“Gee, thanks,” Rachel said. “You always say the nicest things. And I didn’t say one word about your new hair color. If I look like shit, then you look Japanese.”
“Hey, I tell it like it is,” her sister said, removing an earring and massaging her ear. “You’re working too hard. You’re going to get sick if you don’t cut yourself some slack. Look at the bags under your eyes. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I’m fine,” Rachel said, preparing the lemonade and carrying the pitcher to the table. “You look like you’ve lost another twenty pounds. Are you trying to starve yourself to death?”
Carrie laughed, a deep, hearty sound that filled the room. “Since I’m divorced now, I have to stay in shape to cope with the competition. I turned forty last month, remember? It isn’t easy for a forty-year-old woman to find a man.”
“I thought you wanted to be independent, do your own thing. Isn’t that what you told me when you and Phil got divorced?”
“I can do my own thing and still want a man now and then,” Carrie told her. “In case you haven’t heard, single people do occasionally have sex. What about you? Are you still living like a nun, going to bed with Joe’s picture under your pillow?”
“I didn’t divorce my husband,” Rachel said, scowling. “He died, Carrie. Don’t you think that’s a little different?” She could never tell her sister what had happened on the beach that morning. Their lifestyles were worlds apart. Carrie spent her days in courtrooms and skyscraper office buildings. She had a private secretary to cater to her needs, maids to clean her apartment, a big fat paycheck at the end of every month. Rachel eyed the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. To her sister, the way she lived must be depressing, reminiscent of childhood days with their mother.
“You can’t be in love with a dead man, sweetie,” Carrie said. “It’s been three years. It’s time to move on with your life. Find yourself a successful guy. You’re attractive enough. All you have to do is fix yourself up a little, start thinking like a woman for a change.”
Carrie sometimes came across as strident, but Rachel knew she loved her. Her sister had fought long and hard to get where she was in life. Her drive had become incorporated into her personality more out of necessity than by design. The soft-faced young girl with the wavy brown hair who used to sit on the piano bench beside their mother and sing show tunes seemed light-years away. Rachel had never seen her sister perform in the courtroom, but she was certain she was a fine attorney. Carrie had left home while Rachel was still in high school, and put herself through college by working as a waitress. After she had married, her husband had supported her and looked after their son while she attended law school. The boy was now in his first year at U.C. Berkeley. Carrie had once said the only thing she regretted in life was not having more children, particularly since she’d had so little time to spend with her son during his early years.
Tracy was eavesdropping from the doorway. She waited until the women stopped speaking, and then walked in and twirled around in her new leather skirt. “It’s wonderful, Carrie. It looks just like a skirt I saw in Cosmopolitan the other day. It’s mod, isn’t it? All the magazines say mod is coming back.”
“You’ve got a fashion plate on your hands, Rachel,” Carrie said, smiling.
“Yeah, well,” Rachel said, thinking the skirt was far too short but not wanting to say anything to spoil her daughter’s happiness, “Tracy might be a fashion plate, but there’s not a lot of room for fashion in our budget these days.”
Carrie slumped in her seat. She hated that Rachel was so hard up for money, but when she offered to help her get out of debt, she consistently refused. In many ways, she thought her sister was a martyr. Ever since the kidnapping, she had walked around as if she were carrying a cross on her back. Carrie had never been certain if the adversity Rachel experienced was natural or if she drew it to her through some kind of strange negative energy. “I’ll go through my closet when I get home,” she said. “I’ve got some cute things I never wear that might look great on Tracy. I’ll pack up a box and put it in the mail as soon as I get home.”
Carrie used the bathroom, then said she had to take off for the airport. “How about a trip to San Francisco this summer?” she said to Tracy, clasping the girl’s hands. “We can ride the cable cars, go to the beach. I’ll take you shopping, have my hairdresser work on your hair.”
The girl’s face came alive, then quickly fell. “Who would watch Joe?”
“Right,” Carrie said, frowning. She might be able to entertain Tracy, but she could not handle a toddler with the demands of her law practice. “Maybe next year, okay?”
Tracy nodded silently. Rachel stood in the doorway until her sister had driven off, then headed to the back of the house to go to bed.
Once Tracy had prepared the evening meal and placed it in the refrigerator, she grabbed Joe’s hand and led him out the front of the house, quietly closing the door behind her. The day had turned out to be fairly warm, and she was dressed in a halter top and a pair of cut-off shorts. She had not yet developed real breasts. She had pimples and a few months back had begun to have periods, but the thing she wanted most had not yet happened. Glancing down the front of her halter top, she shook her head, then yanked on her brother’s hand to get him to walk faster. If a girl didn’t have boobs, she was still a baby. She didn’t feel like a child, act like a child, or think like a child. She thought it was time for her body to catch up with her mind.
A battered green Datsun was parked at the curb. Smiling at the long-haired boy in the driver’s seat, Tracy pushed back the seat and lifted her brother into the car.
Matt Fitzgerald’s blond hair was styled like a surfer’s, long and shaggy. At sixteen, he was a good-looking young man with clear skin and large hazel eyes. His father was a prominent local dentist, and his mother worked as his receptionist in Ventura. When Tracy had first seen him leaning against the wall at the video arcade near her house, it was as if he had stepped right out of one of her teenage magazines. Everything about him seemed perfect. But things were not always as they appeared, Tracy had learned that day. Matt had been born with a birth defect, a deformed left hand.
“Do you have to bring the kid?” he asked.
“You know I have to bring him,” Tracy said, her voice laced with bitterness. “My mom’s sleeping. If she’s not at work, she’s sleeping. That’s the way it is.”
“It’s okay,” Matt said. “I just thought we could be alone for a change.” He glanced in the back seat at the boy. “Yo, Joey,” he said, “how’s it hanging, big guy?”
“Don’t call him Joey,” she snapped.
“Why?”
“Because his name is Joe,” Tracy said, the words catching in her throat. “He was named after my dad.”
Matt scooted over in the seat. “I can tell you loved your dad very much,” he said softly. “What was he like?”
Tracy rested her head on his shoulder, then looked up at his face. “Now that I think of it, you remind me a little of my dad.”
“How’s that?” Matt said, tentatively draping an arm over her shoulder.
“He had long hair like you,” she told him. “And he loved the outdoors. You’re crazy about the ocean. My dad was into dirt and plants.” She nestled her head into his armpit. “You even smell like my dad.”
“I probably have BO,” Matt said, smiling down at her. “I didn’t shower after I went surfing today.”
“Whatever it is, I like it,” Tracy said, tickling his armpit with her nose. “You smell fishy, like the ocean.”
“When do you have to be back?”
“Probably around eight,” she told him. “Let’s go to the park over by the high school. That way, Joe can play in the sandbox.”
“Ice cream,” the toddler said, kicking the back of the seat. “You promised, Tracy.”
“It’s too close to dinner,” his sister said. “I’m taking you to the park, so shut up.”
Matt repositioned himself in the driver’s
seat and cranked the ignition with his good hand. Once they reached the park, he removed a blanket from the trunk and placed it on the lawn. Patting her brother on the rump, Tracy steered him in the direction of the playground. As they sat down. Matt reached over and pulled on a strand of her hair, then bent down and tried to kiss her.
“Don’t do that!” she said, shoving him away. “I don’t want to be your girlfriend. I just want us to be friends.” Seeing his disappointment, she tried to explain. “If we start going out, you’ll want to have sex. I don’t want to get pregnant. I already have Joe. I don’t need any more kids to take care of.”
“It’s not that,” Matt said, a shattered look on his face. “You’re afraid I’m going to touch you with my hideous hand.” He curled up on his side, his deformed hand hidden inside his T-shirt. It was smaller than his other hand. The fingers were short and thick, as if they had not completely formed at the time of his birth.
Tracy crawled to the other side of the blanket. Matt rolled over onto his stomach, refusing to look at her. She reached beneath him and pried his bad hand out, then placed it in the center of her chest. “See, I’m not afraid for you to touch me,” she told him. “Your hand might be a little different, but I swear, it doesn’t matter. I like people who are different. Who wants to be the same as everyone else?”
Matt turned onto his side again, gazing longingly at her face. A few moments later, Tracy felt his stunted fingers on the edge of her halter top. “That’s enough,” she said. “Just because you have a bad hand doesn’t mean you can feel me up. There’s nothing there anyway, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Matt sat up. “Why are you so moody today? Did you have a fight with your mother?”
“No.” Tracy thought of Carrie’s invitation. “Look, I saw my aunt today. She’s a hotshot lawyer in San Francisco. She wanted me to come and stay with her this summer. She said she’d take me shopping, show me the sights.” She brushed a jagged strand of hair off her forehead, remembering how Carrie had promised to take her to her hairdresser. “I can’t go, of course. What do I ever have to look forward to? Just another miserable summer chasing after Joe. Can you blame me for not wanting to get knocked up?”
“Is Joe your kid?” He had wanted to ask her this question ever since he met her. “I’ve heard of that kind of thing. You know, a young girl getting pregnant and having a kid, and her mother pretending it’s hers.”
“No, stupid,” Tracy said, punching him in the side. “If Joe was my kid, I would have only been eleven years old when I had him. Sometimes it feels like he’s my kid, though,” she added. “Joe was born a few weeks before my father died. I spend more time with him than Mom does. My mother purposely got pregnant, even though she knew my dad was going to croak. She said she wanted something to remember him by.” She busied herself pulling a tuft of grass. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? I mean, she had me. I’m his daughter.”
“Bummer,” Matt said. “Guess she wanted a boy.”
“I worship Joe,” Tracy continued, her face softening as she watched the child play in the sandbox. When she took her brother to a public playground, she never took her eyes off him. She knew how easily children could get hurt. Her mother had also taught her about child molesters, people who lurked around playgrounds and preyed on innocent children. “I just know we wouldn’t be so hard up for money if Mom hadn’t had him,” she continued. “And I can’t ever do anything with my friends. When I’m not in school, I have to babysit. Mom keeps promising it’s going to be different, but I know it’s not.”
“Maybe it will,” Matt said. “You never know. Your mom could win the lottery or something.”
“Yeah,” Tracy answered, tossing a blade of grass at him, “and I still believe in Santa Claus.”
Matt fell back onto the blanket. Tracy leaned over and impulsively kissed him on the mouth.
He reached for her, but she pulled away. “It was only a kiss,” she said, her face flushed with excitement. “I decided I owed it to you for acting like such a bitch.”
“Oh, yeah,” Matt said, grinning. “Maybe next time you’ll be in a really bad mood.”
“Never know,” Tracy said in a playful tone.
“You only want to be friends, huh?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “I mean…I don’t want to be pushy or anything, but there’s some good-looking chicks at the beach.”
“I guess I changed my mind,” she said, her heart pounding in her ears. “I kissed you, didn’t I?”
Tracy got up and walked toward the sandbox to get Joe. Her very first kiss. She had thought it would be awkward, dumb, one of those things everyone tells you will be so great but turns out to be nothing. She saw Matt watching her from the blanket. Did he know she had never kissed a boy before? The wind whipped her hair back from her face, and she sighed in pleasure. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. She glanced down at her hands, imagining how difficult it would be to have a disability like Matt’s. Kids were cruel. They probably made fun of him, treated him like a freak. Seeing the confident smile on his face, though, Tracy wondered if Matt was really as sensitive as he made out. He was outrageously handsome, and she could not believe girls were not attracted to him. She adjusted her halter top, remembering how soft his touch had felt on her skin. Boys knew how to get their way, and sixteen-year-old guys like Matt had nothing but sex on their brains. She would have to be careful.
“Hey, slugger,” Tracy said to Joe, straining as she picked him up and balanced him on her hip. “Because you’ve been such a good boy, I’m going to buy that ice cream cone you wanted.” She planted kisses all over his face. “Are you my best friend, huh? Are we a team?”
Although Tracy wished she wasn’t saddled with her brother all the time, she knew she would be miserable without him. When they didn’t have to sleep at Lucy’s house, Tracy sometimes brought Joe into the bed with her and cradled him in her arms. When her father died and they had been forced to move from their old neighborhood, Tracy had been devastated. She had missed her father, her friends, her school. Even though Joe was only a baby at the time, she could see traces of her father in his face and in the expressions he made with his eyes. Her mother had crazy notions about what happened to people when they died. Rachel had told her one time that her father’s spirit might have somehow returned in little Joe. Tracy didn’t believe in all that spiritual stuff, but if her mother wanted to think that way, she didn’t see how it could do any harm.
“I loves you,” Joe said, hugging her tight around the neck.
“I love you too, pumpkin,” Tracy answered, setting him back on his feet. “Now, let’s go and get that ice cream cone.”
c h a p t e r
TEN
When Tracy woke her mother up at nine o’clock Saturday night, Rachel was drooling on her pillow. The girl dropped down beside the bed and dabbed her mother’s mouth with a tissue. “You’re drooling again,” she said, placing a hand on her forehead. “Not only that, you’re burning up. I think you have a fever. You must be getting the flu or something.”
“It’s just the sunburn,” Rachel said. When she stood, the room spun and she sank back on the edge of the bed. “I think I need to eat something. Can you make me a sandwich while I jump in the shower? I’d really appreciate it.”
“I made a meatloaf and some mashed potatoes,” Tracy said. “I’ll pop you a plate in the microwave.” She started to leave the room and then stopped. “Maybe you should call in sick tonight. Mom. I’m worried about you. If that was a party you were supposed to be at this morning, it certainly doesn’t look like you had any fun. What really happened out there?”
Rachel waved her away, then headed to the shower.
It was the fifth shower she had taken since coming back from the beach. Her skin was burning, her eyes were red and swollen, and the mere thought of seeing Grant Cummings made her sick. Grant was an animal, all right, but at least he was fairly obvious. It was the conversation she’d had with the sergeant that still had her ree
ling. Had he really meant the things he’d said? If she filed a complaint about what had transpired on the beach, would he attempt to get her fired for incompetence?
Once she had showered and dressed in a fresh uniform, Rachel ate some of the food her daughter had prepared for her. When she had had enough, she carried the plates to the sink and began loading them into the dishwasher.
Tracy lounged against the doorframe with studied nonchalance. “The cheerleader tryouts are next week,” she said. “Sheila Ross wants me to try out with her. We’ve been practicing routines during the lunch break.”
“That’s great,” Rachel said, pleased that her daughter was interested in school activities.
“I probably won’t make it,” Tracy continued. “But if I do, I’ll have to go to practice every day after school, as well as cheer at all the football games.” Her voice dropped. “Maybe I should forget it.”
Rachel felt her heart skip a beat. “It’s not for this year, though, right?”
“No,” Tracy said, chewing on a fingernail. “But Mom, how would you manage without me? You don’t get enough sleep as it is. Besides, the uniforms are really expensive.”
“Look,” Rachel said, wiping her hands on a dish towel, “I don’t want you putting your life on hold because of Joe. If you make cheerleader, we’ll figure something out.”
Tracy decided to change the subject while she was ahead. “Some man called for you,” she said. “He didn’t want to leave a message. Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”
Rachel walked over and kissed her forehead. “It was probably a wrong number,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, your mother’s not exactly a femme fatale.”
“You could be,” the girl said, glancing at her watch. “Carrie was right. Mom. You just need to fix yourself up, maybe wear a little makeup. It’s early. Give me a few minutes. I want to try something.”
Abuse of Power Page 10
