“I’m so beat.” Donna sighed. “And starved.” She sat down at the small table and began to eat. “I guess I’ll go to work with you in the morning, right?”
Sara stared at her. Was Donna so used to being catered to that she took it for granted? “Tomorrow is Saturday,” she said shortly. “Good night.”
“Thanks, Sara,” Donna said, her mouth full. “Saved my life, you know?”
Sara went upstairs, closing the basement door behind her.
The house was quiet, the rooms settled back into their comfortable serenity. Even bustling with the activities of the four of them (no, five, including Mack…and where was Mack?) the house was always a center of comfort and warmth, the furnishings and rugs familiar and well-worn, the paintings luminous with the patina of age. The house stood, firm and unchanging, even when everything else seemed in turmoil. Even when Donna’s wails had echoed through the rooms, the embrace of the house had not been shaken. Our sanctuary, Sara thought wryly, echoing the word her mother had used so often.
Upstairs, Abby’s door was closed. Sara knocked. “Sure,” Abby said, and Sara found her sitting in her new rocking chair, watching a DVD of Victor/Victoria. “See, it’s just like this movie,” Abby said as Sara sat in the armchair. “You can always tell when someone’s pretending.”
“Are you worried that I’ll pay so much attention to Donna I won’t have time for the three of you?” Sara asked.
Abby flipped off the film. “You mean, am I jealous? Good heavens, Sara, what a stupid thing to say. Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. I’m really sorry.”
“If it’s not jealousy, what is it?”
“She’s lying. I hate people who lie. I mean, if you can’t count on people telling the truth, what good is anything?”
“You don’t know that she’s lying; it didn’t sound like it to me.”
“You’re so trusting, Sara. You always believe the best of people. Even when you don’t like them, you never believe they’re bad.”
“Not true,” Sara said, thinking of Lew Corcoran, and, in fact, a small subset of her clients who fit the same arrogant, crude profile. “Tell me why you think Donna is lying.”
“For one thing, she cries too much.”
“Oh, Abby.”
“Well, okay, I cried a lot when Sean …when I stopped seeing Sean. But I was brokenhearted. She was trying to impress you, to make you feel sorry for her. And then she tried to cover up things that didn’t make sense to you. Like, she said something about leaving him, and you thought there was something wrong with that. And when she said the thing about the knife, and him being in the apartment…well, all that stuff.”
Sara marveled at Abby, who most often seemed fifteen-years-old-self-absorbed, but could be as observant as Carrie hoped to be. And, maybe, more clear-eyed than Sara.
“I’ll find out tomorrow,” she said to Abby. “You could be right; I just don’t know.” She kissed Abby on both cheeks. “You’re wonderful, Abby, and I appreciate your thoughts, even when they move too fast for the rest of us. Good night, sweetheart.”
“Night,” Abby said absently. “Oh, don’t forget I’m sleeping over at Laurie’s tomorrow night. Eight of us, it’s her pre-sixteenth-birthday party. She says sixteen is so important you have to have lots of parties, before and after. Can I do that?”
“Sure. Tell me how many parties you want, and where and when, and we’ll work it out.”
“Really? You’ll make time for it?” She jumped up and hugged Sara. “Thank you, thank you, I’ve already got so many ideas…” There was a brief pause. “Can I drive to Laurie’s?”
“Abby, you know you can’t drive alone; you don’t have a license. When you’re sixteen—”
“Well, could you go with me, and let me drive? You’ve done that a few times. How else can I practice?”
Sara nodded. “You’re right. What time do you want to be there?”
“Four or four-thirty? She’s rented a bunch of movies, and we’ll send out for pizza.”
Again, Sara nodded, but her thoughts had already moved ahead. All three accounted for, happy with their friends. A whole night for Reuben and me.
Abby, wildly emotional, kissed her again and again. “You are so good. I love you, I love you. You never make me wonder if you really like me or hate me, or if you’re making fun of me, or if you think I’m just a baby or something. I love you, Sara.”
“Who does that to you?” Sara asked quickly.
“Oh…” Abby shrugged. “I was just thinking, it’s nice that you don’t.”
None of them will say anything against Mack.
And Sara could not force them. All she could do—she had to keep reminding herself—was be available when they needed to talk.
Which meant she had to be around a lot of the time.
How do I do that, and work, and see Reuben as much as I want?
The trouble was, she had to work eight or nine hours a day; there seemed to be no limit to the amount of time she wanted to be with Reuben, or that he wanted to be with her; and the various needs of Doug and Carrie and Abby took up chunks of time and energy that could crop up any time of day or night. There aren’t enough hours in the day. Not enough in the night. I have to figure out—
But no one really figured it out, she thought. We just keep juggling all the things we want and need to do. How frustrating.
She stopped thinking about it. Instead she retreated to the privacy of her bedroom and called Reuben. They talked until midnight. Later, Sara reflected that each of their conversations seemed to flow from the one before, as if they never really stopped talking, but only took breaks to manage the other parts of their lives and get back to each other as quickly as possible. So she did not always remember which subjects came up in which conversations (though she always remembered that Reuben never failed to say, “I miss you,” and she never failed to say, “I’ve been saving this up to tell you…”). But from the conversation this tumultuous evening, one of Reuben’s observations nagged at her. “I’d put some trust in Abby’s feelings about Donna. You’re so focused on what people need, and how you might provide it, you can’t let yourself step back and have doubts. Donna may be absolutely honest, but from what you’ve told me, I’d pay attention to Abby. She’s a pretty sharp young lady.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Sara, and did, through a restless night.
“Hi,” Donna said, coming upstairs to the kitchen the next morning. “Great bed; I slept like a baby; I feel a million times better. God, it’s a good thing you were here last night; I might have killed myself if you weren’t. You know what, I should stop at the apartment and get some clothes and stuff. I won’t look like much of a secretary if I keep wearing the same things every day.”
“We’ll find you a place to live,” Sara said evenly. “We’ll start today.”
“But this is fine! I mean, I’m not in your way, am I? I’m really as quiet as a mouse, and I don’t eat much, and we can drive to work together and everything. Not forever, Sara, but maybe a few weeks? Until I figure things out? I really like it here; you make me feel like I’m welcome, and until now”—tears filled her eyes and she reached out a hand to Sara—“nobody’s ever made me feel at home. You’re so—”
“Your mother didn’t make you feel at home?”
“Oh, sure, of course she did! I meant, since then. Nobody’s been like you, Sara, you’ve been understanding and generous…you’re so good.”
Just like Mack, Sara thought abruptly. Sudden charm, smooth words, an appeal for the things she could not resist giving when they were asked for: attention, comfort, support, warmth. Except with Pussy. The thought cut into her, as it did every time she relived her failure. And she could not take a chance on something like that happening again.
That’s irrational. Donna wouldn’t kill herself.
But she just said she might have, if I hadn’t been here.
And did I ever think Pussy would?
“You can stay f
or a while,” she said at last. “But you need your own place where you can get settled and stay put. Not those short-term places you’ve lived in, or a borrowed bed in our recreation room; you need your own home.” She waited until Donna nodded. “And we’re going to the police about your father; you can’t be harassed like this, and threatened; you need protection.”
“No! You can’t! Don’t do that, Sara! Stay out of it!”
“Out of it? You brought me into it. You asked for my help; I’m trying to give it to you. What’s wrong with you? Do you want to keep running from him for the rest of your life?”
“It’s… it’s my mother. You can’t go to the police; it would kill her. Or”—her voice grew wild again—“he’ll kill her. It would be like I killed her. Or you killed her! Something really awful—”
“Stop it! What are you talking about? Your father has raped you, he’s harassing you, he threatened you with a knife. Why should you be afraid of him any longer? I know what I’m doing, Donna. We’ll talk to a lawyer on Monday, and figure out how to protect your mother, and we’ll go to the police. It’s about time you took control of your life.”
Donna’s lips tightened, and Sara thought, She doesn’t like being told what to do. Well, how many people would? She wants sympathy and refuge where her father can’t find her; she’s found them and that’s enough for now. She thinks she already is in control of her life. Even if she lives from moment to moment, she feels in charge. Why would she be happy about my telling her what to do?
“Can I go back and get some clothes?” Donna asked sullenly.
Sara sighed. “You don’t need my permission to go anywhere. This isn’t a jail. You should have some breakfast before you go.”
“I never eat breakfast. I need a key to the house, though.”
Sara bristled. “We don’t lock the door during the day. You can come and go.”
“But at night.”
“Will you be going out?”
“Well, sure. I have friends.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
There was a pause. “Okay. Bye. See you later.”
Maybe it’s because this isn’t the office, Sara thought, watching Donna leave. If she were like this at work, I wouldn’t keep her around for five minutes. And I won’t keep her in my house very long, either.
“Sara, I wrote a story.” Carrie thrust a sheaf of papers at her. “I did it last night. Would you read it?”
“How about some breakfast?”
“Sure, but will you read it now?”
“If you’ll get breakfast for you and Doug. Abby will get her own whenever she gets up.”
Carrie sprinkled raspberries over two bowls of cereal, poured milk into one, and sat opposite Sara, watching intently as she read.
Sara was the fastest reader in the family; everyone knew it. But this time she was slow. She had started out in her usual rapid way, but soon was pausing, turning back one or more of the four pages, rereading paragraphs or whole sections, studying sentences.
“What’s wrong?” Carrie cried.
Sara looked up. “It’s very different.”
The story was set, like many Carrie wrote, in a house identical to theirs. But its tone was unlike anything she had ever written. Titled “Aurelia Rose,” this story began late at night, in winter, when the trees were bare, the small, front garden empty of flowers, the raked soil barely covered with a thin layer of snow. The house was dark, but in the living room someone was moving about with a flashlight. In the next paragraphs, a thirteen-year-old girl named Aurelia Rose is awakened by a sound of shuffling. When she tiptoes down the stairs, she sees the robber. He is as handsome as a prince, and wears a dark cloak that swirls romantically as he whirls from room to room, lifting paintings from walls and rare vases from shelves, and stowing them in a large black bag. When the bag is full, he scoops up Aurelia Rose’s small dog, named Monte Cristo, who has been sniffing his pants leg.
“How did the robber get in?” Sara asked.
“Picked the lock on the front door. I guess I should say that somewhere.”
“Why didn’t Monte Cristo bark?”
“Oh. Well…the robber sprinkled his pants with something dogs like. Meat juice, or… gravy or… dog-biscuit crumbs. Something like that. I’ll have to put that in, too.”
Sara nodded, and turned back to the story.
The robber was turning to leave when he saw Aurelia Rose at the foot of the stairs, every muscle in her terror-stricken body frozen. Cursing, his handsome face pinched by a deep frown, the robber dropped Monte Cristo and whipped a huge, black, vicious-looking gun from his pocket.
“Don’t shoot!” exclaimed Aurelia Rose, desperately trying to keep her voice low to protect her innocently sleeping family. She knew if they heard her, they would leap from their beds in alarm, and startle the handsome robber, thus dangerously menacing all of their precarious lives. Aurelia Rose had always wanted to be a heroine, and even though she was frightened out of her wits, she knew this was the time. She knew she was smarter than the robber, too, because why would he be a robber if he was smart enough to do something like be a doctor or a writer or a welcomer for the city? “Please,” Aurelia Rose said very seriously, “I won’t tell on you if you just leave and don’t rob us of our beloved Monte Cristo. You can keep the paintings and vases and things …they’ll make you obscenely rich! But leave us our darling Monte Cristo.”
His hard heart was unmoved by the plea in her beautiful blue eyes. He held the gun firmly pointed at her heart. “You’re just a kid. Kids can’t be trusted. You’ll tell on me the minute I’m out the door.”
“I’m not a kid; I’m a teenager. And you have my word of honor.”
The robber thought for a long time, flipping the gun from hand to hand in the careless way professional criminals do with their weapons, sending terror into the hearts of the helpless victims standing before them. “No,” he said at last. “You are very beautiful, but I have a stone heart beneath this handsome face, and I cannot take the chance of your turning me in.”
He held the gun steady and shot Aurelia Rose through the heart. Then he ruthlessly grabbed Monte Cristo and picked up the heavy bag. As he heard cries of fear emanating from the bedrooms upstairs, he calmly walked out the front door and disappeared forever.
The end.
Sara kept her eyes on the last page for a long time.
“Well?” Carrie demanded.
“It’s …very different,” Sara said.
“What’s wrong with that? Writers are always writing different things, aren’t they?”
Sara looked up. “Why did she have to die?”
“Because… I don’t know why! That’s just the story! I mean, he was bad, and he really didn’t like kids, you know, even though sometimes he pretended to, and he …he was just a mean person!”
“Why did you choose him to write about?”
Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “You don’t like it.”
“Wait a minute, sweetheart, I was just asking why you chose to write about this man.”
“Because… because I did. Because I’m a writer. Writers write about everything. They can’t always write nice stories that are happy.”
“Why not?”
“Because that isn’t the way things are. You know that! You get mad at people, and you come home really frustrated with work, and Abby is all gloomy about Sean, and Mack gets really…I mean other things happen, like that Pussy person who killed herself—”
“What?”
“Mack said she shot herself to death. And bad things happen, and everybody knows it, so I have to write about those things if I’m going to be a great writer.”
“Why were you and Mack talking about Pussy Corcoran?”
“He asked God to let her into heaven even though she was idiotic and committed suicide. We were praying, you know, before dinner.”
There was a silence. “Carrie,” Sara said at last. “Do you think… Would you say you’re a happy person?�
��
Carrie shrugged. “Sure.”
“No, think about it. Tell me, really. You usually write happy stories that are like you …all bubbly, full of excitement about being alive, and discovering new things about the world, and having friends, and loving your family. This story doesn’t sound like any of that. Do you know where the idea came from?”
Carrie shook her head. “They don’t come from anywhere. They’re just…inside me. I mean, it sounds funny, but I think about writing like…you know, you think about making dinner? I mean, you all of a sudden know what you’ll cook so you go and cook it. And I just all of a sudden have a story, you know, it just kind of appears. So I write it.” She paused and Sara waited. “And sometimes they’re happy stories, when I’m feeling happy, but sometimes I’m feeling, you know, sort of mad or worried or… oh, just confused, and then the stories are dark like that, but I don’t try to do it that way. You know?”
Sara kissed the top of Carrie’s head. “That’s exactly what writers say when they talk about their work.”
“Real writers? Who write books?”
“Real writers. But you’re a real writer, too. You haven’t been published, yet, and you may not be for a long time, but just from the way you talk about writing, and the way you feel it inside you, I can tell you’re a real writer, a serious one, and someday you’ll be a great one.”
Carrie’s face was shining. “Really? Great? Well, then …couldn’t I start now? I mean, you know, Mack said he’d get my stories published in a magazine, and he got Doug a gallery, so he could get me published, and then you’d be really proud of me, and I’d know I’m a real writer.”
“You mean you won’t believe me until Mack confirms it?” The bitter words were out of Sara’s mouth before she could stop them.
She saw confusion dim the brightness on Carrie’s face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said quickly, and kissed her again. “Silly thing for me to say. But, you know, I really doubt that Mack will find a publisher for your work. Your writing is very good for someone your age—” Carrie stiffened and her face closed. “Carrie, you may not like it that you’re thirteen years old, but you are, and you’ve just begun to scratch the surface of what the world is all about, and why people behave the way they do. Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a writer once?”
The Real Mother Page 24
