by Sarah S.
She paused again, shuffling her feet in the slushy ground. “The day of the banquet, I told him that our friendship had to end. But it was hard, I didn’t want it to. He didn’t want it to either. I didn’t mean to, but I leaned over and kissed him. But then you burst into the house, Charles, and I thought you saw us. I know some people saw. I thought we were alone, but a group of people came in all of a sudden. Board members, other kids, you. And then you were screaming at Scott, and he pushed you down on the ground and … I don’t know. I thought it was all a symptom of what you saw. And so I ended it with you. I figured you wanted me to. You acted like you did when I told you, just nodding, not even asking why. I didn’t blame you for hating me. I didn’t blame you for not understanding. I was taking away what was yours.”
Charles’s head pounded. What she had said began to take shape. He thought about how she always tried to draw Scott in—on the patio, in the halls at school. Sometimes she’d disappear upstairs when she came over to the house for dinner. He’d assumed she was in the bathroom, freshening her makeup, carefully washing her hands … but maybe not.
He thought about how Scott hovered over their table at the banquet, staring right at Bronwyn. And when Charles had gone inside after Scott and found him in the laundry room, it had seemed like another person had been in with him moments before. Maybe he’d just missed Scott and Bronwyn’s maudlin good-bye. His stomach turned.
“Why?” he whispered.
She blinked. “I know it makes no sense. But it did, back then. It really did.”
He stared at her, disgusted. “How could a clandestine relationship with my brother make sense?”
Bronwyn blinked rapidly a few times. “Your brother?” she whispered. “Charles, no. No. It wasn’t Scott.”
Charles tilted his head.
“Scott was the one that saw us hugging a week before the banquet. He was the one who … who read it all wrong.” She looked down. “I tried to explain it to him a few times, but he wouldn’t listen. He called me terrible names.”
Charles’s mouth felt dry. “If it wasn’t Scott you were with, then … who?”
Bronwyn lowered her eyes, ashamed. Charles stepped back, daring to consider the only other possibility it could be. The only other him. “What?”
She let out a small, animal-like noise.
“You felt like you could … talk to him?”
“Yes. Kind of.”
“What the hell did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. School. Pressure. College. My future. The weather.”
He clapped his hands on his head. “Why didn’t you talk about any of this with your parents?”
“You know my parents, Charles. You know you can’t talk to them like that.”
But that was the thing—Charles didn’t know Bronwyn’s parents, not really, not intimately. Just as she wasn’t supposed to know his parents. “I’m supposed to believe this?” He sputtered. “He wasn’t … touchy-feely. He wasn’t a talker. I’m supposed to believe that you two just had nice little conversations and that there wasn’t anything more to it?”
“Charles, I’m sorry. This is why I didn’t want to get into it with you. I knew you’d jump to conclusions. Who wouldn’t? That’s why I ended it. That’s why I got out of the picture. I thought you knew already and we would never get past it.”
Charles rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands away, Bronwyn was still there, huddled and small. “I still don’t understand why you picked him.”
“He listened. I think … well, we both felt out of place, maybe. We both felt a funny kind of angst that sort of … matched up.”
“Don’t act like you know him. Don’t talk about his angst.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “People saw us at the banquet, though, including my mother. She was horrified. Of course she told my father, and my family practically disowned me. They got me out of this area as best they could. Sent me away to Europe every summer. Made sure I was never around your family ever again. Not that it was difficult. You made no effort to contact me.”
“I never knew any of this,” Charles murmured. “Lots of people saw, but I never had any idea.”
“Well, I think my father did a pretty good job keeping it a secret.”
“Jesus.”
She wrung her hands. After a while she said, “I should have told you a long time ago. But I didn’t want to hurt you. In a way, I knew this would feel like more of a betrayal than if it had been … sexual. But he told me things about you, Charles. Good things. Do you want me to tell you what he said?”
“No,” he shouted. “Absolutely not.”
“Okay, okay.”
“So did you talk to him again? After the banquet?”
“I saw him only once, kind of recently. It was right when I came back home, a few days before Leon and I moved out to the woods. I ran into him at the mall. When he saw me, his face went white, like he’d seen a ghost. We talked for just a moment before he made an excuse to get away.”
“What were you doing at a mall? I thought you were supposed to renounce your possessions.”
She sank heavily into one hip. “It wasn’t a prearranged thing, Charles. We really met by accident.”
He struggled for a breath. “So what did he get you?”
“Sorry?”
“You said he got you a Christmas present our senior year. Did you open it? Do you know what it was?”
She lowered her eyes. “It was a bracelet.”
“Jesus.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was … sweet.” She cupped her hands around her big belly. “Do you know that my parents never got us Christmas gifts? They sent us on experiences. They arranged meetings for us with dignitaries and film directors. Yes, I realize I’m being an ungrateful bitch by saying that sometimes that wasn’t enough, but sometimes, it wasn’t. It wasn’t what I asked for. Often, it didn’t even suit my interests. My parents were so determined that they knew what was right for me, Charles, but you know what? That bracelet was what was right for me. It was picked out for me.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“No, Charles. I know how this sounds. I just …”
“Why did I never know this?” he interrupted. “We were together for three years. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
She pressed her lips together, holding in a sob. “It’s wasn’t something I could really explain. I’m sorry.”
He bent over at the waist. Horrible images sifted into his mind. He imagined Bronwyn and his father leaning close in the hallway of his childhood home, having heart-to-hearts. He pictured his father picking out a bracelet for her, asking the salesclerk to wrap it, presenting it to her in a stolen moment. He saw Bronwyn telling him that this had to end, that people wouldn’t understand. He tried to envision a look of turmoil on his father’s face, but that was just the thing—he couldn’t. He couldn’t fathom his father having such deep, powerful, fatherly feelings for anyone, not even Scott. Bronwyn was right—it would have been easier to swallow this if it had been an advance from a dirty old man, a sick little grope in a hallway, a forced kiss in the laundry room. But this, something rich, complex, and mature, was unbearable.
The sun suddenly felt bright and sharp, revealing way too much. He rubbed his hands together. They were still freezing even though he was wearing gloves.
Something struck him. He wheeled around at Bronwyn. “How did you know I was married?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “I …”
“I have gloves on. You can’t see my fingers. You couldn’t see a ring. Did you just guess?”
She lowered her shoulders. “I called your house yesterday. I didn’t realize it was your house number, but I think your office sent me that instead of your work number. Your wife answered. I only just put two and two together now.”
“Did you tell her your name?”
“I think I did. Then we got cut off.”
Pain shot through his stomach. “I
have to go.”
“Charles?”
“I have to go.”
He fumbled blindly up the hill, running so hard for his car that he couldn’t quite stop himself when he reached it, crashing into the back bumper hard with his hip. He wrenched the door open, smacking it against a tree trunk, not even bothering to check if he’d done any damage.
When he turned the engine on, the radio blared loud through the speakers. He threw the car into reverse and peeled away from the cabin. It felt good to be moving. When he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw that Bronwyn had climbed the hill and was now standing on the edge of the gulley, watching him. By the time he got to the stop sign, three-tenths of a mile away in a perfectly straight, as-the-crowflies line, he could still see her shape, but she looked featureless and anonymous. He could pretend she was merely some strange, pregnant, country woman. Someone he knew nothing about.
………………………………………………………… sixteen
Catherine’s biopsy had been scheduled for 8 a.m., but because of a few emergencies, they hadn’t gotten to her until almost noon. Joanna and Scott sat in an open waiting room, surrounded by other people, and Scott passed the time by quietly making fun of them all. There was Hard Boiled, the man with the bad combover, strands of hair growing just above his ear swept across his entire bald, egg-shaped head. There was Aggressive Word Finder, attacking the puzzle with her pen, making little tears in the oatmeal-colored page. There was an obese woman in an American flag sweatshirt; her ankles were so swollen that Scott burst out laughing every time he looked at her. He made up names for the doctors and nurses based on characters from old cartoons: the hunchbacked, sour-faced nurse was Ram Man; the butch, broad-shouldered woman doctor was She-Ra; and the emaciated surgeon was, of course, Skeletor.
Joanna didn’t want to laugh. She still felt prickly about their talk last night, all she felt she’d revealed to Scott. Part of her wanted him to go home. Another part wanted him here, sitting next to her, doing exactly what he was doing. She hated that she felt so torn. She hated that she wasn’t taking Charles’s calls. It felt like things were slipping through her fingers and she was just letting them.
Catherine’s surgeon, Dr. Nestor, visited Joanna and Scott at 12:30, informing them that Catherine was resting while they waited for the test results. After Catherine had time to nap, but before the results came back, they went in to see her. She was in the bed nearest the door, her ash-blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, the white sheets pulled up to her mid-chest. Something about her appeared undone, like an unfinished painting. There were machines next to her, something monitoring blood pressure and pulse, an IV bag hovering over her shoulder. “The operation went well,” Joanna told her. “They were able to remove the cyst. You’re going to be fine.”
Catherine, still slightly woozy from whatever it was that had knocked her out for the biopsy, scowled. “It’s not a cyst. It’s something else. I can feel it in my blood. I feel diseased.”
“Mom, you’re okay,” Joanna reassured.
“I’m not. I can feel something growing.”
Joanna bit down hard on her lip and turned, staring at a poster
for how to self-administer a breast exam. When she faced her mother again, Catherine was patting Scott’s hand. “Honey,” she croaked in a faraway voice, “you’re such a sweetheart. Thank you for being here.”
Scott ducked his head. “It’s no trouble.”
She looked at Joanna. “You know, if things get messed up with Charles, just marry this one instead.”
“Mom.” Joanna felt her face flush in horror. If things get messed up
with Charles. And Joanna, presumably, was the one doing the messing. She shot Scott an apologetic glance. “Sorry, she’s looped from the
drugs.”
Catherine shook her head. “No I’m not. It’s obvious Scott’s in
love with you. And honey, you’d still get what you wanted. He’s still a
Bates-McAllister.”
Joanna bristled. He’s still a Bates-McAllister. The tips of her fingers
throbbed. “What are you talking about?” she said quietly. Catherine’s face grew more lucid. She gave Joanna a clever look,
then turned to Scott. “She wanted the Bates-McAllisters from the
very start, and she got one. I was floored when she told me she and
Charles were dating. But she got what she wanted.”
So this was where she was going. Joanna couldn’t breathe. The room
instantly became very, very silent. She could feel Scott’s eyes on her. Catherine turned to Scott. “She collected photos of your mom and
you boys since she was about eleven years old, you see,” she said. “Saved
tons of them. Loved your fairy-tale life.”
“Mom!” Joanna tried to laugh. Catherine’s voice wasn’t laced with
nastiness; it didn’t seem like she had an insidious, ulterior motive for
telling Scott this. Maybe Catherine just thought it was a funny story,
an amusing little anecdote about Joanna as a girl. Only, it wasn’t. Of
course it wasn’t.
Now Scott was staring at Joanna, a befuddled expression on his
face. He turned back to Catherine. “A scrapbook, did you say?” “Uh-huh,” Catherine said. “Loved pictures of you all going to parties and benefits. Kept every single one. It was her little dream, to be
part of your family.”
Scott swept back to Joanna. He was probably connecting what
Catherine was saying with what Joanna had told him last night, her
inane story about the Kimberton Fair, how she thought it would be
one thing and was disappointed when it turned out to be something
different. It was her fairy tale to be part of their family, but their family
had let her down.
“Mom,” Joanna said weakly. She brushed her hair out of her face.
“That’s not exactly how it happened, and you know it.”
Catherine gave her a patronizing look, “Of course it was! You kept
a scrapbook. You idolized them. It’s okay, honey. You were young.” Joanna pushed her tongue into the back corner of her cheek.
Something deep inside her broke. This had to be corrected. “You idolized them,” she cried. “You were the one who obsessed over them. You
were the one who was disappointed about absolutely everything in your
life and wished you were someone else.”
Catherine blew a raspberry. “What are you talking about? I did no
such thing.”
Joanna blinked at her. “Mom. You wouldn’t shut up about Sylvie
Bates-McAllister, hoping that, I don’t know, you’d become more like
her by osmosis.”
She snorted. “Now that’s just silly.”
Joanna couldn’t believe it. Her mother was flat-out denying everything she had been, as though Joanna had dreamt it up. “So then I suppose you were satisfied with your life? I suppose you were happy with
where we lived, and belongings didn’t matter. The way people thought
about you didn’t matter. Do I have that right?”
It didn’t even sound like her voice, but the voice of someone older,
nastier. “And I suppose you didn’t have to go to the hospital every week,
either?” she continued. “I suppose you didn’t drag me there all the time,
making me sit in the little ER waiting room thinking you were dead?” “There’s something wrong with me,” Catherine insisted. “No, there isn’t!” Joanna moaned. “One of these days, there might
be. And one of these days, it’s not going to feel so great.”
Catherine shrunk into her pillow. Scott swiveled his head back
and forth, tennis match-style, watching them. Joanna pivoted away.
“Just … don’t go saying the Bates-McAllisters were my little obsess
ion,” she said. “You wanted to trade your life in, not me.” The room was still. No one moved. Then Catherine’s blood pressure monitor made a loud, angry quack. A figure appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. Dr. Nestor wore a surgeon’s mask around his neck. He glared at Joanna as though he’d heard every scathing
thing Joanna had just said.
“Can I have a word with you?” Dr. Nestor asked Joanna. “What is it?” Catherine struggled to sit up. “Whatever you can tell
her, you can tell me.”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Farrow,” the doctor said, smiling at her. “You
just rest.”
Joanna trudged into the hall, her skin cold. It felt as if everyone
was staring at her. They were in a hospital, for God’s sake. Amid sick
people. People who needed to be uplifted, not yelled at. She kept her
eyes trained on the shiny white floor, afraid to look at either the doctor
or Scott, who had followed them out.
The doctor walked a few doors down and stopped by an empty
wheelchair. “We had to do a special type of procedure to locate Catherine’s cyst. But we finally found it and had it surgically removed. It’s
benign.”
Joanna breathed out. “Okay. Thanks.”
But then the doctor hesitated.
“When we were removing the tumor, we couldn’t help but notice
how swollen her liver was.” He paused to scratch his nose. “We’ll do
a scan, but we could tell by touch that it was enlarged. Do you know
if your mother’s on any medication we might not have recorded in her
chart?”
“My mother’s on all kinds of medication,” she answered. The doctor’s eyebrows knitted together. “She didn’t give any prescription information when the nurse took her history.”
Joanna swallowed hard. The doctor’s eyebrows crept even higher.
“Is some of this not prescribed?”
She lowered her head, feeling backed into a corner. She wondered
if she’d just stepped into something, if Dr. Nestor was secretly an undercover drug enforcement officer here to bust Catherine and her illegal prescription habit. “Yes,” she whispered.
