Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  However, Bernard isn’t hearing a word of my constructive sympathy. “Gil has taken an apartment in downtown Cleveland. I’ve driven past the place several times. The brick building itself certainly isn’t anything to look at. There’s a dentist’s office on the ground floor. Or maybe it’s a periodontist. Anyway, I keep trying to get him to invite me over, because, you know, I could help him decorate and arrange things. But he insists that it’s not a good idea right now.”

  “And does he say why it’s not a good idea?”

  “Well, actually, he won’t take my calls anymore. So I’m presuming he wants to settle in first.”

  Great. Bernard is openly admitting to stalking his ex. Next he’s probably going to confess that he’s tapped Gil’s phone.

  “So I want you to call him and see if he’ll let you visit.” Bernard hands me the cordless phone. “I’ve blocked our number so it won’t show up on his caller ID. And afterward you can report back to me with the necessary information.”

  “What do you mean, information?”

  “You know—what he’s doing, his appearance, how the rooms are arranged.”

  “Why don’t you just hire a detective?” I ask in a tone that’s meant to be sarcastic. Although when Bernard seems to be actually considering the idea, I’m obliged to say, “I was only kidding.”

  But in his sorrow Bernard has lost the ability to laugh easily. Instead, he continues to divulge his strategy. “You and only you can get inside to see if he’s unpacked everything and plans on staying . . . if he’s installed a pole lamp and hung pictures, or if it’s all just rather makeshift and temporary-looking.”

  “I’m not going to spy on Gil.” I would do practically anything for Bernard, but here I have to draw the line. “It’s wrong!”

  “So I’ll go to confession and say five Our Miss Brooks and two Hello Dollys!”

  Bernard lets out a walrus-sized sigh, as if I’m single-handedly destroying all of his carefully thought-out plans. “I’m not asking you to spy on him. Simply go visit him and then come back here and tell me about it,” he implores.

  “Of course I’ll go and see him at some point.”

  “Fine, then.” Bernard takes the phone out of my hands and starts pressing the buttons.

  He’s memorized Gil’s new number?

  “Ask if you can go over there tonight,” he instructs, and hands back the phone.

  I click the off button and disconnect the call. “But I just drove all the way from Cleveland after being up all night. I haven’t unpacked yet. Or stopped at my house. Or looked in the shed. I’m exhausted from exams and final projects.” And from relationships, I would add, if Bernard could go off-mission for a second and listen to me. Not a chance.

  “Hallie, this is urgent! I’m in desperate circumstances. ” Sounding all too much like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire, he retrieves the phone and clutches it to his heart.

  “Can’t it at least wait until tomorrow?” I plead.

  “Who kept you out of reform school last year?” insists Bernard. “Who became your legal guardian and arranged it so Mother could tutor you here at the house, thus enabling you to graduate from high school?”

  “Point taken,” I shoot back. “You’ve graduated from mentor to tormentor in the short space of a year.”

  Bernard’s arms are now flailing above his head like Tippi Hedren in the movie The Birds.

  “Have I ever asked anything of you, other than to read those articles I send you on how to care for your combination skin?” Once again he punches in the number and shoves the handset up to my ear.

  I walk outside the summerhouse to talk in private. He follows me. Real close.

  “How am I supposed to get Gil back if I don’t know whether or not he’s seeing anyone?” complains Bernard.

  So that’s what this is about. I’m not supposed to hunt for pole lamps and a captain’s wheel coffee table, but for evidence of another person. Gil picks up, and following some friendly chitchat, I arrange to go and visit him after dinner. At least this way I can grab a few hours of shut-eye this afternoon.

  As soon as I hang up, Bernard hysterically begins making plans. “We’ll eat early and then leave at half past six. I’ll make a casserole for you to give him since I can’t imagine he’s been eating properly. Then I’ll wait at the diner around the corner while you go in and visit.”

  “I’m not taking you with me! What if he sees you?” By now I’m picturing the mug shot.

  “I’ll wear a disguise.” Bernard says this as if it solves absolutely everything.

  Looking directly at the largest vase in the room, I ask, “Are any of these in my price range in case I accidentally drop one on your head?”

  “He won’t even know I’m there,” insists Bernard.

  “Do you want the short answer or the long answer?” I ask.

  “Short,” he says. There’s a crazed note of hope in his voice.

  “No!” I bang my hand on the bed since just about everything else in the vicinity is an antique and there’s no point breaking a thousand-dollar lamp just for emphasis.

  “Wait! What’s the long answer?”

  “No F-ing way!” I say, and give the bed one more hard hit. “Furthermore, I’m not taking sides. Or going on some fact-finding mission. This is getting really weird. It feels as if my parents got divorced while I was in college. It happened to, like, half the freshmen—out of the blue they got calls in early October saying their folks were splitsville, that they’d been waiting the past few years, until the kids left home.”

  “That’s exactly why we must get Gil back! So you’re not permanently damaged by living in a broken home.”

  “Stop saying we!”

  Bernard studies the dark circles under my eyes and the uncombed hair. “I think you’re just tired,” he says, as if this explains why I’m not agreeing with him.

  “I’m exhausted!” I hurl myself prostrate on the new daybed. “This is a really nice bed, by the way.”

  “I thought sateen sheets would be a bit much, so I got Egyptian cotton with a very high thread count, a silk blend comforter, and goose down pillows.”

  “Mmmm,” I kick off my sneakers and let my head sink into the luxurious pillow.

  “Okay, get some rest while I run down to the shop. It’s been incredibly busy ever since this chain of diners and soda bars started buying from me. I send them pictures of 1940s and ’50s kitsch and they send money.” Bernard bounds out the door, apparently cheered that I’m willing to take on his case, at least within reason.

  It feels so good to lie there and listen to the fresh green leaves rustle and the sparrows chirp. The buds on the purple lilac bushes outside my window still look tentative, as if waiting for just one more sign that spring has come to stay for good. My thoughts drift as I head toward sleep. Working in the yard I can make fifteen an hour and if I work fifty hours a week for ten weeks that’s $7,500 . . . not nearly enough . . . have to win that contest and get the one-year scholarship and then use the $7,500 for living expenses . . . can’t eat another Ramen noodle as long as I live . . . what about the transformation in Brandt . . . hard not to wonder if he didn’t participate in some sort of scientific experiment that made him go from gawky boy to normal guy . . . he’s still kind of skinny . . . but it’s nothing that a few milkshakes couldn’t cure . . . oh dear, I must really be overtired and becoming delusional . . . though I wonder if he still carries that Klingon key chain . . . because maybe if that’s definitely gone . . .

  When I hear a female voice calling my name I leap up and look around for a clock, terrified that I’m sleeping through an exam. It’s not one of my roommates, however.

  Chapter Eight

  THE SUMMERHOUSE DOOR OPENS AND THE SHADOW OF MY mother appears, backlit by bright sunshine with thousands of tiny dust particles swirling through it. I must have dozed off for exactly ten minutes.

  “Mom!”

  “Oh Hallie, I’m so glad that you’re back. Mrs. Muldoon said
she saw you driving down Main Street with boxes tied to the roof rack.”

  It’s a relief to know that the Cosgrove County grapevine hasn’t been experiencing any technical difficulties while I’ve been away.

  My mother’s cheeks are flushed pink, her voice is quivery, and her eyes brim with tears, just like when she’s pregnant.

  “Oh my gosh!” I put my arms around her. “You’re pregnant again!”

  She bursts into tears and I lead her over to the daybed. To myself I’m thinking, This will make nine kids! We’ve just gone from being a sports team to having our own militia.

  But to her I say, “It makes perfect sense that you’d be concerned about bringing another life into this world. How far along are you?”

  She dabs at her eyes with a tissue that she’s miraculously produced out of the sleeve of her summer sweater, the way mothers of small children are programmed to do in order to catch snot and spit-up before it makes contact with clothing and furniture.

  “About two months,” she says, and places a loving hand on her abdomen, where the infant in question is not yet visible, but allegedly in residence, rent-free. “I’m absolutely thrilled. You kids are all growing up so fast.” She scrolls her eyes up and down my five-foot-eight frame and then touches my almost pimple-free face as if that’s all the proof anyone needs.

  Unbelievable—a woman who still has six kids living at home is experiencing empty-nest syndrome? But I quickly change course to make sure she doesn’t think that I was suggesting she might not want the baby. “That’s terrific. Congratulations! I just meant . . . all I meant was . . . you don’t look very happy.”

  “It’s Louise!” she blurts out. “Oh, Hallie. She came home late one night last week and I know she was intoxicated. I didn’t dare tell your father.”

  “Mom, even Eric came home drunk a few times while he was in high school. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “It’s more than just that, Hallie. Louise made the varsity cheerleading squad and when sophomore year started they traveled all the time for games. She came home late on school nights and was gone most weekends and I didn’t notice anything wrong at first. But then her grades dropped and she started running around with a bad crowd, going off to parties at the University of Akron every Saturday night.” Mom starts to sniffle again.

  “Mom, most fifteen-year-olds go through that whole rebellious thing.”

  “But Hallie, she hardly says a word to any of us. And when I ask about her friends or where she’s going and what she’s doing she gets so angry, as if it’s none of my business.”

  “Okay, but I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do about it.”

  “You can talk to her. Eric tried during spring vacation but she wouldn’t listen to him.”

  “I don’t know anything about cheerleading or traveling on buses to football games.”

  “No, but you went through a phase and now you’re fine.” She looks up to the shelf with the Greek vases featuring naked people in strange positions, and obviously these make her think twice. “I mean, you managed to graduate and you’re in college now. You never got into drugs or alcohol. And those girlfriends, Gwen and Jane, they were always polite when they called or came over to the house. But Louise’s friends honk their horns in the driveway until she comes out or else they phone and don’t even say hello, or please when they ask to speak with her. And the outfits they wear, if you can even call them that! I mean, where are their mothers? Can’t the families afford full-length mirrors?”

  It appears that Mom is going to start sobbing again just at the thought of young ladies not saying please and hello. Let’s not even consider wearing inappropriate clothing.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll talk to her,” I give in.

  “Oh, thank you!” Mom gives me her brightest smile, the one normally reserved for toilet training. “Your father grounded Louise for staying out until five o’clock in the morning this past Saturday and so she’s home right now.”

  I think back to when I was grounded, more or less for life, and ended up running away. Dad really needs to add some new stuff to his punishment repertoire. Although in order to take away our allowance I guess he’d first have to start giving us one. Dad has this old-fashioned notion that working around the house is your contribution to the family and we should all just be thankful we’re not doing chores on a farm like when he was a boy.

  “Louise, of all people, is probably going to have to attend summer school,” moans my mother, as if this is like hanging a big scarlet letter S on the front door. “Why, in middle school she practically had straight A’s.” Mom may have a lot of kids, but she can always give you a grade-point average.

  “So do you want to ride home with me or take your car?” she asks.

  “Oh gosh, Mom. I’ve been up for, like, two days.” I rub my eyes with weariness. “Forget about driving, I don’t think I can even stand. How about tomorrow?”

  “But Hallie, she won’t even speak to us. What if something terrible happens?”

  I assume that “something terrible” is a reference to running away. Or perhaps tackling the rubbing alcohol in the bathroom medicine chest.

  The tears begin to flow again and there’s no chance of winning an argument with a pregnant woman. “I’ll take my own car,” I say, and drag myself off the nice comfortable daybed while realizing she didn’t once ask me how I am. Come to think of it, nobody has. The downside of not being constantly followed around by the police seems to be that people assume you no longer have any problems of your own, and are therefore ready and willing to tackle all of theirs.

  Chapter Nine

  MY OLD HOUSE HASN’T CHANGED EXCEPT FOR THE EIGHT OR TEN square feet that it appears to shrink every year as all the kids inside grow bigger and bigger. There’s a Playskool lawn mower in the middle of the living room where someone has obviously been giving the stained carpet a good cutting. Though what it appears to need more is vacuuming, especially where the Oreo cookies have been crushed into it. My mom is actually a conscientious housekeeper, but how can one human being keep up with a baby, a toddler, three kids between eight and twelve, and one angry teenager? I move a sippy cup that sits precariously on the edge of an end table while the unmistakable yelling of the twins suddenly rises from the play area in the basement and fills the air like a factory whistle.

  Louise is upstairs in our old bedroom, which she now shares with eight-year-old Darlene. The last time I was sentenced to spend a night in here I ended up climbing out the window once and for all. Plastered across the walls are posters of scantily clad teen rock stars, male and female, and beer ads. Dad, who won’t even let his daughters wear belly shirts, must love this.

  “Hey, Hallie.” Louise comes over and we give each other a sisterly hug. Darlene is still downstairs fighting with her twin brother, Davy, and so I fall onto my old bed, which is now covered with a Barbie comforter weighted down by ten tons of stuffed animals.

  I nod toward a poster of a well-oiled hunk leaning against a surfboard. “You’ve redecorated.”

  “You are so lucky to be out of here!” She throws an evil look in the direction of Mom and Dad’s room that I assume is meant for them.

  So much for hello and how are you, the point in the conversation where I get to respond that I’m basically living my dream— going into monumental debt and unable to keep a boyfriend for more than two weeks. Make that two days, more often than not.

  “Why’s that?” I try to sound casual. “Are you the next one to slide down the drainpipe?” That’s how I made my getaway. But then, I wasn’t wearing the shoes Louise has on—black designer sandals with skinny three-inch heels.

  “I wish!” says Louise, and gives a combination sigh and eye roll that only fifteen-year-olds have the lung capacity and muscle elasticity to perform. “You always had money, or were able to make some easily enough.”

  Yeah, I think, the good old bad old days back when I was flush.

  It feels as if I haven’t seen Louise for
five years rather than only five months. She’s transformed from an angular girl to a young woman with soft curves and a strikingly beautiful face, deep-set hazel eyes, and perfect bone structure. Her golden chestnut-colored hair falls into soft curls around her face. Only, what happened to the cute cheerleader with the pigtails and pink lip gloss? Now she’s wearing Visigoth makeup—thick black eyeliner, maroon mascara, and reddish-brown lipstick. With her scoop-neck black jersey, push-up bra, and the silky strap of a thong peeking above skintight low-rise jeans, she looks closer to twenty. A stunning and slutty twenty. About one trip to the mall away from “Excuse me while I powder my nose ring.”

  Louise has always been the great beauty in the family, ever since she was a baby. When we were little Mom was twice approached to have Louise model children’s clothing for catalogues and be in TV commercials. People tried not to come right out and say how extraordinarily pretty she was when I was around, or if they accidentally did, they’d immediately try to follow up with some compliment for me, too, such as, “And you have such nice . . . you’re so good in math.” Math gene, beauty queen. Not a hard choice. Except you don’t get a choice.

  No, there’s nothing in fashion magazines about apricot, which is what I am, from tip to toe. My hair is sometimes described as “strawberry blond,” but you can tell it’s more of a question than an expression of admiration. Beauty is about the dramatic splendor of nature—having yellow sun-drenched locks or a cascade of hair as dark as night, rose red lips, and blue eyes the color of forget-me-nots or deep green like the ocean. It is not about nature’s fruit. Not strawberries, and especially not apricots. Or freckles the color of Granny Smith apples.

  “Hey!” Louise’s eyes widen so much that I can actually detect patches of white through all the eyeliner and mascara. “Maybe you can teach me how to play poker. All I get is a few bucks for baby-sitting and Dad even begrudges me that. He says that I should do it for free because they’re my own brothers and sisters. As if!”