Beautiful Malice: A Novel

by Rebecca James

  “So your dad’s still pretty sad, then?”

  “Usually he seems okay. Or at least he acts okay. Usually he’s strong and really wants to get on with things, and make sure that the house is happy, clean, full of food, all that stuff. You know, we’re always having friends over, pizza-and-beer nights, as if everything’s okay, as if life couldn’t be better without a woman in the house. But then one night, about a week ago, I was heading to his room, I was gonna tell him something. And I just stopped for a minute outside his door, dunno why, maybe … Anyway … I stopped and I heard him crying. Really crying, you know, that heartbreaking, noisy, sobbing kind of stuff. It was horrible. I mean, sure, I know he really loved Mom, I know he misses her, but he sounded so … so helpless. Like a child. As if he had no control of himself. As if all this happiness crap was just bullshit. Something he does just for my sake. And I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there for a second, wishing he’d stop, that he’d shut the hell up. It was weird. The worst thing was that I felt no sympathy. I just hated him for it, for letting me hear that, for not keeping up the pretense that he was okay.”

  “I know what you mean. Seeing your parents like that really makes you grow up; it makes you realize that the world’s just a big scary place that they have no control over. And if they can hurt so much, if they can’t control things, what hope is there for you?” The words are out before I realize what I’m saying, what I’m revealing.

  “Exactly.” Robbie looks at me, suddenly alarmed. “Shit. Your mother hasn’t died or anything, has she?”

  “Oh, no.” I shake my head and laugh, as if the idea that I’m familiar with death is absurd. “She’s fine. I’ve just thought about this kind of thing a bit. And I’ve read some of my dad’s books on bereavement and stuff. Morbid, I guess. Crazy.”

  “Well, you really nailed the feeling. Most people freak out when I say that my mom died. Most people get all upset or embarrassed and change the subject. And my counselor’s useless. She always asks me what I’m feeling and how I feel about what I’m feeling. And then she tells me that my feelings are perfectly valid while all the time there’s this underlying message that I should really try to feel something completely different. I’d get as much insight talking to a roll of toilet paper.”

  I’m about to reply when Alice calls out from the other room.

  “Good morning,” she says, her voice raspy and deep from the late night. “People? Where are you? I’m getting very lonely in here.”

  Robbie and I smile at each other and shrug, let the conversation end. We take the teapot and the milk, the sugar, and the cups and go into the living room to join Alice.

  7

  I pick Sarah up earlier than usual from her day-care center. I watch her through the window for a moment before she sees me, and am pleased to see that she looks perfectly happy. She’s playing with a heap of bright green Play-Doh, alone, completely absorbed with patting and pounding it into a goopy, colorful mess. She’s a solitary little girl, uncomfortable with people—just as Rachel used to be—and though I’m glad that she’s cautious, I also worry that this will make things difficult for her. After all, she has to mix with people, whether she wants to or not.

  It’s odd, because I never saw Rachel’s shyness as any kind of disadvantage. In fact, it was a trait that I found endearing in her. But for my daughter I want life to be perfect. I want everyone to love her. I want everything to be as easy and happy and untroubled as possible.

  People tell me that I’m overprotective, that I need to let Sarah go, give her space to make her own way in the world, but I don’t believe there is any such thing as overprotecting your loved ones. I want to grab these people by the arm and shout, There is danger everywhere, you fools! You think you’re safe, you think people are trustworthy? Nice? Open your eyes and look around! But they would only think I was crazy. They are naïve, oblivious, unaware that the world is full of people who wish you ill, and I’m amazed that they can be so blind.

  Being a mother is difficult, contradictory, impossible. I want my daughter to be happy, to make friends, to laugh and feel joyful. I don’t want her to be paralyzed by fear and anxiety. But I also want her to be careful. To go into this dangerous world with her eyes wide open.

  When I open the door and enter the playroom, I stand behind her and wait for her to sense my presence and turn around. I love the moment when she first sees me, the look of pure delight that lights up her face, the way she’ll forget, instantly, whatever it is she’s doing, and rush into my arms. She comes to day care only two afternoons a week, Wednesday and Friday—painfully long, boring afternoons for me—and I’m always relieved when I pick her up on Friday afternoon, glad that another week is over, that we can be together for four whole days before it’s time to bring her back.

  I’ve come to pick her up early today for our annual trip. I’m taking her to the mountains, to the snow, and I’m as excited as a child at the prospect of Sarah’s delight when she sees it. We can make a snowman, have snow fights, perhaps ride a toboggan. We can drink hot chocolate by the fire and enjoy the cold, enjoy also a little time on our own, away from my parents.

  “Mommy!” she cries when she sees me. She stands up and rushes over, knocking her stool over in her haste, and when I stoop to hug her, she wraps her arms around my neck. “Are we ready to go?”

  “I am. How about you?”

  “Did you pack my things?”

  “Yep.”

  “My Sally-bear?”

  “Of course.”

  “But what about Nana and Pop?” She knows how much my parents depend on her, and it saddens me that at her age she already worries about them.

  “They’re going to have great fun this weekend, too. They’ve got friends coming to dinner and everything.”

  Her face brightens. “Are they ’cited?”

  “Very. Almost as excited as you and me.”

  I scoop her up, collect her bags, sign her out, and go to the car. The trip out of the city is quick and trouble-free; we’re too early for the Friday-night rush hour. In the car, Sarah is quiet. She sits staring out of the window, thumb in mouth, slumped and relaxed. She has always been like this in a car, and driving was always the best way, when she was a small baby, to get her to sleep or to stop her from crying.

  I drive carefully on the highway, keeping my car as far from others as I possibly can, remembering my father’s lectures on defensive driving. Dad tried to dissuade me from taking this trip. The roads will be terrible, he said, all the worst drivers, the maniacs, head there on the weekends. And you’re not used to driving in those conditions. He spoke curtly. Don’t be such a fool, Katherine.

  I understand his terror—people are killed on the roads every day. One small error, a tiny mistake in judgment, a lapse in concentration—any of these could put us in the way of the many hurtling tractor-trailers that crowd this highway. Two more lives gone in an instant. An already shattered family annihilated. My father knows, better than most, that the unthinkable happens. He knows that nightmares can and do come true.

  So it’s for his sake that I keep my eyes glued to the road, my hands firmly on the steering wheel, my mind alert. It’s my father’s fear that keeps me from pushing down on the accelerator as hard as I can.

  8

  “No no no no. No way. I don’t want to go there.” Alice shakes her head. “It’s so awful, full of fat people. And there’s no decent food.”

  “Full of fat people?” Robbie shakes his head. “You can be such a bitch sometimes, Alice.”

  “It’s the truth. The place is a dump. It’s crap, believe me. It’s full of the kind of people who eat margarine instead of butter and iron creases in the front of their jeans. My parents used to love it there. Which is about as big an argument against the place as you can get.”

  Alice hasn’t told me much of any real substance about her parents, and I wonder about her relationship with them. Occasionally she speaks of her mother with a love and admiration that is almos
t palpable, and at other times she is derisive, almost cruel. When she mocks them—their poverty, their bad taste, their stupidity—I’m shocked that she can be so unfeeling toward her own flesh and blood.

  The three of us are trying to organize a weekend trip away together. I’m excited and imagine a lovely weekend of swimming and eating and talking. But we can’t agree on the best place to go—and we have a small budget, which makes it difficult because Alice is being fussy.

  I feel a little guilty because my parents have a house in the country that they use for weekends occasionally. It’s a lovely house, modern, all pale wood and stainless steel, with spectacular views. My father designed it and incorporated all the things he loves about houses: comfort and style; clean, straight lines; and most important, light and air. There is also a swimming pool and a tennis court, so there is always something to do, and it sits on five acres of land, tucked privately behind a dense screen of pine trees.

  My parents would be glad to let me use it—they often suggest that I take some friends there for the weekend—and I know they’d be thrilled to think of me enjoying myself there. But I don’t think I could endure it. I’ve been there only once since Rachel died—a few months after her death, when Mom and Dad and I were still in shock, still behaving like a group of aimless lost souls. And it was so painful being there without Rachel—her absence some kind of malign vacuum that sucked all the joy and beauty from the place—that I haven’t been back since.

  We used to drive to the country during vacations and stay for a week, or sometimes two. It was a good, quiet place for Rachel to practice. The grand piano was always the focal point of the living space, and when she was still alive, Mom and Dad and I used to sit on the deck, sip lemonade, and listen to Rachel play. Except for Rachel’s music, they were very quiet vacations—there was no television or radio, no outside source of entertainment—and so we spent the days walking and swimming, the evenings playing Scrabble or chess.

  It’s hard now to believe that I was often bored on those trips. It’s painful to remember that I sometimes resented being there: I missed my friends, my social life, whatever boy I had a crush on at the time, and was usually impatient to get back home. I wish now that I’d taken more notice, that I’d been more present. I wish now that I’d known how fragile it all was. If I’d understood how easily everything could be destroyed, I wouldn’t have taken it for granted.

  With hindsight I can see so clearly how lucky we were. With hindsight I’m ashamed of the fact that I had no idea.

  So, despite the obvious suitability of the country house, I don’t mention it. Instead, I suggest that we head to the beach.

  “But it’s too cold to swim. What’s the point?” Alice objects.

  “Don’t be such a wimp. The beach is great at this time of year. There’s no people but the water’s still warm.” Robbie smiles at me, then widens his eyes a fraction in fond amusement at Alice. “A most excellent idea, Katherine.”

  “Hey.” Alice stares at me and then at Robbie. “I saw that look you two just gave each other. Having private little exchanges, are you now? About me, even?” She is smiling, but there is an edge to her voice, a cold glint in her eye. “Just remember that this is all about me. You two don’t exactly have a thing going. You wouldn’t even know each other if it weren’t for me.”

  “Shut up, Alice.” Robbie rolls his eyes and lifts his empty cup. “I need some more coffee. Be a good host and go and get us some.”

  Alice puts her face right up close to Robbie’s, and for a moment I’m not sure what she’s going to do. She looks angry, and I wonder if she’s going to scream, or tell him to leave, and for a moment I even think she might bite him. Instead, she presses her lips hard against his and opens her mouth, forces her tongue between his lips. Just as suddenly she pulls away, stands up, and collects our empty mugs.

  “Another coffee? More tea, Katherine?” She smiles cheerfully.

  “Sounds perfect. Thanks.”

  Robbie watches her leave the room.

  “Was she serious?” I ask him.

  He turns to me with a startled look on his face, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Serious?” And then he nods. “Oh, yes. You mean everything being about her? Very serious. She’s a narcissist through and through. She really only cares about herself.”

  At the time I think Robbie is just exaggerating. He loves her, after all, so he couldn’t mean this too seriously. Alice is a little selfish, a little self-absorbed, I’ve certainly noticed that about her. But so what? She can also be amazingly generous and kind. She has a remarkable ability to listen and to make others feel special.

  “But you love her anyway?”

  “She’s like a drug. I can’t get enough.” He looks suddenly sad. “I know she’s bad for me, I know I won’t ever be happy with her, but I can’t help myself. No matter what she does to me, I just keep coming back for more.” He shrugs and looks away. “I’ve got an addiction. An Alice addiction.”

  “But what—?” I’m about to ask him what exactly she has done, why he thinks she is bad for him, when Alice comes back into the room carrying our steaming mugs.

  “Thanks.” Robbie reaches out for his, and Alice bends down to kiss him tenderly as he takes it from her grasp.

  “You’re an angel, Robbie. A star,” she says. Robbie rolls his eyes, but he is pleased by her display of affection, it’s obvious on his face.

  She hands me my mug. “And you, Miss Katherine. You’re a total legend.”

  I smile, sip my tea.

  Alice sits down, leans forward, her face aglow. “I was just thinking when I was in the kitchen. I was just thinking how cool it is that the three of us have found each other. I mean, I know it’s probably super-corny to say so, but we really do get along well together, don’t we? I mean, we just seem to fit together, like … oh, I don’t know … like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. We just totally get each other.” And she smiles, looks down, suddenly self-conscious. “I just wanted to say that. Just wanted to say that you two are really important to me. My best friends in the world.”

  There’s a brief moment of silence before Robbie claps his hand on his knee and snorts loudly. “Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle? Did I hear you right? Did you really say that?” He looks at me, and his face is transformed by delight, all signs of his earlier concern gone. “Did she really say that?”

  “She did.” I nod. “I think she did.”

  “Oh my God.” Alice covers her smile with her hand. “Okay, I did. But in my defense, I was brought up by a woman who ate Days of Our Lives for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I can’t help it if I’m a walking cliché. It’s petty and mean to laugh at me, Robbie, and you’re always scolding me for that. You hypocrite!”

  “Too bad!” Robbie shakes his head. “Katherine and I want to go to the beach, and you have no excuse for being so difficult. No excuse at all.”

  “Of course I do. I have every excuse in the world. Everything is difficult for me.” She puts her head down, speaks with mock shame. “You see, I have to overcome my upbringing, fight against all my natural inclinations.”

  “I knew it!” Robbie laughs. “You’re secretly a margarine-lover, aren’t you?”

  And the three of us laugh, clutch our stomachs, laugh some more.

  “To be honest”—Alice puts her head down, pretends to be embarrassed—“I love ironing creases in my jeans. I have to force myself not to. It’s hard, but I’m getting there. Overcoming it slowly.”

  And we laugh and make plans for our weekend away. I forget to wonder about what Robbie said about Alice, don’t think to ask him again later. So Alice has a few minor quirks. Don’t we all? I’m too happy to let that bother me. I’m having far too much fun to listen to the tiny little warning voice starting up in my head.

  9

  “And then what happened?” Carly leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Come on. You can’t stop there.”

  But Rachel was standing in the doorway. Her pajamas were rumpled and her face re
d and blotched. I could tell she’d been crying.

  “Rach?” I put my arm out. “What’s up?”

  “I had another bad dream.”

  “Oh. Come here. Come and sit with us.” I smiled at Carly in apology. I’d been telling her all about the night before, a night I’d spent with my boyfriend, Will. We’d kissed and touched each other, and almost ended up having sex. Carly had insisted on hearing every detail.

  Carly was my best friend. She was loud and straightforward and funny. When she’d first started at our school I took an instant dislike to her. I thought she was a show-off and that her jokes were stupid. She didn’t like me much, either, at first, and told me later that she’d thought I was, in her words, a snotty, stuck-up rich bitch.

  But Carly and I had become firm friends at camp, a torturous seven days of cold, damp, hunger, and discomfort that was meant to help us “find ourselves.” Carly and I were given the task of cooking together, and we forged an unexpected friendship while battling each night to make something edible from very limited ingredients and dealing with the constant, vocal complaints of the other campers. I was impressed by Carly’s ability to create a joke out of everything, and Carly later told me that she’d admired my fierce determination to make the best of what we had. We’d been inseparable since.

  Rachel sat down on the floor next to me, and I put my arm around her shoulders.