Beautiful Malice

by Rebecca James

  “You’ve practically already told me,” I say. “Her real mother rejected her and she was adopted. I already know she doesn’t like the people who adopted her. Or at least, I assume they’re the ones she calls her parents.”

  “Yeah. She hates them.”

  “Now it all makes a bit more sense. I didn’t understand before. I wondered how she could say such horrible things about her parents, call them fat and stupid, and then in the next breath turn around and say something really nice about her mother. It’s because they’re two different people. She has two mothers.”

  “Yep. Her real mother, her biological mother, is called Jo-Jo.”

  “Jo-Jo?”

  “Yeah. Hippie for Joanne. She’s a hopeless old junkie. A more selfish, self-absorbed woman you’ve never met.”

  “But Alice—”

  “Totally loves her,” he interrupts. “Worships her. And Joanne’s filthy rich. She inherited a pile of money from her parents. Now she lavishes it on Alice. Gives her whatever she wants. And there’s this weird snobbery stuff happening. Even though Jo-Jo is useless, she acts superior to the people who adopted Alice. And Alice totally buys into it.”

  “So that’s why she has all those expensive clothes, why she doesn’t need to work,” I say. “Jo-Jo gives her money.”

  “Yep. Some kind of guilt thing, I suppose. She was too messed up to look after Alice and her little brother when they were kids, so she throws a whole lot of money at them to make up for it.”

  “Brother? Alice has a brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A brother.” I shake my head, astounded. “Wow. I had no idea. She’s never even mentioned him once. What’s his name?”

  Robbie frowns. “I don’t actually know. Alice gets weird when she talks about him. Just calls him her baby brother. I know he’s been in some kind of trouble with the law, something big, but I’m not exactly sure what. Drugs probably, like his mother.”

  I’m astonished to learn that Alice has a brother, that she was adopted, that she has secrets almost as devastating as mine. Alice and I have more in common than I’d imagined, and I’m suddenly certain that this all adds up to a coincidence so extraordinary that it can be explained only as some kind of sign: a sign that Alice and I were fated to meet, that it was our destiny to become friends.

  “What a mess,” I say.

  “Yep.”

  “Life can really suck sometimes,” I say. “Poor Alice.” But what I really mean is Poor us. All three of us have had terrible things happen—murder, cancer, abandonment—and for the first time I’m tempted to tell Robbie about Rachel. It’s not sympathy I want but the credibility that comes with having faced and lived through something tragic. I can say that I understand, and I do, but to Robbie and Alice—who know nothing of my past—my words would sound hollow. The soothing but uncomprehending words of the fortunate.

  But I’m terrified I may regret such an indiscretion in the morning. I say nothing.

  I wake early the next day and despite the late night, I feel refreshed and happy. Sun is streaming through the window onto my bed, and I lie there for a while with just the sheet over me and enjoy the warmth of the sunshine on my skin. I can hear the deep rumble of the ocean, and I can hear Robbie and Alice talking quietly and laughing in their bedroom.

  I get up, put on my robe, and go to the kitchen. I make a cup of tea and take it to the deck. I lean against the railing and stare out at the beach. The ocean is a beautiful, clear turquoise, and the waves break gently on the shore. With my mug cupped in my hands I step off the deck and walk toward the water. I finish my tea, put the empty cup on the sand, look back toward the house and up and down the beach to check that no one is watching. I undo my robe and let it slip to the ground. I run into the water, and when I’m deep enough I dive beneath.

  The water is so calm that I’m able to float comfortably on my back and swim a smooth and easy freestyle. When I’ve been swimming for a while and am both tired and refreshed, I get out, put my robe on again, and head back to the house.

  “Katherine?” Alice calls out as I step inside. “What are you doing?”

  I go to their room and stand in the doorway. Robbie and Alice are sitting up in bed, their legs tangled. When he sees me, Robbie pulls the sheet up to cover himself and smiles sheepishly. I grin at them happily. “It’s a beautiful morning,” I say. “Beautiful. I’ve been swimming and the water is perfect. You two should go. I’ll cook us some breakfast. Eggs Benedict, if you like.”

  “You’re going to make me fat with all this gorgeous food.” Alice yawns and stretches her arms up over her head. “Fat like my monster adoptive parents.” She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “Speaking of which …”

  “Yes,” I say, and for some reason I’m embarrassed, as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. I think it’s the way Alice is looking at me—like an angry mother waiting for her child to admit to a crime she already knows of. “Robbie told me about … that you’re adopted. I hope you don’t mind.”

  But the cold expression has disappeared from her face, and I’m suddenly not sure whether I imagined it. She shrugs indifferently and yawns again. “It’s not as if it’s a big secret. I just never got around to telling you. It’s nothing really, anyway. Hardly worth talking about.”

  I notice a frown cross Robbie’s brow, an almost imperceptible pursing of his lips. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Of course. It’s nothing. Like everything else to you, eh, Alice? Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Your favorite word.”

  “Hey, Robbie,” Alice says, her voice hard and cold, the expression on her face chilly, “if you don’t like the way I live my life, if you disapprove of the way I think about everything, then what are you doing here? Huh? Robbie? What exactly are you doing here?”

  “I don’t disapprove of the way you think. I didn’t say that. I just think it’s crap the way you brush off everything to do with feelings like it doesn’t mean anything. It’s some kind of defense thing—and I think it’s unhealthy.”

  “What?” She stares at him incredulously as she slides off the bed and stands beside it. She puts her hands on her hips. She is wearing a white nightie, a modest and pretty, almost childlike gown, and a spot of color has appeared on each of her cheeks. Her eyes are bright with anger. She looks innocent and beautiful and dangerous all at once, and it’s hard not to stare. She shakes her head and smiles bitterly. “What are you saying, Robbie? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you, Alice. Your family. Your mother and your brother. I don’t even know your brother’s name. Katherine didn’t even know you had a brother. Don’t you think that’s weird? You never talk about him. You never talk about your parents or your childhood. You never talk about anything.”

  “And why should I, Robbie? Just because you think it’s the right thing to do? What is it that you’re so desperate to know, anyway? What sordid little detail is it that fascinates you? Huh? You already know that Jo-Jo is a heroin addict. You already know that I was adopted. I don’t talk about my brother because I barely ever see him. I don’t talk about him because we didn’t grow up together, because he was adopted by some stupid assholes and he had a crappy life and now he’s in prison, okay? I don’t talk about him because people like you couldn’t possibly understand what he’s been through.”

  I stand there watching them. It’s difficult to tear myself away, impossible not to listen. Alice has secrets. Why shouldn’t she? I want to tell Robbie to leave her alone, to drop the whole subject, but this is not my fight. I turn and start toward the kitchen, and Alice shouts my name.

  “Don’t run away,” she says.

  Her tone is cold and demanding and it annoys me. When I answer, I’m equally cold. “I’m not running away,” I say. “I’m going to make breakfast. I’m hungry.”

  “I just want your opinion,” she continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “Don’t you think I have the right to decide what I do or don’t want to talk about? Or is
it unhealthy of me to keep things to myself?” She glares at Robbie, then turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “Or should friends talk to each other about everything? Everything that has ever happened?”

  “No,” I say, my voice quiet. “Of course not.” Of course you can have secrets, I think. I have secrets of my own. Let’s bury them deep and try hard to forget about them and never ever talk about them. Ever.

  But I don’t have a chance to say any more because Robbie interrupts. “Let’s just leave Katherine out of it, Alice. It’s not her fight.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s standing there eavesdropping as if it is.”

  “I am not,” I say, suddenly defensive. “I wanted to go. You asked me for my opinion.” And I stop myself from continuing, before I start to sound like a petulant child. “Anyway”—I shrug—“I’m starving. I’m going to make breakfast.”

  I turn around and stalk to the kitchen. The door slams loudly behind me. I hear Robbie exclaim and then Alice’s furious retort. I’m stung that Alice has been so unkind, and a little humiliated to be treated like some kind of nosy stranger. I pull the ingredients from the fridge—eggs, bacon, lemon, chives, butter—bang them on the counter, and slam the door shut angrily.

  I make the hollandaise sauce first. I crack the eggs and separate the yolks from the whites carefully. I can still hear the hum of Robbie’s and Alice’s voices from the room. They are much quieter now, and sound calmer, as if they might be making up. And as I’m whisking the yolks, one arm holding the bowl tight against my belly, my other arm moving briskly round and round, I find myself smiling. We’ve had a fight, I think, a real fight. Our first one.

  Just the way friends do.

  11

  Sarah and I get to the mountains before five. I love it here: the slow, relaxed pace of it, the cool, brittle air and the beautiful man-made lake. It has become much more cosmopolitan since we used to visit as kids, with cafés and restaurants lining the main street, but it still has a sleepy country feel to it. I think it’s because of the wide streets and the slightly abandoned feel of the town.

  I’ve booked a little cottage in a site near the lake, unimaginatively named Lake Cabins, but I’m pleased with our cabin when we arrive and have a look around. It’s already warm, as the owner has been kind enough to turn on the heat in anticipation of our arrival, and has a small deck that overlooks the lake.

  “But where is the snow?” Sarah rushes to the window and peers outside, pressing her small hands against the panes.

  “There’s none here, sweetie. But we’ll catch the special train up the mountain tomorrow and we’ll see lots and lots of snow.”

  “Is it a magic train?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “A magic snow train?”

  “Exactly.” I nod.

  “Can I play outside?”

  “For a little while,” I tell her. “It’s getting dark.”

  I help Sarah put on her fleece jacket and her boots, and she sets off outside, squealing and excited to be in a new place.

  “Don’t go near the water without Mommy,” I remind her.

  I get the box of groceries—milk, tea, sugar, cereal—from the trunk of the car and bring it inside. I can see Sarah from the kitchen, and as I unpack and start our dinner I watch her digging in the ground with a stick, talking to herself in a happy singsong voice. I’ve brought basil, garlic, and pine nuts, and the rest of the ingredients I need to make a pesto with spaghetti. I’ve also brought lettuce and an avocado to make a green salad, and some balsamic vinegar to dress it with.

  When I’ve processed the pesto, made the salad, and put a big pot of water on the stove to boil, I put my jacket on and go outside. I sit on the deck and watch Sarah play.

  “Mommy?” she says after a while, without looking up from her game.

  “Yes?”

  “Mommy. Are you happy?”

  “Of course I am.” I’m surprised by the seriousness of her voice. “I’ve got you, so I’m very, very, very happy. I’m the luckiest mommy in the whole world. You know that.”

  “I know.” She nods seriously. “I know you’re happy about that part. But are you sad because you don’t have a daddy?”

  “But I do have a daddy. Grandpa is my daddy.”

  She pauses for a moment, thinking. Then she looks up at me, her brows knotted in thought. “I mean a daddy for me, that’s what I mean. Are you sad that you don’t have a daddy for me?”

  “I’m a little bit sad.” My instinct is to go to Sarah, to pick her up and cuddle her and tickle her and smother her with kisses. I would much rather avoid these sad discussions; they are too intense, too painful, I think, for such a little girl. But I know from experience that she wants these questions answered and that she will keep asking and asking until she’s satisfied. “I miss your daddy, and I wish he hadn’t died. But you make me so very happy that I’m much more happy than I am sad.”

  She smiles, a small, tentative smile of relief.

  And I wonder if it’s true. Happiness is such a hard emotion to quantify. There are moments when I’m happy, certainly, moments with Sarah when I forget who I am and what has happened, moments when I can forget the past completely and enjoy the present. But there is a weight about me, a deep sadness, a feeling of disappointment with the capriciousness of life that is hard to shrug off, hard to ignore. There are times when I realize that days and weeks have gone by without my registering them, as though I’ve been absent, or living life on some kind of automatic pilot. Sometimes I feel as if I’m a robot programmed only to ensure that Sarah is looked after, responsible for the smooth running of her life, with no capacity to desire anything for myself. My main hope for happiness now is Sarah. If she’s okay, if she can live a life free of tragedy and heartache, then I can consider myself satisfied. But that’s the most that I’m willing to expect for myself now, Sarah’s contentment; loving her is the only emotional investment in life that I’m willing to make.

  12

  “So we’ll see you Friday evening, then?” my mother says.

  “Yes.”

  I’m just about to say good-bye and hang up the phone when she asks, “Why don’t you bring your new friend with you? Why don’t you bring Alice? We’d love to meet her.”

  I doubt that Mom and Dad really want Alice to come; they no longer appear to enjoy any type of social interaction. It’s a strain to laugh and smile and make conversation when the only thing you can really think of is the death of your child—it’s a subject that is impossible to bring up without frightening people away. But I appreciate that she’s making an effort for my sake, that she wants my life to be as normal as possible.

  I’ve thought of introducing Alice to my parents, but I’ve always decided against it. My parents are so sad, so quiet, that it can sometimes be hard for people to know how to behave around them. And I haven’t yet told Alice about Rachel. So she would doubtless find their intense seriousness, their inability to laugh, quite disconcerting.

  “I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “She’s probably busy.”

  “Oh please, darling. Please just ask her, at least. I know we’re dull, I know it’s probably a drag, but it would be really nice to see a new face. And it would do your father a world of good to see you happy and having some fun with a friend your own age.”

  It’s so rare for Mom to ask something of me, and she sounds so genuinely keen for me to bring Alice, that I agree to ask. I promise to let her know the next day whether Alice will be coming or not. She wants time to buy some extra food.

  Alice says yes, she’d love to come, and she laughs and says that she’s been waiting for me to ask.

  Inevitably, on our first night there, Rachel’s name is mentioned. But I manage to change the subject quickly and so avoid the awkwardness of having to tell Alice what happened beneath the curious stares of Mom and Dad. They would certainly wonder why I’d never told Alice before.

  But I know that I’m going to have to tell her. There’s no way we can get through
an entire weekend without Rachel’s name coming up again. So when Alice and I say good night to my parents and go upstairs to bed, I ask her to come into my room for a minute.

  “Why?” she whispers, giggling. “Have you got a secret stash of drugs in there?”

  “I just want to tell you something.”

  Alice looks at me wide-eyed, surprised by the tone of my voice. “Okay,” she agrees. “Just let me pee first. I won’t be a sec.”

  When she returns we sit on my bed, facing each other, our legs crossed.

  “I had a sister,” I say matter-of-factly. “Rachel. She was murdered.”

  “What?” Alice leans forward, frowns. “What did you say?”

  I wait. I know that she has heard me and just needs time to process the information. It’s always like this when you first tell someone. Always hard to believe at first.

  “Tell me,” she says eventually.

  And I start to talk, and as I talk I sob quietly. I tell Alice everything. The entire story, starting from the moment when Carly and Rachel and I were having coffee all those years ago, the moment I decided that we would go to the party. And I cry with remembered horror, but also with relief that I’m finally telling someone, and I talk and talk and cry some more. And Alice just listens. She doesn’t say anything, or ask questions, but she keeps her hand on my knee the whole time.

  “Oh my God,” she says when I finally finish. “You poor thing. Your poor family. Why didn’t you tell me before? Oh my God. Poor Rachel.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Poor Rachel. Poor Mom and Dad. It just sucks. It ruined everything.”

  Alice wraps her arms around me and holds me while I cry. Then, when I’m completely exhausted and my head aches, when the bedside clock is flashing two a.m., she helps me into bed and lies down beside me, brushing her hand over my hair until I sleep.

  I wake the next morning with Alice standing beside my bed, a steaming cup in hand. “I brought you tea.” She puts the cup on my bedside table and sits on the bed. “Have you had enough sleep?”