“Yeah.”
“It’s an inanimate object. You can’t love a thing, a stupid chunk of metal.”
“Well, I do. It makes me sad to sell it. I’ll miss having it.”
I toss the paper aside and stand up, putting my hands on my hips. “You’ll miss having it?” I repeat, on the verge of tears now. I know I’m being irrational, overreacting, but I can’t help myself. “It makes you sad to sell it?” I point furiously at my still-flat belly. “What about me? What about all the sacrifices I’m going to have to make? What about all the things I’m going to be sad about?”
But he doesn’t rise to the bait, he doesn’t fight with me. Instead, he reaches out his hand. “Come back to bed.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“I hate the bike,” he tells me. “It’s ugly and it’s red and I hate red. You’re much prettier. And you smell better.”
I try to remain angry, to keep a serious expression on my face, but can’t stop myself from laughing. “You’re an idiot,” I grumble, and I climb back into bed, beneath the covers, and snuggle close to him. “I like the bike, too. I don’t know why I’m being a bitch. I’ll be sad when it’s gone, too.”
“I know.”
“But if Mom and Dad knew about it—”
“I know. Don’t worry. I like you more than the bike. A tiny bit, anyway.”
“But you’re going to have to meet them. Soon.”
“Yep. And you’re going to have to meet my parents, too. It’ll all be official.”
“I know.” I sigh, bury my face against his chest. “Doesn’t it make you nervous? That they’ll think we’re insane? Having a baby? Looking for an apartment together? Moving in together so soon?”
“I’m sure they’ll think we’re totally crazy. At first, anyway. We’ll just have to prove them wrong. And when my parents get to know you, they’ll love you.”
“And mine will love you,” I say.
But I wish I could feel as certain as I sound. I don’t really think Mom and Dad are going to be happy about the situation. I can imagine their faces when I tell them—my mother’s quiet disapproval, my father’s shock. They won’t say much, or show any anger, they would never shout at me or yell, but I’m sure they’ll consider it a tragedy, some kind of disaster, and the pained looks on their faces will be a million times harder to bear than any display of anger. I’d rather listen to them scream and shout.
Not only am I worried about their reaction to the pregnancy, but I also feel a renewed sense of guilt about Rachel. My life is unfolding, continuing, taking shape in new and unexpected ways. As my psychiatrist would have said—approvingly—I’m moving on. Rachel’s death no longer defines me. I can see now that it’s inevitable that the longer I live, the more that happens to me, the less significant her life and death will be. I will no longer miss her every moment of every day. There will be hours—days, even—when I won’t think of her. It feels, somehow, like a betrayal, just another example of me running away and leaving her behind.
And this is something that must hurt my parents as well. Each time something big happens in my life, from entering college to falling in love to getting pregnant, it will only serve as a cruel reminder of all that Rachel will never have, never do.
I close my eyes and try not to think—about Rachel or about my parents. I snuggle close to Mick, breathe in the now-familiar scent of his skin. And though I’ve been awake for only an hour I’m tired, and I let myself fall back into a sweet, oblivious sleep.
32
“It’s pretty nice,” I say, looking around the sun-drenched living room once again. “A little small, but it’s so sunny. Mick will like it, don’t you think?”
The apartment is small but bright. The floor gleams; the walls are whitewashed. There is one tiny bedroom with an even tinier room connected to it, advertised as a home office, which would be perfect for a baby. There is a living room with the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen tucked against one wall. It’s really little more than a sink and an oven and a cupboard. But the whole place is clean and cheerful. Philippa stands beside me, puts her arm around my shoulders.
“He’ll love it,” she assures me. “Because you’ll be here with him.”
“Do you think it’s too tiny?”
“It’s cozy.”
“We’ll all fit, won’t we? Mick and the baby and me?”
“Of course you will. How much room could a baby need?”
“Should I put an application in?”
“Definitely. And ask if you can come back and look again tomorrow. With Mick. I’m sure he’ll love it, though, don’t worry.” She strolls around the small room, smiling. “I can just see you here. Your little family. It’s going to be perfect. Just like a fairy tale. You’re going to live happily ever after. A princess in her castle.”
“A very teeny-tiny castle. A shoebox castle.” I flinch at the word princess, remembering Grant’s nasty “She can’t hear you, Princess.” But I shove my fear away. I like Philippa’s picture of my future. I like it that she is optimistic and believes that we can be happy.
I fill in the application forms and give them to the rental agent, and then Philippa and I walk down the stairs and onto the street.
“Let’s get some lunch,” she says. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry. It’s just that a lot of the things I usually love make me feel like throwing up.”
And it is while Philippa and I are discussing what might appeal for lunch that I see Alice.
She’s on the other side of the road, but I can’t hide, or try to slip unnoticed into the nearest shop, because she’s already seen us. She’s standing still, staring, an odd smile on her face. My heart begins to pound. This is no coincidence. She is following me.
“What? What is it?” Philippa turns to see what I’m looking at. “Oh, shit.”
Alice waves. “Katherine! Wait! Hold on a minute.” And before we have the chance to get away, she is crossing the road, walking quickly toward us.
“How are you? How did your little test go? Get the result you were expecting?” She’s talking only to me, avoids looking at Philippa.
And I know I should move, just walk away, but I stand there, as though paralyzed.
“I bet Helen’s thrilled at becoming a grandmother.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Oh, but you probably haven’t even told her yet, have you? Huh? You like your dirty little secrets, don’t you, Katherine? Miss Goody Two-shoes?” she says. “Oh, and by the way, I’m great, thanks, just fantastic, thanks for asking.” She smiles—a hasty, unnatural stretching of the lips—then just as suddenly frowns. “Although I have to admit I’m a little disappointed, too, you know, upset with someone I thought of as a friend.”
“We’re in a hurry, Alice,” Philippa says. “We’ve got to get going.”
Alice ignores her. “Although I shouldn’t really be surprised at all. Knowing what I do, you know? A leopard doesn’t change its spots. A coward is a coward is a coward. Wouldn’t you agree, Katherine?” And she laughs spitefully, tipping her head back. Abruptly she stops, stares at me. “But you’re more than just a coward, aren’t you, Katherine? You ran away and left your sister to get murdered. And, come to think of it, she probably got murdered because you ran away. Have you ever considered that? Those boys were probably just going to rape you. Both of you. They probably freaked out when they found out that you were gone. Freaked out and killed poor little Rachel. So you’re more than just a coward, Katherine, aren’t you? You’re more like an accomplice or something. I mean, it’s kind of your fault that your sister died, isn’t it? You saved your own skin, though. At Rachel’s expense. You saved your own precious skin—”
“Shut up, Alice,” Philippa interrupts, her voice low and cold and furious. She grips my arm and pulls me closer. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid dumb cunt, or I’ll hit you so hard you won’t wake up for a week.”
I’m so surprised by Philippa’s word
s, her unexpected fury, that I can only stand there, mouth open, and watch.
“Oh. Right.” Alice looks Philippa up and down, sneers. But the haughty confidence has gone, and there’s a new edge of uncertainty in her voice. “So. That’s the kind of person you like to hang around with now, Katherine? Trash? Well, that makes sense. Like attracts like, after all.”
Philippa puts her arm around my shoulders and guides me so that we turn away from Alice. We start walking quickly in the other direction.
“Good-bye, ladies,” Alice calls out from behind us, her voice falsely gracious. “It was just lovely bumping into you. See you very soon, I hope.”
“I can’t believe you said that,” I say. I’m trembling. And I shake my head, both with horror at the encounter with Alice and a kind of surprised glee at Philippa’s unexpected bravery.
“I know. I couldn’t help it, she made me so mad.” She sighs. “My mother would be ashamed.”
“I thought it was wonderful. It was like Queen Elizabeth suddenly threatening to punch someone. It was great.”
Philippa turns to look behind her. “We can slow down. She’s going the other way. She’s so awful, Katherine. She’s totally psycho. It’s scary.”
“I know. Do you think she’s following me? I keep seeing her when I least expect it. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. I guess she can’t stand that you don’t want to be her friend anymore. She can’t accept it. She’s hurt, probably, or her massive ego is damaged.” Philippa turns to face me. “But you don’t take it to heart, do you? What she says? All that vicious stuff about your sister? You know that what she says is just crap.”
“It’s hard to ignore,” I say. I look down at the pavement, speak quietly. “Because she’s right. I did leave Rachel. I did run away. That was something that the defense even pointed out in court. They said that the boys had never intended to kill anyone. That it just happened because they freaked out. They panicked when I disappeared.”
“So what? Of course they would say that! They weren’t going to admit that the boys planned to kill Rachel all along. That was just their only chance at a defense. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”
I turn to look behind me and watch Alice striding off in the opposite direction. “But how come she knows to say that? How come she always comes up with the most hurtful thing to say? How can someone so self-obsessed have such good insight?”
“Because she’s so totally rotten inside. She’s an expert bitch. She’s got her finger right on the pulse of what is most ugly in the world. And anyway, she’s probably been looking you up on the Internet or something. Doing her research. Finding the best way to hurt you. It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that she could be right. I did run away.” I stare at her hard. “I ran away, Philippa.”
“Of course you did.” She stares back. “What else could you have done?”
“I could have looked after her better. I could have made sure she didn’t get so drunk that she couldn’t walk. I could have damn well made sure she went home instead of going to that party.”
“You could have. But you didn’t. And—”
“Exactly. I didn’t,” I interrupt. “But I should have. I should’ve done a lot of things. And you know what? There’s more. Something I’ve never admitted to anyone.”
“What?”
“I was pissed off with Rachel that night. I was so mad that she came to that party. I didn’t want her there. I was furious. They were my friends and she didn’t even like parties.” And I surprise myself by bursting into noisy tears. “She shouldn’t have been there!”
Philippa takes my arm and leads me across the road to a small park where we sit, side by side, on a bench. I hide my face in my hands and cry. Philippa stays beside me, puts her arm around my shoulders, and waits.
“Sorry,” I say, when I’ve calmed down enough to speak. “I just keep on crying lately. It’s pathetic.”
“Don’t say that. It’s not pathetic to cry.”
“No. I guess not,” I say. “It’s just that this never goes away. All this stuff with Rachel. Am I supposed to feel bad forever? My whole life? Is that my punishment just for being alive?”
“Of course not.” She shakes her head. “But what do you feel bad about? Maybe you should tell me. Explain it to me. I mean, I know generally, of course, obviously, but maybe you should try and be specific. Maybe you should try and put it into words, get it off your chest or something.”
And despite my serious doubts about the value of talking, I have a sudden urge to spit it all out, to confess my darkest thoughts. “I was so angry with Rachel for coming to that party,” I say. “She hated parties, she never wanted to go before. Normally, you couldn’t have paid her to go to a party. But it was like she was changing. Bit by bit. Getting more sociable. Opening up. And I didn’t like it. She was supposed to be the shy one. The good daughter. The genius. I was the party girl, not her. I was the popular one … I felt like she was going to take that away from me. She was just so talented, so perfect. If she started being sociable, she would have … I don’t know, she would have had everything. Everyone would have loved her even more. I would have been invisible.” My voice is small, full of shame. “I hated her for that.”
Philippa is quiet for a minute, thoughtful, and I wonder if my confession has disgusted her.
“When Mick was little,” she says eventually, “he was absolutely and totally hopeless at school. He was behind in everything. Reading. Math. Everything. He had to have tutors and stuff just to avoid being held back. I was the brainy one and I used to pretend to feel sorry for him. But secretly I loved it. I loved being so much smarter than him because he was better at everything else. He was good at sports and he was funny and good-looking and he had so many friends. And I was, like, this total nerd, with disgusting ugly red hair and freckles, which he totally missed out on, which is totally not fair, but hey.” She looks down at my belly. “He’s totally got the genes, so you better watch out for your kid. Anyway, to get back to my point, when Mick got to high school he suddenly started to change. He got all serious about schoolwork and started studying and stuff. And then he zoomed straight up to the top of his class, came first in just about everything.” She shakes her head. “I was so pissed off. So ridiculously jealous … and I wasn’t even in school anymore. I couldn’t stand it. Although I’ve got to say”—and now she smiles—“he never made class president like I did.”
I laugh.
“The thing is, though,” she continues, “that now I’m really happy that he’s smart. I’d hate it if he didn’t like books and reading and thinking about stuff. It would suck if he was a moron. We would have nothing in common. It would be a tragedy.”
“A terrible tragedy,” I agree.
“See? I’ve made everything better with my pointless ramblings, haven’t I? You’ll probably never cry again.” Philippa squeezes me closer, speaks more seriously. “So you weren’t the perfect sister. So what? You didn’t kill anyone. What happened wasn’t your fault. And you did exactly what anyone with half a brain would have done in your situation. Listen, how do you think your Mom and Dad would feel if you’d both been killed? Both their daughters dead? Would that have been better? Because that’s what would’ve happened if you hadn’t run away, if you’d tried to fight. You would only have made things worse.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. We’ll never know, will we? But I’m the one who took her to the party. And maybe if I’d just stayed where I was, in that shed, they would have raped Rachel and left. Maybe if I hadn’t run away, they wouldn’t have killed her. Maybe she’d still be alive.”
“But if you want to think like that, if you want to blame yourself for running away or for taking Rachel to the party, then what about your parents? They’d have to blame themselves for not being home that night. They’d have to blame themselves for leaving you in charge in the first place. And what about that b
oy, your boyfriend, the one who let you get in the car? He’d have to blame himself, too. The blame could just spread around to everyone … like a poison. And, yeah, maybe everyone who was involved does feel some regret, wonder if things would be different if only they’d done this, or that. But a bad decision doesn’t make you a murderer. You were a sixteen-year-old girl and you went to a party. You broke a rule. So what? You didn’t do anything that every other sixteen-year-old in the world hasn’t done. You couldn’t possibly have known what was going to happen. You have to stop thinking like that. It’s crazy. The only people who are responsible for killing Rachel are those boys. You were a victim, Katherine. You and Rachel, and your parents, you were all victims. You were put into a terrifying, unexpected situation and you did the best thing you could think of at the time.”
I nod and try to smile and let Philippa think that she has made me feel better, that she’s said something I haven’t heard before. The trouble with words is that no matter how much sense they make in theory, they can’t change what you feel inside. And what I’m starting to understand is that there is no real end to this, there can be no complete absolution. Rachel’s death and my own part in it are something I’m going to have to live with. The best I can hope for is to learn to forgive myself for being a less-than-perfect sister.
33
When I get home later that afternoon, Mick is already there, waiting for me. He swings the door open almost before I get the chance to knock and puts his arms around me as soon as I step inside. “We just got a phone call.” He laughs. “We got the apartment. We can move in next week.”
He takes my hand and tugs me to the kitchen, pulls out a stool, and hands me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He’s been preparing dinner. Sliced vegetables are piled together on a plate—mushroom, beans, carrots—and the tiny kitchen, which is normally in a state of messy chaos, is clean.
“I thought we’d celebrate with something healthy. A stir-fry.”
“Sounds great.”
Beautiful Malice: A Novel Page 19
