Love Lies Beneath

by Ellen Hopkins

  Melody stops loading the dishwasher long enough to smile a hello. “If I lived in San Francisco, I’d have that option. Do you know how far I’d have to drive to find a decent bakery here?”

  “Seriously, Mel. Who bakes anymore, especially on the day they’re taking off on a ski trip?”

  “A ski trip the rest of her family won’t be enjoying. The least I could do was leave them decent bread.”

  She can take her cheerful-housewife routine and shove it. “How close are you?”

  “I’ll be ready as soon as I finish cleaning up.”

  “Can’t Kayla do it? She’s pissed, not disabled.”

  “I could ask her, of course. But it’s faster if I just do it than argue with her for twenty minutes. Anyway, I’m done.” She starts the wash cycle, rinses her hands.

  “Anyone ever tell you your parenting skills are lacking?”

  The slender rebuke draws no anger. “Only my husband. And his aren’t any better. Just call us Mr. and Mrs. Walkalloverme.”

  Irritation prickles. I wish she’d rise up to defend herself once in a while. It’s bothered me ever since we were kids and Mom would go off on one of her rants. Loudmouthed me always took the brunt of her punishments while soft-spoken Melody receded into the background, barely there.

  “Quick potty stop, and we’re on our way.”

  Twenty minutes later we are, turning south to meet Highway 50 east. It’s a gorgeous drive, but I’m very happy the weather is good. The curvy two-lane makes for ugly going in a blizzard. Today, it’s clear and crisp outside. Korn comes on the radio. Their music is a mile outside my comfort zone, and a deviation for this channel. Still, when Melody reaches over to turn down the volume, I’m even more uncomfortable because it means she’s moving into sister-chat mode.

  Melody: Blah-blah-blah, your divorce.

  Me: Blah-blah-blah, rehearsed answer.

  Mel: Blah-blah-blah, plans for the future.

  Moi: Blah-blah-blah, one day at a time.

  The only way to disengage from small talk about me is to engage in small talk about her. “So, how’s Graham?”

  Melody’s husband is a pediatrician, and quite popular among greater Sacramento soccer moms, due to his all-American good looks and highly cultivated bedside manner. As far as I know, that hasn’t negatively affected their marriage. They’ll celebrate their twentieth anniversary in a few months.

  “He’s great. I don’t know if I told you this, but he and a couple of his friends have put together a band. Just for fun, you know. Graham plays the drums, and . . .”

  I tune out for a short, sweet span. I love my sister, but she does know how to stretch a story. She should have been a novelist instead of a technical writer. Or maybe an epic poet. We are passing Placerville before I notice she’s stopped talking, as if waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

  “Hmph. I asked if you’d thought any more about Christmas.”

  They invite me every year, and I usually have a good excuse to say no. This year, there’s no husband, no conflicts, no real reason not to agree. I could lie, but untruths become so tiresome. “You know I hate to intrude. Christmas is a family day.”

  “Um . . . hello? You’re family.”

  “Not Graham’s, though.”

  “Believe it or not, he takes ownership. What’s mine is his, et cetera.”

  Truthfully, I’d rather spend the holidays alone on the moon than pretending good cheer with the Schumacher clan, but I keep that to myself and change the subject. “So what do the girls want for Christmas?”

  “Jessica’s hot for the latest iPhone. She’s barely twelve, but apparently all her friends have one. Suzette wants a new snowboard. She progressed really far last year and is ready for something a little more extreme. By the way, she’s royally pissed that she couldn’t come on this trip. Maybe next time we could bring her along?”

  “I don’t see why not. And what about Kayla?”

  “All she really wants is a way into the San Francisco Art Institute.”

  “Art?” Shows how much I know about my nieces. “What kind of art is she into?”

  “She’s an incredibly talented illustrator, but what really interests her is computer animation and film. Barring a career there, she’d settle for graphic design.”

  Wow. Who knew? I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show a little interest in the girls. “So why SFAI?”

  “It’s an exceptional art school, and close enough to feel like familiar ground. But it’s so expensive! I don’t suppose you have any connections on the scholarship committee?”

  “I might know someone who knows someone.” The main campus is very near my house, and one of Finn’s grown children is an alumnus. Yes, I’m acquainted with people there, or at least people who know people. But that’s not really the point. “If tuition is a problem, you can always ask.”

  “Oh, Tara, that’s so sweet of you, but—”

  “Don’t tell me. Graham would never accept my money. But he wouldn’t have to know. He could think it was a scholarship, and it would be, from an anonymous benefactress. Anyway, it’s an option.”

  There. Christmas gifts accomplished. One iPhone, with AppleCare. One upscale snowboard, plus Tahoe ski trip. And one thirty-thousand-dollar, give or take, tuition.

  Five

  The conversation devolves all the way to trite as Melody launches a deep discussion about the relative merits of glucosamine for canine joint problems. Seems her seven-year-old golden retriever can’t keep up with the junior black lab, and one vet says “yada yada” while the second says “yada.” I think we need to spice up this dialogue.

  “Maybe Barney should try yoga,” I joke.

  “Yoga?” She is seriously consternated.

  “Yeah. I’m actually considering it myself.”

  “I thought you said yoga’s for wussies.”

  “It might be. But I’ve got an ulterior motive.”

  “Do tell.”

  So I do. And, because I don’t want to discuss dogs anymore, I go ahead and add the part about Ben. By the time I get to the pepper spray, we have crested Echo Summit and are dropping down the steep, winding road into the Tahoe Basin. Mel sits quietly for a second or two. Finally, she says, “Are you insane? How often do you pick up men in bars?”

  “Once in a while,” I admit. “But rarely, and never while married. I do have some small sense of morality.”

  “Morality? Tara, look what happened! And think of what might have happened! It’s like the older you get, the more reckless you become. Do you have a death wish or something? Sometimes you remind me of Mom.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that! I am nothing like her!”

  Silence mortars the wall that has risen between us. I don’t want to talk. Don’t want to think, especially not about our mother, who I work very hard to maroon on the outermost fringe of recollection. Twice today she has intruded my present, this time at Melody’s invitation. And now that she’s here, she will fight to stay.

  As the highway straightens, I can let off the brake, and as the Escalade picks up speed I am teleported backward in time and space to the bed of an old Ford pickup. It was the wilds of Idaho, and legal to have passengers in the back. But Mel and I were just kids and pretty much terrified. Not that Mom cared. She wanted our old collie, Liz, sharing the seat with her.

  “I’ll go slow,” she promised. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fun.”

  At first, she kept her word, and we bumped along the rutted gravel road, nice and easy. But my mother had this thing. Later we found a term for it—borderline personality disorder. What that meant was one minute she was perfectly sane; the next, something inside her brain clicked and she went off. That meant different things on different days.

  Sometimes she turned violent, striking like a rattlesnake, usually without provocation. (And when provoked, she was more like a nest of rattlers.) Other times, her behavior was erratic. Self-destructive. Impulsive. Reckless. Yes, that word, and th
at day, that’s exactly what she was.

  Suddenly, she was foot to the floor. That old truck fishtailed and bucked, throwing Mel and me side to side, up and down. I was ten, and she was not quite eight. I did my best to hold her down, keep her safely inside, but I was certain that she’d go flying. I didn’t care so much about myself. By then I was pretty sure I wouldn’t live to see junior high. But I had made it a point to take care of my little sister as best I could.

  I can picture the scene; it’s like watching an old movie—tears streaking the dirt on Melody’s cheeks and me pounding the window, screeching, “Please, Mama, please slow down.” She never let off the gas when she turned to look at me, grinning. If we’d been devoted churchgoers, the kind who believed in a devil and demons, I’d have sworn she was possessed. But all I knew was what I saw. My mother was crazy.

  Devil or no, we probably would have ended up in hell that afternoon, except a big old elk chose that moment to cut across the road in front of the truck. Instinct insisted Mom hit the brakes and when she swerved to miss the massive animal, Liz fell off the seat, onto the floorboard. The collie yelped, and Mom went berserk.

  I will never, ever forget the way she jerked the Ford into park. The smell of oil, dripping onto the overheated engine, mixed with the cloying lift of dust. The driver’s-side door slammed open. “Look what you made me do!” Mom directed her roar straight at me.

  “What, Mama?” I pushed Mel against the cab, positioned myself in front of her.

  “Poor Lizzie is hurt. And it’s your fault. Come here, you little monster.”

  I had no choice but to comply. It would hurt worse if I made her climb over the tailgate and come after me, plus she might get hold of Melody, too. Her fury tended to melt after a fist fall or ten. And since they’d all be aimed at me, I figured I might as well try to plead my case.

  “But I didn’t do anything. And Liz is A-OK.” The collie in question had hopped back up onto the seat. She sat there, nose against the window and panting gently, watching the drama rising to a pinnacle.

  “Don’t you dare tell me what’s what! You get over here right now, or else.”

  I knew enough not to argue anymore, and crawled across the pickup bed to the tailgate, which my mother let drop, threatening both the hinges and me. I lowered my head into my chest, let the blows fall against my back, my arms. Better than my face, experience told me. Better than my face.

  I don’t remember exactly what that beating felt like. Bare-fisted, Mom’s whoopings were pretty much alike. I can, however, recall the sounds: Liz’s whining; Mel’s hiccupping; the tick-tick of the truck’s engine, still running; the circling cry of a hawk on the hunt. And the odors, yes, those are fresh as yesterday: Pabst and Camels, burnt Quaker State, damp rabbitbrush, the stink of rage-fueled perspiration. The last I often smell in my sleep, at the edge of every dream, and I can smell it now, lodged in memories I can’t quite push away.

  “Earth to Tara.” Melody yanks me back into the present. “You might want to check how fast you’re going. There’s a highway patrol car just up ahead.”

  I glance down at the speedometer. Twelve over. “Thanks for the warning. Hope he’s got something else on his mind.”

  Luckily, a sweet little BMW goes tearing by in the other direction. The cop hangs a quick U-turn, and the ticket belongs to the other guy. Love when that happens.

  “Where were you, anyway?” asks Mel, referring to my masochistic reverie.

  “Idaho.”

  “Ah. Idaho. Never a good place to go.”

  “Speaking of that, have you heard anything from her lately?” Our mother doesn’t dare talk to me. I cut her off completely when I turned eighteen, and she seems happy enough to accept this as the status quo. Any communication comes through Melody, who is more forgiving than I. Then again, she has less to pardon.

  “Mom e-mailed a few weeks ago. She’s still in Rialto, shacking up with a trucker. This one, she says, is full of good lovin’.”

  Prostitution is legal in the rural counties of Nevada, and most truck drivers would rather pay for more upscale tail than take what our mother happily gave away in exchange for room and board. Vegas proved a less-than-fertile hunting ground, so she moved to Southern California, where the prowling for truckers full of good lovin’ was easier.

  “Rialto, huh? Didn’t I read something about a string of recent kitten hangings there?” Mom always hated cats.

  “Not funny.”

  “I wasn’t going for humor there, Mel.”

  Six

  We check in to a two-bedroom villa at the Timber Lodge, right in Heavenly Village. I’ve been skiing this resort since well before the redevelopment that brought the gondola all the way down into the town of South Lake Tahoe. Even Melody has to agree that this is convenient, at least as far as accessing the mountain. It’s a short walk across the street and over the state line into Nevada for nightlife, and the sensational restaurants the casinos use to lure tourists.

  One of my favorites is the Sage Room, inside Harvey’s, and that’s where we have a reservation tonight. The sidewalks and streets are clear and mostly dry, so I chance wearing a dress and footwear that would be iffy in a snowstorm. Melody, of course, dresses much more conservatively, but she still manages to pull off “chic” in nice jeans and a sapphire-blue angora sweater. Okay, the UGGs knock off a couple of style points. I’ll remind her to keep her feet under the table.

  We order “for two” spinach salad and chateaubriand, plus a fabulous bottle of Napa Valley cabernet. “Pretty sure the waiter thinks we’re dating,” says Mel. “He gave us a funny look.”

  “Hey, if you weren’t my sister, and if I happened to swing that way, I’d date you. You’re gorgeous.”

  She huffs. “Whatever. I need to lose thirty pounds, and my hair makes me look sixty.”

  “They do have this stuff called dye, if that bothers you. But I think the silver is beautiful.”

  “You going au naturel, then?” Her smile means she doesn’t expect an answer.

  I give her one, anyway. “Beautiful, on you.”

  “So . . . what are you after?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighs. “It’s just, you don’t give me compliments very often.”

  “Really? Well, you are beautiful. For looking sixty, I mean.”

  We laugh together, but uneasily, so I’m glad when our first course arrives, diverting our attention. As Roberto tosses spinach and sweet dressing tableside, I try to remember a recent compliment I paid my sister. Last ski trip, I told her she’d definitely improved. Does that count? No, probably not. The last time I said something nice about the way she looked was . . . I can’t remember.

  Mel sips her wine. “This is brilliant. When did you develop a taste for cab? As I recall, you used to be more the chardonnay sort.”

  “Finn loved the Napa Valley, and we toured the wineries several times. We took a class with an oenologist . . .” Puzzlement crinkles Mel’s eyes, so I explain, “A master vintner, if you prefer. The science guy behind the barrels? Anyway, once you learn about tannins and soil and palette and such, you feel more like experimenting. After a while I came to prefer big reds. The bolder, the better.”

  Oenology. Good word. Silent O. Comes after “odoriferous,” which interestingly means both unsavory (offensive) and savory (sweet smelling). Sort of like Finn, in fact.

  “One good thing that came out of your marriage, I guess.”

  “Yes, and along with it, an entire cellar of great wines, not to mention the house where the cellar’s located.”

  “So you’re planning to stay in the city, then? You weren’t sure last time I talked to you.”

  I swallow the last bite of my salad before answering. “For now. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and it’s a good place to host parties conducive to generous giving by the San Francisco elite.”

  “Elite, or elitists?”

  “They’re pretty much synonymous.”

  She shakes her head. “And
yet they’re donating to a cause that helps homeless people. Seems oxymoronic, no?”

  “They don’t care about the cause, Mel, only that other people see them whipping out their checkbooks.”

  “Huh. And what about you? Are you truly concerned about San Francisco’s downtrodden?”

  Is this a test? Do I mind if I flunk it? “I’d like to see fewer of them on the streets.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Do you enjoy your work?”

  “I love it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s creative, challenging. And no one’s making me do it.” I leave out the part about the challenge being to convince some stone-hearted douche bag to cut loose with a little (most likely inherited) cash, and when I accomplish the task, it’s a win. The bigger the check, the bigger the win.

  The steak is every bit as good as I expected it to be. I usually like my meat a little less done, but Melody can’t stand to eat it bloody, so we compromise with medium rare. Even this firm, it’s delicious. We take our time, savor each bite and each sip of wine. I am almost finished when I realize the only conversation I’m hearing is at the next table. Have we run out of things to say already?

  We skip dessert, wander through the casino on our way to the late-night cabaret show, which starts in about an hour. “Hope you don’t mind I chose sexy over silly,” I tell Melody. “But I wasn’t sure we could make the earlier show.”

  “I’m a big girl. I think I can handle boobs and G-strings.”

  “Good to hear.” But, then, why has her face blushed so red? “I’m more interested in the vocals, by the way. And maybe the dance, though that’s open for debate. Voice is hard to fake. Sort of like boobs.”

  The cheer of a winning roll draws my attention to a nearby roulette table. Anticipation prickles the back of my neck. Normally I’m more of a poker girl, but only if I’m on my own, with several hours to kill. “We’ve got a little time. Let’s play for a few.”

  “You know how I feel about gambling.” Mel’s voice is stern. Having spent our teen years in Las Vegas, we witnessed the gaming dependency from many angles. Mom had a problem, and so did a number of her revolving-door boyfriends. Sometimes that resulted in hungry days.