“You gave Ryder that picture. You came into my room, searched my things, and found it. Someday, when he is well again, he’ll tell, and then what will you say?”
As if she had been worried about that exact thing and had been working on a defense for weeks, she smiled and said, “I didn’t do it, but if my father believes you, I’ll just say Ryder’s only protecting you because you made him promise he would. Then he’ll believe me instead.”
Bea Davenport never left this house, I thought. All her cruel, self-centered, and arrogant ways simply shifted from her to her daughter. It was like a disease passed down genetically.
I’d probably start locking my door at night.
I said nothing else. Extracting any remorse out of Samantha was like trying to squeeze juice out of a peach pit. I continued down the stairs, and when I was close to the bottom, she started to descend, accompanied by the deepest, darkest shadows of Wyndemere.
They had found a real friend.
9
DR. DAVENPORT DIDN’T return in time for dinner. He didn’t call to say he was having dinner with Dr. Seymour until we were almost finished. I was twisted with contradictory emotions, relieved that I wouldn’t have to face him so soon but unhappy that I would learn nothing new about Ryder. In fact, I realized that he might never trust me again with any information concerning Ryder. I had little appetite, but I ate because my mother was watching me and Mrs. Marlene was coming in and out to be sure we were all enjoying her food.
Samantha certainly was. She behaved as if nothing terrible had occurred. She was ravenous, looking forward to dessert, Mrs. Marlene’s homemade pecan pie. This was how I remembered her mother. If something unpleasant had happened, especially something caused by her, she would ignore it. It was as if she thought she could erase anything terrible she had done with a simple wave of her hand. It didn’t exist; it never existed. The world would be shaped the way she saw it, or it wouldn’t be shaped at all.
Maybe she never had an iota of conscience, only a stack of disappointments to be tossed into a garbage bin. When I looked at Samantha now, I saw the spitting image of Bea and then thought that was why Bea had given her up so easily. She didn’t want to be attached to anyone as selfish as she was. There wasn’t enough room in her world for two of her.
As soon as she had finished eating, Samantha practically flew out of her seat and the dining room. Besides avoiding helping clear the table, she was eager to get up to her room and her phone to call her friends and suck up as much sympathy as she could.
“You can go up to do whatever you have left for school, Fern,” my mother said.
She sounded so tired and defeated. There was never any doubt in my mind that she felt as close to Ryder as his natural mother would. The effect the surrogacy had on her went deep into her very soul. What had happened to him today tore her apart inside, and what she saw as my small betrayals only compounded her grief.
“I’m sorry, Mummy. I really didn’t mean to keep secrets.”
She nodded. “We’ll get through it all,” she said.
She was digging way down in her store of hope and optimism to come up with some cheerful words. When I thought about what I knew about her life, her struggles, I realized this little woman had more grit in her than ten men. If I could be only half as strong, I’d be fine, I thought.
I didn’t have much left to do for school. Organizing and looking forward to returning didn’t excite me or depress me. I was strangely indifferent to the future. I finished up what I had, but before I prepared for bed, my phone rang. It was Dillon.
“Hey,” he said. “Ivy told me about your troubles at home. I’m sorry.”
“It was horrible,” I said. I really still knew little about Dillon, but having someone to whom I could pour out my sorrow was quite welcomed.
“Can you talk about it? Sometimes that helps, not that I’m any sort of expert on other people’s problems. I’m certainly no expert on my own, and I’ve got enough for two of me, maybe three.”
Whether he knew the right things to say or not, he did. I actually smiled at his confession. Someone else who didn’t know him would think little of it.
“I don’t know any of the medical, technical terms. My mother called it a tantrum. He destroyed much in his room, went wild. He had to be taken back to the clinic.”
Dillon was silent a moment. Then he said, “You have no idea why?”
“No.”
“People who get very angry or frustrated often are self-destructive,” he said. “At times, I’ve thrown something against the wall and then regretted it. I did that once with my cell phone. Maybe because I didn’t use it much,” he added. “My parents wanted me to have one for emergencies. I felt like some elderly person being given one of those devices to press if they fall down or something.”
I laughed through my tears.
“He must be all twisted up and frustrated,” he added. “They’ll work him out of it.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe we could have lunch together in school. Won’t be as good as what we had at the restaurant, but . . .”
“Sure,” I said.
“Call me anytime you want. That way, I won’t throw my phone against the wall again.” He gave me his cell-phone number.
After we ended the conversation, I fell into that emotional dilemma again. I enjoyed talking to Dillon, enjoyed being with him earlier, but then there was that guilt accompanying my feelings. With every smile, every laugh, everything that drew me closer to him, I felt myself drifting away from Ryder, deserting him just when he needed me the most. But how could I help him now? What could I do? And from my father’s perspective, I was literally dangerous. At least, that was the way he had caused me to feel.
In my wild imaginings, my father was growling like an attack dog, just waiting for me to ask something, say something, anything that proved my feelings for Ryder were as romantic as ever. Right now, he was convinced that when I should have been discouraging any resurgence of those sorts of feelings in him for me, I was doing the exact opposite. Why couldn’t he see it? Most of the time, especially when he was present, I acted as if I didn’t care about Ryder’s memory issues. The least my father should have seen and believed was that it wasn’t on my mind continually. Ironically, the one thing that might seal that for him was my developing a relationship with Dillon.
Now I wondered if that was more my motivation than anything. What if Dillon realized it, somehow understood what had occurred between Ryder and me just before the boat accident in the storm? What if one day, he looked at me and said, You’re only with me to avoid being with your brother? How would I respond? Would he believe me, believe anything I said? Even knowing him for so short a time, I was confident such a suspicion would drive him away forever.
But could that accusation be true? If I kissed him, would I be kissing him to service the memory of a kiss between Ryder and myself? Would he sense that and say, You seem so distant, even when we kiss, Fern? That was what other boys accused me of being, indifferent and distant, wasn’t it?
Maybe I needed a therapist as much as Ryder did. Why didn’t my father and my mother realize that learning that the boy I had developed a crush on was my half brother would have a traumatic effect on me, so traumatic that it could change my life? I didn’t think I was overstating it. I did feel like it had changed my life.
Before I turned off my lights and got into bed, I heard voices and then footsteps on the stairs. I had left my door slightly open just for that purpose. I went to it and peered out. My father had come up. I watched him pause outside Ryder’s bedroom door. Then he opened it and stood there contemplating the mess. I wanted to run to him, to embrace him, to comfort him and reassure him that I had nothing to do with this, but I couldn’t move. My mother appeared, and he quickly closed the door.
“I’ll see to it tomorrow,” she said, nodding at Ryder’s room.
“No,” he said. “Don’t touch it.”
“Are you sure?”
“But what if he’s released in the near future, Harrison?” she asked. It was so rare to hear her refer to him by his given name.
I held my breath. They were close and looking at each other in a way I had never seen.
“He won’t be back in the near future,” he said.
She shook her head and whispered something I could not hear. Even a man as controlled and professional as my father, the cardiac specialist who had to keep his emotions firmly in hand, could not keep them chained forever to some deep, dark place inside himself. He made one small gesture, one step toward her, but that was enough. She embraced him. He raised his arms, held them frozen like that for a moment, and then embraced her.
Without any further words between them, they parted and went to their respective bedrooms. When they closed their doors, I closed mine.
How could one house, even one as large as Wyndemere, contain so much sorrow? Maybe it should be burned to the ground in a fire like a funeral pyre so that every dark shadow would be cremated and go up in smoke, to be washed away in the winds coming in over the lake.
Maybe then and only then would we all be free.
He won’t be back in the near future?
What did that mean? How long would he remain at the clinic? I went to sleep thinking of little else. In the morning at breakfast, all my mother would tell me was that Ryder was in treatment. Dr. Davenport had left very early. Samantha was her usual energetic self, babbling about her friends whose descriptions of their Christmas gifts fell far short of hers. She would parade her new purse, wear her new shoes, exhibit her new cell phone, and flash her new watch.
“I’ll have to move through a sea of jealousy,” she announced without a hint of humility or gratitude.
“Yes, like Moses,” I said. “You’ll part the sea, and then your friends following you will all be drowned.”
Mrs. Marlene practically bellowed. My mother smiled. Samantha looked shocked and even a little frightened, even though she didn’t understand or maybe because she didn’t understand.
“She’s not funny!” she cried. “I wish my mother would come back. Then you’d all see.”
No one responded. My mother gave me a warning look. I finished my breakfast in silence. What had become of my new family? I thought. My half brother was in therapy, my father was so disappointed in me that he might not speak to me much ever again, and my half sister was as distasteful as any spoiled teenager possibly could be and especially resentful of me.
I looked toward the rear of the house, toward the help’s quarters and the simple yet quiet and happy world in which I had spent most of my youth. What would my mother say if I packed up my things and returned to it? I’d even keep to entering Wyndemere only through the rear door. The very idea brought a smile to my face. My mother saw it and tilted her head in confusion. I shook the feeling off quickly. Say nothing. Add nothing to her troubles now, I told myself.
When we stepped out of the house to go to the limo, with Parker standing by the open rear door, Samantha charged ahead of me and practically dove into it. She was that anxious to get to school to parade herself and her gifts. Parker and I looked at each other, both expressing our sorrow about Ryder without saying a word. I got in slowly. As soon as Parker closed the door, Samantha turned to me.
“Are you going to be mean to me every day now?” she asked, all sorts of threats building behind her words.
“Truthfully, I’m not going to give you a thought,” I said, “until you confess to what you have done.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said, folded her arms, and looked out the window all the way to school.
Parker gazed at me in the rearview mirror. I saw the wry smile on his face. Considering all the times he had driven Bea Davenport and had overheard her conversations, I was sure he was prepared for any déjà vu. I wasn’t. Instead, I sat back and prepared for Dillon Evans.
I was looking forward to seeing him as soon as I entered the building, but he wasn’t in the lobby waiting to walk me to my homeroom. Disappointment had sunk whatever little optimism I had this morning. He was simply too unpredictable. How could I invest my feelings in someone like that? Ivy was there, as she often was, and hurried to my side.
“How are you? I was hoping you’d call me last night. I was so worried for you.”
“I went to sleep early,” I said. “It was all emotionally exhausting.”
“I’m sorry. Did you learn anything more about him?”
“Just that he won’t be coming back very soon,” I said as we walked to our hallway lockers. I kept looking for Dillon. Would it seem selfish of me if I asked after him? I didn’t have to. She saw the way I was looking about.
“Dillon usually comes to school just in time,” she said. “He compares it to going to the dentist.” She looked around, too. “I was wondering if he would be different now. You know, you’re the only one in school he’s ever taken anywhere. I haven’t told anyone,” she quickly added. “So can you tell me now? How was your lunch date?”
“It was the highlight of my day,” I said. I said it as merely a statement of fact.
“Really? That’s exciting. I hope you’ll tell me all about it.”
I looked at her. Was this going to be one of those friendships in which one girl lived vicariously through the experiences of the other?
“You told him about my brother last night.”
“Oh, I hope you’re not upset about that. I thought he should know, just in case he was expecting you to call him. He’s really very sensitive, almost paranoid, you know.”
“Really?”
“He’s always complaining about how other guys look at him in school, even some of his teachers. That’s why he compares going to school with going to a dentist.”
“Great. That’s all I need right now, another person with a psychological issue.”
We both paused when we had turned the corner to start toward our homeroom. There was Dillon by the door, leaning against the wall as if he was on some street corner. He was looking down but seemed to sense I was nearing. He stood up as I approached him.
“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to give you this right away.” He handed me an envelope.
“What’s in it?”
“I thought of an appropriate title for my poem and printed it out in a nice script font.”
Ivy stood beside me as I opened the envelope and took out the paper. The poem was titled “Fern’s Hope.”
“No one will understand,” I said.
“The one person I care about understanding it understands,” he said. “See you later.” He sauntered off.
“Can I read that?” Ivy asked immediately.
“I’ll have to ask him first,” I said.
She grimaced. “I’m the one who brought you two together,” she moaned.
“Somehow I think we might have met eventually anyway, but thanks. It’s his personal thing. Let me ask him. I’m sure he’ll say yes.”
For now, that was enough to wipe the disappointment off her face, but I would surely have to share a lot more with her if I lived up to her expectations. At the moment, I didn’t feel like sharing anything with anyone, even the air we were breathing. I put the envelope into my book bag and entered our homeroom. One of the announcements for the day involved auditions for the school play starting tomorrow. I wasn’t sure I was up to it now.
Later, however, when Dillon and I met to sit together at lunch, it was the first thing he brought up for discussion. Ivy sat with us.
“Oh, don’t blow off the play,” he said. “If anything, you need to do this more, Fern. You’ve got to get your mind off the problems at home. Actually, that was why I went out for Our Town last year.”
“He’s right,” Ivy said.
I glanced at her and then turned back to Dillon. “You’re assuming I’ll get the part,” I said.
“I’m not assuming anything, but why don’t we practice today after school? I have the play. I downloaded i
t,” he said, and then showed us the pages in his book bag. “I’ve already underlined all your lines and mine.”
“Where would we do that?”
He shrugged. “You could come to my house, or I’ll come to yours.”
“I’ll help,” Ivy said. “You’ll need an audience, and I can read Renfield and practice, too.”
I thought about it. Could I really get my mind off what was happening at home?
“Wyndemere doesn’t exactly have the best atmosphere right now,” I said.
“We can use my house if you want,” Ivy said. The way she was clinging to us was beginning to annoy me, but I didn’t like feeling that way. It seemed selfish, uncharitable.
“Neutral ground,” Dillon said, smiling. “I’m fine with it. Fern?”
“I’ll have to ask my mother, see if she needs me for anything, especially today.”
“Okay.” He put the pages back. “Let me know what happens. I have my car. I’ll take you both to Ivy’s after school.”
“Good,” Ivy said quickly, as if she had the right to speak for us both.
I wondered how much Dillon would reveal in front of her.
“What if you get Dracula and I don’t get Lucy?” I asked.
“I won’t accept the part,” he said. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t kidding. He was going to do this only because he and I would be doing it together. “I’m sure that won’t be true if you get Lucy and I don’t get Dracula, but that’s fine.”
“I might not get Renfield,” Ivy said. “The part is for a male. I don’t know if I can convince Madeo that I can do it, even with lots of practice.”
Neither of us replied. We were looking at each other, and neither of us really heard her. When I looked into Dillon’s eyes, I could see the interest he had in me. He was searching, probably to be sure I was really interested in him. The distrust he practically radiated in everyone around him, even from the way he spoke, in his parents as well, seemed to cast out a challenge: Make me believe you.
I imagined that most girls, despite how sexy and good-looking he was, would decide not to bother; it took way too much effort. I could hear their thoughts, which easily could be mine.
Echoes in the Walls Page 15
