Fiona's Flame

by Rachael Herron

  Screw that. Fiona was a mechanic. That was all. A goddamn body mechanic.

  When she went back out, Lucy was gone.

  ‘She asked me to apologize for her, but she had to get back to the bookstore,’ said Daisy. ‘She feels really badly about upsetting you.’

  ‘She didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Why did you mind so much?’ Daisy gestured at Fiona’s face. ‘Why did that make you scrub all that pretty off?’

  ‘If pretty can be scratched off, it’s not really pretty, is it?’

  Daisy leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. ‘Honey, what’s really going on? You know you’re pretty as a picture. Is this about Abe or something? Or the fact that he was into Rayna back in the day?’

  Fiona just shook her head.

  Daisy looked at her watch. ‘I hate that we have to go, but Fabio had to be out by five. I want to talk more about this.’

  Fiona forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Daisy turned her head. ‘Come on, Tabby.’

  The little girl raced to them. ‘Allez-vous me donner un tour?’ Tabitha held her backpack in one hand, the Nancy Drew held tightly in her other.

  ‘You know you’re getting too big for this, right?’

  Tabitha ignored her mother’s protestations and thumped herself into Daisy’s lap. ‘Go fast.’

  ‘You got it, kiddo.’

  Fiona felt her fingers unflex from the fist they’d been curled in. ‘You’re a good mother.’

  Daisy took her hands off the push rings. ‘And now a compliment? What is with you? Are you dying?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Je t’aime.’

  Daisy smiled. ‘You, too.’

  As Daisy sped toward the van, Fiona could hear Tabby’s voice singing ‘Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime,’ over and over again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  If you’re not as lucky as others, the ones with mothers, come sit by me. We can listen with empathetic joy – no jealousy, never jealousy, that’s the surest way to lose your favorite cable needle – as our friends talk about sweaters their mothers and grandmothers made. Then you and I will sit next to each other, pleased with the families we’ve chosen for ourselves. – E. C.

  That night, Saturday, Fiona made herself a huge pile of spinach, cooked in garlic and oil. She thought about having something else, steak or chicken, but the idea of going to the store was exhausting. Spinach from the winter garden was good enough.

  She sat outside, balancing the plate on her lap. She could hear Stephen whacking metal against metal in the garage – he’d been working on a robot-insect series that was her favorite of his creations so far. She’d already written to two trade magazines about him, and next week a reporter was coming to interview him, something that made him nervous every time she teased him about it. A good nervous. She’d bring him the extra spinach when she was done and make sure he ate it. Sometimes she swore that he went whole days eating nothing more than the Snickers bars he insisted on paying for.

  Above Fiona’s head, something that looked like a satellite moved slowly across the night sky. Its light was clear and cold. Next to it, the other stars looked static.

  Stuck.

  In her pocket, her cell rang. Probably Daisy, going to grill her more about what happened last night. She didn’t check the ID. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, I really don’t.’

  A pause. Then Abe’s voice filled the line as warmly as if he were sitting next to her. ‘Okay. We’ll talk about something else.’

  Scared she might drop her plate, Fiona moved it off her lap and to the small iron table next to her. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To say I’m sorry.’

  ‘You said that.’ It wasn’t enough.

  ‘To be honest, I’m at my mom’s house.’

  The sudden subject change confused her. ‘So?’

  ‘She wants to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘So you’re calling because your mother wants a date.’

  ‘Basically.’

  ‘Well, put her on then,’ said Fiona firmly.

  There was a slight scuffling noise and then a small voice came through. ‘Fiona?’

  ‘Hi, Hope.’

  ‘How’s the knitting going?’

  Fiona tucked her legs under her on the iron garden chair. No matter what, she didn’t feel as if she could be ready for whatever this phone call was about. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The knitting. Have you done any more?’

  ‘No. I can’t.’ It didn’t even hurt very much to admit. ‘It’s just not my thing. My fingers don’t work that way.’

  ‘I have an idea about that. Can you come with us tomorrow night?’

  ‘Where?’ Fiona folded her legs underneath her and drew her sweater tighter.

  ‘To the lighthouse.’

  Her gut said no. Her mouth said, ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to show you a knitting thing. And tomorrow is a special day for us. We’d be combining trips, which, for an old lady, is a nice thing to do.’

  It felt like a trap.

  ‘Hope …’

  ‘I’m going to give the phone back to my son. It would be nice to see you, Fiona.’

  Another fumbling noise. Fiona touched her lips and then, softly, the place where her jaw was lightly whisker burned. She wondered what Abe was wearing, and then she cursed herself for wondering.

  ‘It’s not a trick,’ he said.

  ‘Sure feels like one.’

  There was a pause. Fiona didn’t jump to fill it.

  Finally, he said, ‘It’s the anniversary of my father’s death. We always do a little memorial. This year my mother is completely fixated on you coming. She says she had a …’ Abe sighed. ‘She says she had a dream about it.’

  Fiona let out an exasperated breath. ‘It’s not fair. To use your mother like that, when you’re the one who screwed up.’

  Quietly, Abe said, ‘If you let me, I’d try like hell to make that up to you.’

  Fiona imagined it – Abe over her, braced on his huge arms, ready to penetrate her, a look of confusion on his face as he tried to remember her name.

  No way. Too painful.

  But his mother … Fiona felt badly about the way she’d left Hope’s house on Wednesday – Hope had only been trying to help her deal with her feelings about her mother leaving. Of course, lobbing a family bomb like a story of an uncle abusing her mother wasn’t the best way to have a person stay for tea and a knitting lesson. But Hope had been trying, and she’d been kind. Fiona had run instead of listening to more, and she regretted that now.

  ‘I’ll meet you there –’

  ‘Thank you –’

  ‘But it’s for her, not for you.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  Fiona clicked off after he gave her the time to meet them.

  Then she sat in the dark. It was getting colder, quickly. The clarity of the sky was good for star-gazing but the cold was starting to win against the wool of the old sweater. If she went inside, though, she’d just go to bed, and it was still too early for that. She didn’t want to lie in her bedroom, thinking of the way his skin had felt against hers.

  Her phone was still in her hand. She hit the first speed-dial.

  Her father’s voice was sleepy. ‘Honey? You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just checking in.’ Her voice surprised her, breaking as though she might cry. Desperate to not have him hear that, she said, ‘Sorry, eating spicy food. How are you and Gloria? I’m sorry I’m calling so late. It must be almost midnight there or something.’

  ‘Nah, we’re on the west coast now.’

  Fiona sat up straight, a shaft of happiness piercing her heart. ‘You are?’

  ‘Sorry, Fee. Shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up like that. We’re way up on the border. Went to Vancouver where we had a little trouble …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turns out that pencils are like bananas.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.�
�

  ‘In gross quantities, they read a little … radioactive, maybe.’

  ‘You’re saying you were thrown in the slammer for importing nukes?’ Fiona wrapped her free arm around her waist and hugged herself.

  ‘Only for a couple of days while they got their experts to go through the van.’

  Fiona’s head spun. ‘Days? And you didn’t think to call me?’

  ‘Didn’t want to worry you, did we? We knew we’d get out, and we did! And now we have a dinner story that’ll keep us in free hot dogs for years. And Gloria made a friend!’

  ‘Oh, good! Your wife was adopted by an inmate? What was she in for?’

  ‘Got caught for some white collar something. Maybe extortion.’

  ‘Dad! Are you lying to me?’

  ‘Okay, maybe it was embezzling. That’s not the important part of the story. The big part, and the absolute best part of being in jail, was learning about the one kind of conference that is going to fund our retirement.’

  Fiona stretched her head back and looked up at the stars. One twinkled, disappeared, and then came back. She blinked her eyes clear. ‘I thought you were already retired.’

  ‘It’s fun to retire. I plan to do it as much as possible. And get this. You ready, daughter?’

  ‘Ready.’ A shooting star streaked the night above – flaring out before Fiona could really focus on it.

  ‘Crossword puzzles.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Those people have conventions, did you know that? They’re crazy.’

  Fiona searched for more falling stars. If she saw two more, she could make a wish. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There’s a convention in Seattle on the weekend. Imagine, just take a minute to imagine, how many pencils those people go through.’

  ‘Don’t the experts work in pen?’

  ‘Myth. Pencils are the only way to go. Pens are used by the wannabes trying to show off.’

  Fiona scooted down in her chair so the back of it supported her neck. The sky was quiet. ‘Sounds like you have your plan.’

  ‘We’re gonna sell hundreds. Maybe thousands. You should see the pencil bouquets Gloria’s come up with.’

  Another star blazed across the sky, going the same direction the other had. Fiona held her breath and listened as her father told her what they’d last done to the pencil van – big pads of paper, set up on easels, everyone gets to try! Getting a feel for the different grits, you know? So exciting! – and tried not to ask what she most wanted to. Maybe if she saw one more star …

  Her father droned on, and Fiona remembered what she both loved and hated most about her father. When not interrupted, the man just kept going. About anything. He wouldn’t notice if a whole room full of people had wandered away. Hell, he wouldn’t notice if they all started talking about something else entirely. He’d just keep going, his voice sonorous, even in pitch and rhythm. He used to talk like that over dinner after Bunny left, and sometimes Fiona would put her head right down on the kitchen table and go to sleep. He would only notice when she snored – otherwise, he just thought she was listening with her eyes closed. It should have been nothing but annoying, this narcissistic tic of his, but somehow it was endearing. It was him.

  Fiona let him go until she felt her foot jerk, a precursor to actual sleep. She opened her eyes again, and gave a full-body shiver. A third shooting star lit up the western sky.

  She interrupted something about where the convention was located in terms of other pencil suppliers. ‘Why haven’t you ever told me where Mom is?’

  There was a pause and she could imagine him frowning, unable to comprehend that his train of words had been lifted off the track. ‘What?’

  ‘I know you know where she is.’

  ‘You’ve never asked.’

  ‘I don’t want to know the answer.’

  Her father coughed. ‘I don’t understand. Are you asking me where she is now?’

  ‘No,’ Fiona said. ‘I’m not the one who left. She knows where I am.’ That was the whole point, really. Her mother could have found her at any time over the years. She’d just never come looking. When her mother had quit being a mother, she’d done it thoroughly. Surgically. ‘Never mind. I guess I still don’t want to talk about it. Why don’t you give that convention a miss and just come down and see me?’

  ‘What?’ Her father made it sound like she’d started speaking Macedonian.

  ‘Instead of going to that convention. Come see me.’

  Another long bit of quiet. She could almost see him making hand-flapping motions at Gloria, could almost see her confusion. ‘But the convention lasts a week.’

  ‘Come see me and then go back up to it,’ she said. Goddammit, she shouldn’t have to beg. He hadn’t been for a visit in more than four years. Not since an old inventor friend of his had died and he’d come home for the funeral. So that didn’t even really count.

  ‘Honey, that’s a great idea. We’ll talk about it.’

  Yep, that was the line he used. Once again – as always – she came last. She knew he didn’t approve of her working in the body-shop, not really. While she was growing up he’d wanted her to use her hands, yes, but he’d gotten it into his mind early that she was an artist, the kind of artist he’d always wanted to be, doing the kind of art he hadn’t dared pursue.

  ‘Hey, Daddy, you remember when you thought I should be a painter? How old was I then? Ten?’

  Fiona could hear the smile in his voice as he said, ‘You had a talent. A real talent. Don’t know where you got it, unless it was something that Bunny passed on without ever showing an aptitude for.’

  Did all of her talents have to be attributable to one of her parents? What about the talents she’d cultivated on her own? With plain old determination and hard work? ‘Well, she did paint that snowflake on the wall of the lighthouse.’ The one she’d based her tattoo on. And in a small metal box hidden carefully out of sight under her bed was a collection of small sketches her mother had made. Most were of trees and flowers, but two of the sketches were of a little girl. Fiona had always liked to think it was her. Even though it probably wasn’t.

  ‘That snowflake was pretty, but it was a fluke.’

  ‘Why do you have to say that? Why do you always talk like that about her?’ Why was Fiona defending her mother?

  ‘She wasn’t creative, Fiona. You know that. She probably copied it from a book.’

  Wouldn’t that be something, if Fiona had marked her body permanently with an image copied from Ladies Home Journal?

  ‘You know what’s funny?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am a painter.’

  ‘You’ve been painting, daughter?’

  ‘I paint pretty much every day.’

  ‘Fee, I can’t wait to see your work.’ The delight in her father’s voice was painful to hear.

  ‘You should come down. I’ll show you one of my most recent cars. I did an argyle paint job last month on a SmartCar. It looks amazing. It took almost a week, and the owner is so proud of it she refuses to drive more than forty, worried a bug might smash too hard on the paint.’ Maybe the more words she threw at him, the longer it would take him to say what he was going to say.

  ‘Honey, I thought you meant real painting.’

  Another star fell. A bonus star. Fiona didn’t even bother wishing on it. ‘Good luck with the puzzlers, Pops.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Don’t let anyone tell you there are any rules. (Even me. Don’t let me tell you this rule is a rule.) You know how to make clothing with sticks and string. Make your own rules, and break them when it makes the most sense to. – E. C.

  ‘Will she come?’ asked Hope.

  ‘She’ll come,’ said Abe.

  He wasn’t sure if he actually believed it, or if he was just telling himself what he wanted to hear. Holy crap, in the throes of passion, when he was almost at his peak, with Fiona in his arms, in the bed where he wanted to stay for something like fore
ver, he’d called her the wrong name.

  And then his mother asked her for a favor.

  There was a very fucking good chance that she wouldn’t come to the lighthouse.

  It didn’t stop him hoping she would.

  He’d arrived first, in his truck. He could have walked from the marina, but he wanted the knowledge that if he had to flee fast, he could, tires burning rubber in the small lighthouse parking lot.

  His mother, as always, walked down from the house, refusing his offer of a ride, just as she did every year. It had been a tradition for her and Conway to walk to the lighthouse every Sunday night. From the time they were first married, they hadn’t missed a week, not even on rainy Sundays.

  They’d bring a bottle of wine and a box of something sweet, cookies or chocolate. Hope would knit, and Conway would pour their wine. They’d watch the sunset.

  Abe knew that they’d also been fond of the cave below, at the base of Moonglass beach. He didn’t ask questions about that, not wanting to find out if his suspicions that he’d been conceived there were founded in truth.

  When Hope met him in the parking lot, she kissed his cheek and then walked to the edge of the cliff, as she always did. She did this alone. Abe watched. He understood. There was still communion here. He could feel Conway this late afternoon. Here, he always could. He knew his mother felt the same way. In the old red plaid jacket she always wore, her gray hair flying wildly in all directions, she tossed pebbles over, lobbing them softly.

  He’d asked her once about this practice.

  ‘They’re just rocks,’ she’d said.

  ‘Why do you throw them?’ From his distance, it looked as if she were throwing stones at the ocean.