How dare you ignore me at Jeremy’s school? I was just trying to help him. I was there to take him to the doctor since you’re too selfish to take him yourself. And you treated me like I was nothing, like I’m nobody, like I wasn’t even there!
The voice was Flow’s. Low and venomous. Almost purring with malice. On, as she would say, the warpath.
You’ve always thought you were better than me. I don’t know what happened to you, Stephanie. You used to be such a sweet little girl. But now you’re ruined. Money ruined you. Jim ruined you. He turned you against me and now you’ve turned my grandson against me.
Whenever I saw her name on the caller I.D., I would feel myself quivering like a rabbit in a trap. I had an urge to hide, even inside my own house. Sometimes, like a child, I would put my hands over my ears. I always let these calls go to voicemail. The messages just piled up, each one more unhinged than the last.
You think you can get away from me so easily? Think you can just discard me like I’m trash? You’d best think again, you traitorous little bitch. I’m coming for you and I’m going to kill you. You’ll be thankful to go to hell to get away from me. I’ll burn your house down while everyone in it is asleep, and I’ll haunt you even after I’m dead!
After this last dispatch, Jim called the police, and they came to the house. They listened to my mother’s messages and drove directly across town to arrest her.
“GOOD GOD,” murmured Mae. “I can’t fathom this insanity. My poor baby girl. What happened after that?”
“She was charged with criminal threats and with stalking me. Both are felonies in the state of Oregon. The police advised me to take out a stalking order against her, and the judge set a court date to hear that request. In the meantime, she was in jail for a month.”
“That must have been a relief,” Mae said. “And then what happened?”
“The judge granted us a stalking order right away. Another witness had come forward by then. My mother tried to get a pawn shop owner to sell her a gun, and she left crazy messages on his machine too. He played them in court.”
I need to kill my daughter, she had told the man. She’s possessed by an evil spirit and killing her is the only way to get rid of it.
The judge finalized the stalking order on the spot, and on my way out of the courtroom, the bailiff stopped me. With tears in his eyes, he begged me to never let it lapse.
“But you did,” Mae said gently.
“She called me after being locked up for six months, pleading for forgiveness. She said, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I was hearing voices and they were telling me crazy things. She had never—and I mean never—apologized to me before, not once in my entire life.”
“And you forgave her.”
“I did. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to believe her,” I said. And then I added what to me was the saddest, most shameful revelation of all—proof, I was sure, of a pathology even deeper than hers. “You see, even then, I still loved her. All my life, I’ve always loved her. No matter what.”
Chapter 12
I FELT A little better after seeing Mae, as I always did. But I was still shaken by my mother’s story, and suddenly I longed above all to talk about it with Jim.
The truth is that by then, Jim and I hadn’t really talked in months. But he was still the only one I could see myself telling. He knew my mother. He knew my history. I was anxious to hear what he’d make of her story. However, Jim was at a trade show in Florida, and he would be gone all week. I could call, of course, but it wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to tell him over the phone.
Feeling forlorn, I wandered into his home office and snapped on the light. Suddenly I was struck by the gloom of the space. The hunter-green walls. The black leather chair. The photos he liked but hadn’t gotten around to framing, piling up and gathering dust on his desk. The plain tan settee against one wall, unadorned with any accent pieces.
If nothing else, I thought, I should repaint the walls. That would brighten the room at least a little, even if it still retained the low-lit ambience of an opium den. I’d get rid of this dreary green and replace it with some warm and uplifting color.
And his desk. I’d never liked that desk: modern and black and expansive, its width almost spanning the room. Jeremy could have it. I’d bring in something rustic—walnut maybe. The tan settee would still work, but I’d find some pillows or a throw to add a splash of color, make it more inviting. And I’d find nice frames for some of those photos.
I worked in a fever all week, as if something essential were at stake. It made me feel good after all these months of resentment to do something loving for Jim. It hurt my heart to suddenly notice that his space was so devoid of warmth or cheer. I brought so much love and attention to other people’s spaces. Why not to my own husband’s?
By Thursday, it was done. The somber green of the walls was gone, replaced by a shade called “Tuscan Sunset.” The monolith of a black desk was gone, and a new one of hewn walnut was in its place. I’d taken seven or eight of the best photographs—Jim with the kids, Jim and I by the Seine, Jim with his softball team—and found the right frame for each one. Several of them were grouped on his desk, a few stood on the shelves, and I’d hung the rest in a gallery on his walls. There was a new hand-knotted Persian rug in deep red and caramel, and several textured throw pillows were now scattered along the settee.
When the room was finished, I stood in the doorway, filled with anticipation. I did this kind of thing for clients all the time, of course, but the gratification went deeper when it was for Jim. It seemed to me that I should have done this long before I did. Maybe it would renew the sense of closeness between us that had been gone for so long.
MY HUSBAND CAME home just after nine that Friday night, looking as tired as I’d ever seen him. He dropped his bags just beside the front door and sank onto the living room sofa.
“Hey, stranger,” I said, coming over to him. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” he said. He kissed me briefly, a kiss very unlike the hungry and lingering ones I used to get after he’d been gone awhile.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “You seem down.”
“I’m so beat after this week,” he told me. “I’m ready to just crash, honestly. I’ll unpack in the morning.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But first I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“Come,” I beckoned, motioning for him to follow me.
Gamely, he trailed me to the door of his office, where I had him close his eyes. Then, I led him to the center of the room and told him he could look. He opened his eyes and just stood there. I laughed at his stunned expression.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”
“Seriously?” he asked.
I laughed again. “Won’t it be so much nicer to work in here now?”
He ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his eyes. “I mean . . . are you kidding me, Steph?”
“Do you like it?” I asked eagerly. “I made it my project for the week.”
He continued to look around, dumbfounded.
“You know what, Jim?” I asked. “We’ve been so distant. I wanted to do something nice for you. Something loving.”
“Is that the story you’re telling yourself?” Jim asked. “That you did all this for me?”
Abruptly the breath left my body. It was my turn to be stunned.
“Jim?” I ventured after a long moment. “Are you saying you don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like the new look,” he said. “It’s okay, I guess. What I don’t like is your unilateral decision to spend thousands of dollars—because I’m sure that’s what all this cost—on yet another unnecessary renovation that I didn’t ask for and had no need of. I mean, you can’t tell me all this wasn’t a ton of money.”
I felt my throat close over.
“I feel like this is an ambush,” he said. “You do this yet again, but this time
it’s for me, so if I fail to be happy about it then I’m just an ingrate and a bastard. It makes me furious, to be honest. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
My eyes filled and spilled over. I felt so crushed I couldn’t speak.
“This is a compulsion on your part,” he went on. “You just can’t stop, you’re never done, and the bills just stack up higher and higher. It’s like you think you can fix every problem with a new coat of paint and a bunch of different furniture, and an endless influx of freaking pillows. I hate to break it to you, but that’s not the way it works.”
I heard myself start to sob. After a moment, I sank down along the doorframe and sat crying on the floor. No matter how angry Jim ever became with me, he would always soften when I cried. But not this time. He just stood there looking at me. His expression was cold, detached and implacable.
I drew my knees up to my chest and covered my face with my hands. Jim stood a moment before leaving the room without another word. I heard him return to the sofa and sink back down into the spot where he’d been before.
WHEN I WOKE up the next morning, my whole body hurt. The ache in my throat felt permanent, as if it would never be dislodged. The room was cold and I was cold. I huddled beneath the covers. Jim was already gone. He’d left without a word to me, without even kissing my forehead as he always did.
Only the thought of Owen pulled me out of bed. Today we would be doing the last few rooms in his house. After today, my time with him would be over.
As I drove to his home, I brooded over the evening before, easily the worst night in my three decades of marriage.
JIM HAD NOT spoken to me again. Despite his stated intention of going to bed early, he remained on the sofa for at least another hour, eyes fixed on the television. He stared at a news segment, then the tail end of a baseball game, and finally the middle of a murder mystery. I could tell he was taking none of it in. It was just a way to avoid me.
Before she went to bed, our daughter Andrea came down from her bedroom and hugged him. He hugged her back without really looking at her. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve had a tough week and I just want to sit here for a little while. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“No worries,” Andrea said. I waited until I heard the door of her room close behind her and then positioned myself directly in front of the TV, my face still stained with tears.
“Look at you,” I flung at him. “Look at the way you’ve totally checked out of being a husband and father. There’s always a good reason. You’re exhausted. Wiped out from a trip or back-to-back all-nighters at the office or your third-quarter push or whatever it is on any given week. You have nothing left for us. You can’t even receive a loving gesture with any grace or engage with your daughter after a whole week away from her.”
Jim didn’t even meet my eyes. He rose from the sofa and, once again, left the room.
I stayed downstairs, crying, pacing the floor, and finally going to our liquor cabinet in search of comfort. Just one glass. Just to take the edge off. Just so I had some hope of sleeping that night.
It turned out to be no help at all.
THE MOMENT I pulled my truck to the curb outside Owen’s house, he appeared on the front walk. “Hey!” he called, a grin lighting his face. “Am I glad to see you. It feels like it’s been forever.”
It had only been a week. The same amount of time Jim had been gone on his trip.
Owen was clad in denim pants that fit him very well. His immaculate white t-shirt emphasized the natural tan he somehow had in midwinter. He smelled so clean, like shaving soap and sunlight.
He helped me unload all that I’d brought from the truck, handling everything with ease in his usual offhand, competent way. I couldn’t help smiling to myself whenever his back was turned. No matter how bleak things were at home, Owen always managed to make me feel good. He was like a happy, rollicking circus bear.
A light snow was falling as we brought everything inside. I’d set aside the entire day for this, and the thought of the next eight or nine hours was a lovely flutter inside me. The sight of the snow filled me with joy as well. Nothing was more romantic to me than a deep snowfall.
That I was allowing Owen to be here at all was highly unusual. Usually, I never wanted a client around while I was overhauling a space. The work was loud and often messy, the process could be unpredictable, and it was pointless and stressful to have them on the premises. It also ruined the reveal at the end, my favorite moment of a renovation: when all the elements were in place, when everything was pristine and perfect, and I finally had the chance to dazzle my client.
Owen was different. It was like we were a team, and a seamless one. With him to help, I didn’t even need a contractor. He was a highly skilled jack-of-all-trades, and together we tackled each room in turn, measuring, cutting, laying down carpet, hanging up artwork, and assembling furniture. We found a rhythm early in the day, and the hours flew by as we worked and bantered and jousted and flirted.
Spanish guitar was playing on his sound system, and the flamenco strains were like yearning itself. As the afternoon waned, the sky went periwinkle, and the sparse snow took on heft and intensity. The bare branches of the trees outside were dusted and then lined and then laden with snow. The flakes seemed to blossom into something like white flowers—clustered together and slapdash and voluptuous. Snow filled the air and covered the ground.
“Man, is this beautiful or what?” Owen asked.
I stared out the window. It was impossibly beautiful. I felt a deep pang at the beauty and impossibility in front of me.
“This makes me want to break out the wine,” he said. “Let’s see if I still have a bottle of your favorite somewhere.”
“You don’t mean the Cobos?” I asked.
“That’s the one.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You just happen to have another one around?”
“Well . . .” he grinned at me. “I might have picked another one up for today. This being the grand finale and all.”
I turned away so he wouldn’t see my pleasure at this confession.
“Now that’s hospitality,” was all I said.
Owen disappeared, and from the floor just below, I could hear the sound of a popping cork. A moment later he was back with the bottle and two glasses.
We were in the master bedroom, where there was only the California king-size bed. No sofas, no chairs. He put the glasses on one of the night tables and sat on the edge of the bed to fill them each halfway.
“To you and me,” he said, raising his glass. “A kick-ass team.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
The wine was like velvet. He drained half his glass and set it back down. Then he lay back on the bed and laced his hands behind his head. I watched his biceps swell into hard knots and had to look away again.
“It looks good in here,” he told me. “You know, you make every room look good just by being in it.”
I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by how much I wanted this. All of it: the snow, the wine, the music, all the trappings of romance and seduction. A man who looked at me. A man who was excited to see me, who took pains to prepare for my arrival. How long had it been? What was Jim doing right now in his office at work? Did he even know it was snowing? Did he care? He had become soulless, mercenary, dead-eyed. I didn’t want to go home to him.
“These roads are gonna be bad soon,” Owen said.
I glanced out at the street. “They’ll be okay,” I said. “For me, anyway. I have four-wheel drive.” I didn’t need any reason to leave earlier than planned.
“Yeah, but when the hill coming into this complex gets iced over like it does, you’d still do better to stay off it.”
“It sounds like you’re saying I should leave now,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as disappointed as I felt.
“Oh lord,” Owen said. “Please don’t let me be misunderstood. I was thinking just the opposite.”
I tilted my head in bewilderment.
“That I should wait until it gets worse?”
“That you should stay,” he said. He sat up, smiled and extended his hand to me. “Stephanie. I’m just gonna go for it: Why don’t you stay?”
Chapter 13
I STARED AT Owen. “What do you mean?” I asked after a long moment, though his meaning was clear enough.
“Don’t go home. Stay with me tonight.”
“But you have a girlfriend,” I said, flustered.
“Not really. I’ve dated her a few times. It’s nothing serious. I don’t think of her as my girlfriend and I’ve never actually called her that.”
“Well, your mom calls her that,” I said, as if this were the central issue and not just one of countless things wrong here. After all these weeks of dancing on the edge of what was between us, Owen’s directness was a surprise. I didn’t yet know how I felt or what I would do. I was stalling for time.
“So that’s her word, not mine,” Owen said. “I mean, with no disrespect to my mom, I don’t give her a running commentary on my social life. She sees me with the same woman a few times, and in her mind, we’re an item. But I don’t see her in my future, to be honest.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a party girl,” he said. “You know. Likes to drink and have a good time, but there’s not much going on beyond that. That’s fun for a little while, but in the long term? I want a woman with direction.” He paused before adding: “Someone like you.”
I looked away. “Okay, but I have a husband.”
“Yeah,” Owen said. “Well, that I can’t argue with. Does he know how lucky he is?”
“I don’t know anymore,” I said slowly. “I mean . . . things haven’t been good lately. I’ll say that much. I’ll admit it: I’m tempted. But . . .”
Owen rose from the edge of the bed and cupped my face. I closed my eyes, overcome by the touch of his hand. Then I felt him leaning in, and I leapt back.
“Wait!” I cried, putting a hand up to keep him at bay. “Wait.”
American Daughter Page 12
