by Ann Angel
Jason pulls out his cell phone and shows me a picture of my mom. Her hair’s been chopped off and dyed blond, but it’s her, all right.
“She wants to see you,” he says.
I hesitate. The last time I saw my mom, she was cooking spaghetti; the next day she was gone, forever labeled “cop killer.” You should have seen the headlines.
“Have you changed that much?” Jason asks. “That you don’t want to see your own mom?”
“You don’t know what it was like,” I say. “Growing up with my mom. The constant pressure.”
As far back as I remember, Mom was always hovering. She wanted to be in on everything I ever freaking did.
“C’mon, Beth,” he says. “I was there. I went through it all with you. With your mom.”
It’s true, he did. He was there when Mom asked us what we thought we were doing. When she took half our stash, said she could relieve us of the responsibility, she’d take care of it. When she got us in even deeper. When she stalked out of the house to deal with the man in the brown car parked on the curb, watching our house. The man she later murdered.
She said she knew from the first what I was keeping in my closet. “You can’t keep secrets from me, Beth, honey,” she said. “I gave birth to you. I watched you grow up. I know you.”
These days, the only thing I keep in the closet is my collection of old movies. Yeah, along with reading and playing the piano, I now have a serious addiction to Ingrid Bergman and Grace Kelly. Those were the days.
But Mom? She liked dealing. She said it made her feel alive.
Nine months ago, three things happened, all on the same day: a police officer named Richard “Loop” Lopez was murdered; the police showed up at our front door, saying my mother had killed him in front of Beto’s Taco Truck on Central Avenue in front of eight witnesses; and Mom disappeared. On the run.
The irony? Her disappearance was bankrolled by yours truly. At least in part. When I went to look, the money I’d been saving in a shoe box under my bed was gone. Mom took every cent I ever made dealing and left.
There were lots of speculations about why she did it. Were Mom and Officer Lopez having an affair? Was my dad involved in a case that somehow had something to do with Officer Lopez? They couldn’t find any connection between Mom and this cop.
But I knew why she’d done it.
I knew exactly why.
She did it for me. For us. To get us all out of trouble. The only problem is that she made it worse. At least for herself.
But she did give me this one gift, at least. Dad and I were able to move on, get out, start a new life.
“She’s your mom, Beth,” Jason says now. Then, “She saved us.”
But I’m not Beth Baxter anymore. I’m Joy. And Joy doesn’t have a mom.
Jason sees that my mind is wandering. “Beth. Beth. Beth!” he says, trying to get my attention. “She just wants to see how you’re doing in this new life she gave you.”
I look at him, and I know that the look I’m giving him is a look from the old days. A withering glare. The kind Beth would have given him.
“I’m Joy,” I say. I feel a ridiculous need to insist on this. To protect myself. Not Beth. The new me. Joy. “And my mom didn’t give me — or you — anything. She did it to save herself. Not just us.”
“We don’t have to go if you don’t want,” Jason says. “We can just go for a ride.” He touches my cheek with one finger. “I missed you.”
We walk back to Jason’s car.
The sun is shining and the air is crisp, the smell of piñon trees in the air. I breathe in deep. I love that smell. The smell of my new life.
And then I look sideways at the boy next to me and the world loses its bright shine for just a second.
As we reach the car, one of my classmates, whose name escapes me — even though he plays basketball, is the track team’s star runner, and always makes interesting comments in history class — notices us. “S’up, Joy?” he calls. He looks Jason up and down. “Y’all right?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. It’s a small town, which is why everybody is noticing Jason. I’m counting on that to keep me safe. Just in case.
Jason shoots me a jealous look.
“I’m not your girlfriend anymore,” I say, defending myself.
“You never broke up with me,” he says. “So technically you are.”
He’s driving a nice car, way nicer than he ever had when we were together. It makes me suspicious.
“Who’s paying for your ride?” I ask.
He grins. “My daddy,” he jokes.
“Jason,” I say, my voice low, “I left all that behind. I don’t live that life anymore. If you’re still —”
“Relax, babe,” he says.
The feeling I get as I sink into the fine leather seat is mirrored in my heart. Trapped.
I remember that feeling well. I used to be fun — always up for a good time. Except it began to seem like I had to be that way. I could never say, “No, thanks, I’d rather stay home and read a book.” That’s a privilege I have now. And believe me, I read a lot of books.
He starts the car, and it’s such a nice ride, it glides — seriously glides — out of the parking lot. He reaches out to caress my knee, the way he always used to, but I pull my leg away.
“It’s been a while,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
“Yes,” he says, and he puts his hand back on the gearshift. “Six months, to be exact.”
“So why’d my mom get in touch with you?” I ask.
“She wants to see you, but she needed somebody to run interference,” he says. “Somebody she can trust.”
I snort.
“Seriously, Beth,” he says.
“I’m Joy,” I say, for like the fifty-thousandth time.
“Okay, Joy,” he says. He glances at me out of the corners of his eyes. “You know you can’t change who you are just by changing your name.”
“Yes, you can,” I insist.
“Joy, Beth, whatever your name is, whoever you are, I still love you,” he says. “I don’t understand why you thought you had to leave. Your mom took care of things. Everything was fine.”
I shake my head. Everything was not fine.
“Dad and I just wanted to get away from it all,” I say.
“You can’t leave yourself behind,” Jason says.
“Cut the self-help crap,” I snap.
I look out the window. We’re passing the ice-cream parlor where Dad and I go on Monday nights. We never did that before, but it’s a ritual now, no matter how much work we have to do. Dad gets chocolate with colored sprinkles; I get vanilla with hot fudge sauce and peanuts.
What if Jason’s right? What if you can’t leave yourself behind? I want to seal the truth off in some tomb and say, “That was then; this is now. What matters is now. I’m a different person, and I can make different choices.” I’d like to believe that it’s okay to keep some secrets about your past, that you don’t have to air your dirty laundry to all the world. Because that’s what I’m trying to do. Desperately. And I managed to do it until Jason showed up.
“Even if I had stayed . . .” I say. And then stop. “Look, it wasn’t about just me. My mom was dealing, too. There’s no end to that. How could I ever have gotten out?”
“But your mom took care of our problem,” he says. “And then she lit the hell out of Dodge. So why do you think you had to leave to get away from it all?”
I look at him. “Because you sure as hell have changed, haven’t you?”
He sighs.
“When my mom got in touch, did you think she’d . . . want something?” I ask. “After everything she did for me and you? Weren’t you a little scared?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I’ve known your mom a long time, so I tried to just think of her as Beth’s mom.”
I didn’t correct him this time. She was Beth’s mom. She’s not Joy’s mom.
In fact, this whole scenario is surreal. Jas
on and my mom, all buddy-buddy. Conspiring together to find me.
“How’d you find me?” I narrow my eyes.
He sighs. “It wasn’t hard. Your dad’s a lawyer. I found him on the Internet.”
He glances at me sideways. I look him full in the face. He’s still hot. He’s still Jason. He hasn’t changed.
“Want to see what this car can do?” he asks.
I shrug. Beth liked speed. Joy is not so sure.
“Hang tight.” Suddenly we’re careening around a corner at warp speed.
We skid into an alley. The corner comes fast. The car’s wheels lift. And I’m screaming. It feels like my face is being ripped off.
I look behind us, expecting to see blue and red lights flashing. Maybe hoping a little. Nothing. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. This town has one sheriff, and he’s probably tootling around back roads helping stranded motorists.
Jason pulls into a driveway, drives past the house, and parks in the backyard so that his car is hidden from the street.
We sit there.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. I have this horrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
He points his chin at the house. “Your mom’s inside.”
My forehead breaks out in a cold sweat. “Inside? This house?” My voice practically squeals.
“Yep.”
“I thought we were just going for a ride.”
“We did,” he says. “You don’t have to go inside. I’ll leave right now if you want me to.”
He turns the key in the ignition, puts the car in reverse, and looks over his shoulder to begin backing out.
“Wait,” I say.
He brakes.
I don’t move. The windows on the side of the house are open. I stare at the curtains that flutter lightly in the breeze.
I don’t know if I can face her.
I think about all my mother’s done and all she might do in the future. I think about who she was and who she is.
And who I was, what I did, who I’m trying to become.
A tear rolls down my cheek.
“Are you scared?” Jason asks.
I nod.
“Take your time.” He holds my hand, his fingers a subtle pressure.
“Can I ask you something?”
He grins lazily. “Anything, babe.”
“After my mom killed Loop,” I say. “That was our chance to get out. We didn’t have a dirty cop breathing down our neck. We didn’t have to keep dealing. I took that chance. Why didn’t you?”
A dappled pattern of light and shadow plays across his face. He doesn’t answer.
“Is my mom still dealing, too?” I ask. “Are you still partners?”
He doesn’t speak.
I take his hand and gently lift it, dropping it back onto the seat beside us.
I look at the muslin curtains hanging in the windows. They move slightly, as though she’s standing behind them, staring at us. If I go inside, it will change everything for me. If I walk away, it will also change everything for me — whether I leave by myself or with my dad.
One way or the other, the fact that I’m sitting in this car and my mother is inside that house means that the new life I was trying to build is about to end.
Maybe Jason’s right, and you can’t change your name and become another person. Maybe a name is just a surface thing. But I swear, I’m not Beth anymore. I’m Joy. I’m not the same person. I don’t want to be the person my mother wanted me to be.
My mother had the first fifteen years of my life. She can’t have the next fifteen. Or twenty-five, however long they’d put me away for, for conspiracy. Because now it’s not just dealing drugs. It’s killing a cop, too. Even if he was a dirty cop.
The muslin curtains blow in the breeze. I can sense her in there waiting. I can almost smell her apple-blossom scent, wafting toward me. I imagine, instead, that I smell hot fudge drizzled over vanilla ice cream and see my father’s loving, steady smile.
I get out of the car. “Wait here,” I tell Jason.
I walk to the end of the driveway, where a path leads up to the front door. I can turn left and go up to the door and knock. I can turn right and head back home.
I look left. I look right. There’s a side alley, accessible only to pedestrians, a few houses down. It cuts through to a side street. From there, I could head up and hide in the trees on the mountainside or I could go down the hill where Dad has an office on Main Street.
I turn to look behind me. Jason’s sitting in the car, watching me. My eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. I guess my mother is probably inside watching me, too.
They’re both waiting.
If Jason thinks I won’t leave my backpack with all my books in it behind, he’d better think again.
The curtain flutters, as if Mom’s made an impatient movement with her hand. Jason shifts in his seat, as if he’s reaching for the door handle.
Waiting.
And that’s when I start running as fast as my legs can carry me, thigh muscles burning, shoes slapping the sidewalk. Down the hill, the thought of my father carrying me forward.
Away from them, away from this.
Toward a new life.
Lord Lin came to our father’s house in a time of famine, when winter had cloaked the land in ice for more than a year. He rode up to the orchard on a white mare, bold as you please, giving us a gift of his name as if he had hundreds for the offering. He was young, hardly more than a boy, cloaked in red, wearing a smile that had me breathless and staring like an idiot. My sister Rosamund picked her way through the dead nettles to stand by the hedge, never one to miss a passing opportunity.
“How might we serve you, sir?” Rosamund was starved to the bone, but her hair glowed like a polished copper kettle, and Lord Lin smiled as all men did when they saw her.
“I will not have you to serve me, Rosamund,” he said. “But I have been a widower too long. I would very much like to have you as my wife. My hall and treasures will be yours; I ask only that you obey me in all things and go nowhere that is forbidden.”
It was an astonishing proposal, but Rosamund only smiled at His Lordship over the frozen hedge. Beyond our orchard, the headstones in the lych-yard shone with frost, too, and so did the small hump of earth where we had hacked at the ground to bury Lisbet, her second winter, the last she would see.
“Very well, sir,” said Rosamund, brisk as if she had just sold a brace of pigeons on market day and a widower who looked scarcely older than seventeen had not just offered his hand in marriage. “I’ll be your wife, if my father lets me go. Come into the house, I beg you.”
“It will be my greatest pleasure,” said His Lordship, as if she were inviting him into a palace, not a damp parsonage without a bacon rind remaining in the larder. He rode around to the gate and dismounted in one leap.
I scurried after my sister as she hurried back toward the house, gripping her skinny elbow with one hand. “Rosamund, what are you thinking? We never saw that lord before today, pretty though he may be. How can he have been married before? He’s no more than a boy. How does he know your name?”
“Don’t be a fool,” she hissed back. “Lisbet was the first to starve. Who do you think will be next? Have you not noticed how ill Father looks? How Grandmama can hardly move? There’s no sign of a thaw — we don’t even have flour to make bread. If he wants to marry me, I’ll not argue, and if he wants to believe I shall obey him in all things, more fool the boy.”
Rosamund swept on through the frozen garden, regal as a queen in her ragged dress; past the beds of blighted, rotten potatoes she went. My father invited Lord Lin across our threshold.
All we had to give His Lordship was a single cup of water, but he took it with such a gracious smile, anyone would have thought we had claret brimming up from the well. When he sat at our table, his velvet cloak puddled on the bare floorboards like a spill of blood, and in a shaking, starved voice, my father told Lord Lin he was welcome to Rosamund, with
his holy blessing as rector of this parish.
He knew her name, I thought but dared not say. He knew it although we never told him. He’s a widower.
My throat was tight with fear, and I could hardly choke out the words, but I spoke them all the same. “If you will have my sister, sir, then let me come, too. When Rosamund is wife to a lord, she’ll need a maid.”
My father looked at me as if I had slapped Lord Lin across his milk-white cheek, but Grandmama just rocked in her chair and said, “Let her go” in such a voice that no one argued, not even Lord Lin himself, who only smiled and let his glittery black eyes rest on my face a while, saying, “Yes, let the little one come, too, as long as she knows that my word is law.”
“Very well.” My father was not looking at Lord Lin or me, but at Lisbet’s cot, still by the fireplace, cold as the grate. That very hour, Father joined Lord Lin and Rosamund together before God in an echoing church, my sister in her old gown and not the white satin we had stitched in our dreams as we lay curled together in bed. Father’s cheeks were wet with tears: it was not the wedding feast any of us had imagined.
When the holy words had all been spoken, Lord Lin whistled for his horse. Two white mares came trotting from the orchard, even though before there had been only one. His Lordship helped Rosamund to mount one mare and me the other, and I looked back to see my grandmother picking her way across the cobbles. She beckoned, and I leaned down as much as I could, twisting in the fine saddle. I’d never seen more splendid embroidery — tiny stitches set into such soft, pale leather that I could not fathom how human fingers might have been nimble enough to work them.
“Go back inside,” I whispered. “It’s too cold for you here.”
Grandmama only shook her head. “Stay if you’d rather, child.”
Her eyes were green as glass, just like mine. I stared back. “I don’t want Rosamund to go alone.”
Grandmama watched me a moment longer, then nodded. “For such a fine nobleman, it’s queer we’ve never heard of Lord Lin before today. His hall isn’t far through the woods — so he says.” She turned, glancing back at the parsonage, cold and gray beneath a frost-white sky, every pot empty as a year-old nutshell. “I have lived in these parts a long time, and I have spoken to many travelers, and the only house in those woods that I ever heard of was nothing but a ruin. You take care, my little brave wolf.” She reached out to clasp my hand and passed me a pin from her hair, a cold sliver of iron pressed against my palm.
