everything hotter to have her against him, but he was sad when she stepped away.
“I told you what I want more than anything in the world.” She smiled at him. “I was honest with you. Tell me, what do you want? What is this all about?”
Nothing. That was what all this was about. But she did not need to know that yet. He could be honest in another way. “I want you to like me.”
“I do,” she said, “I do like you.” Then her eyes closed and she started to go backwards. He had to catch her to keep her from falling.
“I’m sick,” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
She slid out of his grasp and melted to the floor until she was crouched there. She bent forward and held her stomach.
“What is it? What?”
“It’s my hand,” she said. “Can I have some ice?”
“Yes. Yes.” That was easy. That he could do. Her little hand. She had left her hand in the doorjamb and he had to close the door. She should have known better. “Ice,” he said as he pushed into the kitchen.
Cookie looked at him and bobbed his head. It was almost frantic, the bobbing, up and down, up and down.
“Not now,” Oren said.
Cookie bobbed and turned away from him.
“Please. Not now.” He could not stand it if Cookie was mad at him. It would be just too much. He tapped Cookie’s tail. Cookie swished it out of reach. “C’mon.”
Cookie’s tail went back and forth. Pissed off, Oren could tell, and jealous. Usually when Oren was home all day, he spent a lot of it with Cookie. He tried to stroke Cookie’s head, but Cookie turned and snapped. Oren pulled his fingers back just in time.
A wind began in his ears. Th
e room seemed to be spinning, everything spinning inside him and outside.
“Stop it! He shouted to Cookie, to himself, to the room. “Stop it.”
He put his head between his knees. The room slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He stood up and felt the rush of the blood dropping to his belly. He was getting better. He could control himself. Ice. He was there for ice and Cookie could just go fuck himself.
“Fuck you,” he snarled. His throat closed. He had never sworn at his friend before.
He filled a clean dishtowel with ice cubes and pushed the door open. Winnie was not there. His stomach lurched. Just when he thought he could trust her. He opened his mouth to shout her name and then he saw her. She was sitting on the floor just behind the door with her back against the dining room wall. She had not gone out the garage door, or back to the front door. She was relaxing against the wall. She was waiting for him.
“Ice,” he said to her.
Winnie opened her eyes and looked at Oren. Her kidnapper. She had to remind herself he was a kidnapper. He had gotten ice wrapped in a dishtowel for her. She reached for it with her good hand. He knelt beside her.
“That looks bad.” He sounded concerned.
Her hand was swollen and red where it wasn’t darkly bruised. The knuckles seemed out of order somehow, crooked. It throbbed and to look at it made her sick to her stomach. The ice felt good, a little shocking, but good, good, good. She smiled at Oren gratefully. “Thanks.”
He sat down beside her.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“I’m expecting a call. And then we’ll get this all straightened out.”
The ice numbed her hand; her stomachache subsided. She took a deep breath and exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax and her toes to uncurl. If she rested her head against the wall carefully she could avoid the bump on the back. Then her head didn’t hurt either. She was grateful for the absence of pain.
Most of the time we don’t notice it, Winnie thought. Usually people are unaware of feeling fine. But then something hurts or something is broken and out of joint and it is all we can think of. Bad tooth. Headache. Broken heart. The pain adjusts everything we see and do, the colors are muted, the air thicker and it is more work to breathe and move. People curl around a hurt—she could always tell when someone was in pain. The rejected, jilted girl at the bus stop, head down, chest collapsed. The athlete at the end of his run pretending his bad knee wouldn’t end his career. The unemployed woman at the grocery store counting her change. All of them with their shoulders hunched over as if waiting for the next blow.
And then it leaves. Through drugs or time or healing or change of circumstance we wake up one morning and the pain is gone. Winnie remembered the exact day, the very moment, when she realized her heart was mended. It was thirty-nine and a half months after Jonathan had left her, one o’clock in the afternoon, and she realized she had not thought of him once that day. She had taken Lacy to school, done some errands, eaten a tomato and cheese sandwich, and not until she was throwing in a load of laundry did she remember that her heart was broken. But it wasn’t anymore; the ache in her chest was gone. She could think of Jonathan and Jessica together without wanting to double over. She did not feel like singing and dancing, she was not particularly happy, and her problems were still her problems, but she was not in pain. And that was enough.
Now it was enough to sit here with Oren and have nothing hurt. She knew she was in trouble, bones were broken in her hand and she probably had a concussion, but for this single pain free moment she could think clearly. He was beginning to trust her. He had left her alone as he went for ice. Something was not working with his plan and he was confused, worried. He seemed angry about something, someone who had let him down. That other woman had shown up unexpectedly and now she was passed out in the back, most likely tied to the bed as she had been. If Winnie could get to her, she might be an ally. They would be two against one. Oren, poor kid, was over his head, out of control. Yes, poor kid. Just a kid. She would help him—as soon as she got out of here and some place safe—she would find him help.
She eyed the bump in his pocket that was his cell phone. Unlikely she could take that from him. She would not attempt to get out the front door again; she had tried that too many times. But maybe the garage door again. The button to open it was just inside. She imagined the little girl who had lived here once long ago going out to play, calling to her mother, “I’m going bike riding.” The mother would want her home for dinner, but she would be happy to see her go too. Go away but never leave, the dilemma of motherhood. The girl would run out that door, flip the switch and the big door would lift. She would leap onto her bike and pedal away, her T-shirt flapping in her version of freedom.
Cookie was scratching again. Winnie watched Oren turn angrily to the kitchen door, then force himself to calm down. Cookie was the thing he cared about most. Cookie had to be her way out of here.
“Cookie,” she said. “How did you learn about taking care of Cookie?”
Oren’s face relaxed. “I’ve read books, I’ve talked to experts. I go to the reptile shows.”
“Other people have iguanas?”
“I’m president of the Iguana Keepers Club. We have about sixty-five members. Monthly meetings.”
“Wow. You’re the president.” It was working. Whatever was worrying him was drifting away.
“I know the most,” he said proudly. “I’m the guy they come to. People don’t realize how much work it is to take care of an iguana. It is not an easy job, oh no. Did you know, for instance, you must never feed them iceberg lettuce? Never. Almost no nutrients and to an iguana it’s like crack cocaine. It’s that addictive. Honestly, they’ll stop eating anything else, get malnourished and die.”
“Wish I found iceberg lettuce addictive—instead of chocolate.” Winnie tried to laugh. “What’s his favorite food?”
“Kale.” But then Oren sighed. “Right now he’s not eating much. He’s not happy.”
“He’s lonely.”
“Exactly. He needs his girlfriend.”
“Everybody needs somebody.”
Oren smiled, a genuine sweet smile, and nodded. “You are exactly right.”
Winnie struggled to turn to him. It made her dizzy and nauseated, but she smiled back at him. “Let’s go buy his girlfriend. Right now. You have the money.”
He nodded. He was buying it, going for it.
“Think how happy Cookie will be. You could start breeding iguanas. You could probably make a lot of money, right? How many babies do they have?”
His face slipped and slid from open to shut. “Money. This is not about money.”
“I know that. I was just thinking—”
“Don’t think,” he said. “I will do the thinking.”
He stood up and turned his back to her. He stared up at the ceiling, cottage cheese flecked with sparkled. He looked down at the white carpet. Up at the ceiling, down at the carpet. Up and down, up and down. Rocking his head. Fists clenching and opening. Trotting a little in place. Winnie knew enough to tuck in her feet and stay quiet.
29.
Lacy took her chair behind the three other flutists. Once she had been a soloist, on her way to first chair, but not any more. At the beginning of the school year she decided it wasn’t cute or interesting to be a music nerd and had stopped trying. She was last chair now.
Shit. She had forgotten her music. She had gone to her locker and gotten her flute and her cell phone had rung. She had answered her phone. Lacy stood up. Her neighbor’s music fluttered to the ground.
“Watch it.”
Ms. Ingram was on the dais with her baton raised. She scowled at Lacy. “What now?”
“I—”
Ms. Ingram had been one of Lacy’s favorite teachers since seventh grade. She was nice and funny and pretty, even though she wore stretch pants with elastic waists and long sweater vests. She had shor
t dark hair and brown eyes and her skin was olive toned like Winnie’s. Something about Ms. Ingram reminded Lacy of her mother.
“I—” she said again.
“Are you sick?” Ms. Ingram’s voice was soft with concern. “What is it?”
Lacy knew she had disappointed her. Ms. Ingram had worked hard with her, told her she was talented and she would help her get into college, and Lacy had blown it. Ms. Ingram had heard her making fun of orchestra in the hall. She knew Lacy had stopped practicing and ignored her flute, the one thing she had always loved. Now Ms. Ingram didn’t like her anymore.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Ms. Ingram. “I’m so sorry.”
Ms. Ingram came off the platform. She was walking up to Lacy, right through the orchestra, pushing music stands and students aside. Her eyes looked liquid, like melted chocolate that Lacy could fall into.
“I know,” Lacy said, “and I’m sorry. So terribly sorry.”
“Catch her!” Ms. Ingram shouted.
Catch what? Lacy had time to puzzle and then the ceiling slipped sideways and she fainted.
30.
Jonathan woke on his bed. The house was quiet. He stretched and smiled; he loved napping. His stomach growled. He hoped the leftover Chinese food was still there, that Jessica hadn’t thrown it away. She hated the white boxes in the fridge. She couldn’t stand anything disorganized, or used, or messy. Not like Winnie.
“Oh, shit,” he said aloud.
He sat up and looked at his watch. It was too late to go back to the house; rush hour cross-town traffic was murder. Well. She was the one who had lost her cell phone and his lawyer was right, it wasn’t his problem. He stood and stretched again. Lupe and her daughter had probably left so he could eat his Kung Pao Chicken right out of the box and put his feet up until Jessica got back.
