Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

  Then my phone rang. Aunt Pat.

  “How’d it go?” I asked, not knowing what I wanted to hear her say.

  Her voice was brittle. “She told me to mind my own business, that she knew what she was doing. Then she called me a word I will not repeat. She sounded drunk.”

  “She does like her evening indulgence,” I said carefully. Since I rarely saw Mrs. Wentworth actually drinking, I wasn’t sure how much she usually had. I didn’t want my suspicions to muddy the waters, which were already murky and rank.

  “I’m getting in the car,” Aunt Pat said. “There shouldn’t be much traffic this late.”

  “Be safe,” I said automatically. The thought of losing Aunt Pat, my last close relative, to an accident like my parents sent a surge of panic through me.

  “I will, sweetie,” she said. “Call me if you need anything before I get there.”

  “Will do,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Hang in there.”

  Now was the time to tell Taryn. Even though I hadn’t discussed it with Aunt Pat—it was so obvious that it hadn’t occurred to me to say anything—Taryn was coming with us. No way was I leaving her to face her mother’s wrath alone.

  I texted her, told her what Aunt Pat had said about the phone call. So she’s headed here, I finished.

  This isn’t going to end well, Taryn wrote. She hates being confronted. She can’t abide anyone thinking her life isn’t perfect. That SHE’S not perfect.

  Well, she’s not. And if she doesn’t let us out before Aunt Pat gets here, we’re leaving with Aunt Pat.

  Bella…

  Trust me, I texted. We’ll just get away for a while, get some perspective, you know?

  She didn’t respond. Finally, I typed, You’ve always wanted to visit the city…. I added a wink.

  Still no response.

  I blew out a breath, stood, rolled out my shoulders. Then I went into the closet and found a duffel bag.

  I surveyed the racks and shelves of clothes, the rows of shoes. So many pretty outfits. But the thought of taking anything Mrs. Wentworth had bought me felt wrong. I didn’t want to be any more beholden to her than I already was—if she expected me to pay her back, I’d find a way, no matter how long it took—plus I didn’t want the memories.

  A few moments later, I realized that my old clothes were too big anyway. I tried on a pair of jeans, and a light tug sent them sliding off my hips. She’d tossed most of my old underwear, so I was stuck with the nice stuff. I settled on two pairs of jeans, enough underwear to get me by for a few days, and my own, old shirts, no matter how baggy they’d be. My original sneakers, and the lipstick-red chiffon blouse.

  I rifled through more drawers, and pulled out my favorite pajamas. The pink crown pajamas my parents had bought me. Tears welled, but I dashed them away with a very inappropriate, gusty snort.

  In the bathroom, I added some very basic skin- and hair-care products. In a bottom drawer, I found my old makeup, which I’d never gotten around to throwing away. I threw that in as well.

  Back in the bedroom, I copied everything important from my laptop into the cloud, wiped the laptop clean, and used the burner phone to change the password on my cloud account. I hesitated over the phone. It was mine—she hadn’t bought it for me—but I didn’t know if the software she’d installed included tracking my location.

  I decided to power it off completely; I was pretty sure that meant tracking software wouldn’t work. If it did, well, we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where Aunt Pat lived.

  All the while, I was keeping an ear out in case Mrs. Wentworth came upstairs. I was less worried about her going off on me about calling Aunt Pat, and more worried about what she’d say or do to Taryn.

  I texted Taryn to do the same to her laptop, or bring it with her and I’d do it for her, but she didn’t answer.

  My stomach roiled and clenched. The last twenty-four hours had ticked by so slowly, but now it felt as though time was going in slow motion, if not backwards. It was dark outside. Everything seemed so quiet.

  I walked through my bedroom. I put my hand on my Einstein poster and said a silent goodbye. I could get another. From the shelves over the desk I took my little tiara and the one from the latest pageant, my family photo, and some knickknacks I’d arranged there from my old bedroom. All of it went into my backpack.

  The space was beautiful, tastefully decorated. But even with my personal touches, it never felt like my room, my space. More like a hotel. It didn’t feel lived-in.

  The whole house felt that way.

  It didn’t feel like a home at all.

  I still had at least an hour to kill. I showered, dried my hair and pulled it back, and put on light makeup. I wasn’t going to let Mrs. Wentworth find fault with me.

  I texted Taryn again. I PROMISE everything will be okay. Trust me?

  This time, the phone buzzed, and my heart leapt.

  I do trust you, she’d written.

  Can’t wait to hold your hand, I responded.

  A long moment. Then, Me, too.

  I breathed in, then let a long breath out.

  It was going to be okay.

  Whatever happened, we were going to be okay.

  Twenty-Seven

  I must have dozed off, sitting with my back against my bedroom door. Gradually I became aware of the doorbell ringing over and over, then pounding. It was faint, given I was upstairs and down a hall, but I trusted I wasn’t hallucinating.

  I was probably hallucinating the cloying scent of roses, though.

  Finally the doorbell and pounding stopped. I heard Mrs. Wentworth answer, and angry voices, getting louder. I pressed my ear to the tiny gap between the door and the slate-blue carpet. I was pretty sure I heard Aunt Pat say something about calling the police and CPS.

  Or maybe that was more hallucination. The police and CPS seemed like an overreaction, despite our being locked in, which had to be temporary.

  All I knew is that my heart leapt when I heard Aunt Pat’s voice, which represented…not just a release from my suite, but a voice of reason to tell me if I was overreacting myself.

  I ran my hands over the sleek ponytail I’d pulled my hair into. Ran a tongue over my teeth to ensure I didn’t need to brush again. Resisted the urge to check my lip gloss in a mirror. Shrugged on a jean jacket, the last of my personal clothes.

  I stood, my duffel and backpack by my feet, my heart thudding against my breastbone, until the door rattled to indicate a key in the lock, and then it opened.

  Aunt Pat grabbed me in her arms. I closed my eyes, which were pricking with tears of relief. When I opened them, I saw Mrs. Wentworth. She looked furious, her blue eyes dark with anger. She practically vibrated with rage. We’d crossed her, and it was, quite frankly, terrifying.

  But I had Aunt Pat here to be my champion. I’d never loved her more than I did now, even when she’d taken over when my parents died. It was a close comparison, though.

  Plus I hadn’t been hugged with so much love and comfort since then, and I’d forgotten how good it felt.

  I disengaged from her, squared my shoulders, and said to Mrs. Wentworth, “Taryn, too.”

  She shot daggers at me with her eyes, but whirled and unlocked Taryn’s door.

  “There,” she said, stepping back. “Indulge in your unholy, disgusting relationship.”

  I almost flipped her the bird. I was so close. But Taryn’s well-being mattered more to me.

  I flung open the door. “Taryn!”

  She was right there, as if she’d been about to open the door herself. I was three steps inside before I realized her expression…wasn’t what I expected.

  She was wearing her baggy sweats again, and a shapeless, oversized heather-grey T-shirt spattered with paint stains. Before I could fully get through the thought that she wasn’t going to leave wearing that, I realized there was something worse that was very, very wrong.

  She’d backpedaled as I’d walked
forward.

  There was no relief in her eyes. No love. Her expression was flat, the way it had been when I’d first arrived.

  I searched for any sign of affection, of what we’d shared, and found none.

  I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut, the wind knocked out of me.

  As much as I wanted to touch her, kiss her, assure her everything was okay, the look in her impassive brown eyes stopped me. The best I could do was reach out my hand, stopping just shy of touching her.

  Even though I wanted to do more. I wanted to hug her, feel her arms around me.

  Instead, I said, “Grab your stuff. Aunt Pat’s here. We can go now.”

  Slowly, she shook her head. Her hair wasn’t long enough to hide beneath, but I’d swear she was doing so all the same.

  “I’m not going,” she said.

  “Yes, you are,” I said. “We need to get away, get some perspective. That’s all.”

  “No,” she said. “Go if you want to. I can’t leave.”

  I crowded her forward until I could shut the door behind us. I didn’t want Mrs. Wentworth to hear anything.

  “You can leave,” I said, my hands half-reaching out to her, then falling uselessly to my sides when she didn’t respond. “She can’t keep you here.”

  “Of course she can,” she said. “I’m underage. Your aunt has no legal right to remove me, and my mother will just bring me back. She always comes to get me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember my dad? Remember her locking me in when I tried to go after Linny?”

  “You’re not a kid anymore,” I said. “You can still choose to go. Just for a while. We can work out the details later.” When she didn’t respond, her eyes blank as if she looked right through me, I added, “I thought you hated her.”

  “I do. But she’s my mother.” I shook my head blankly, and she said, “I’m all she has. I can’t leave her. She’d be devastated.”

  “But…she’s so mean to you,” I said, and as the words left me, I heard how weak they were. I took a deep breath. “She may love you, in her way, but I don’t think she cares about you.”

  “She does, really, despite everything,” Taryn said. “It’s just not obvious.” Her expression closed down even more. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never had to deal with something like this. Seriously, if you don’t understand? Then it really shouldn’t matter to you that your parents are dead.”

  I stepped back as if she’d slapped me, gasping in air so quickly my chest hurt.

  That hurt was nothing compared to how devastated I felt by her cruelty.

  I couldn’t even form a response. Couldn’t even move.

  She grabbed me by my upper arms, turned me, then pushed me towards the door. “Just go,” she said.

  I stumbled, catching myself on the door frame. I turned, but she was retreating into her room. My head spun. I wondered if this was what fainting felt like.

  “But I love you,” I said to her retreating back.

  If she heard me, she didn’t respond. I went into the hallway, my steps like slogging through mud.

  “Bella?” Aunt Pat said. “Are you okay?”

  I sucked in air, slowly, into my diaphragm, an automatic response from my training: how to pull yourself together if something rattles you.

  I looked back just as Taryn shut the door, the snick of the latch like a resounding gong of fuck you.

  “Yes,” I said. I crossed the hallway and grabbed my duffel and backpack from just inside my door. “Let’s go.”

  Hefting my meager luggage, I walked past Aunt Pat and Mrs. Wentworth without making eye contact, without looking at either of them at all. I marched down the opulent staircase, the choking scent of roses from the lush bloodred bouquet on the foyer table swamping my senses. I felt the vibration of footsteps behind me, and when I reached the bottom, I looked back.

  Aunt Pat stepped up beside me, and Mrs. Wentworth, ignoring us, stalked off to the left, towards the living room and kitchen.

  I looked back up the stairs. Silent, empty.

  I grabbed the doorknob, and Aunt Pat and I walked out the front door, even though every fiber of my being yearned to be back with Taryn.

  Despite the cruel words she’d said.

  Our steps crunched on the gravel drive. Otherwise, the night was silent except for the hum of insects. I had no idea how late it was; I hadn’t checked my phone since I’d heard the banging on the front door.

  I should have felt relieved—ecstatic, even, at my freedom—as I tossed my bags into the back of Aunt Pat’s car and slid into the front passenger seat.

  Instead, I felt conflicted.

  Something that smelled heavenly filled my senses, and my mouth watered. Aunt Pat started the car, then handed me a white paper bag.

  “I’m sorry it’s crappy fast food, but there wasn’t much open at this hour,” she said as she put the car in gear.

  “It’s perfect,” I said, plunging my hand into the bag. I was so very hungry, and I could figure out a way to work off the fat and calories tomorrow.

  I came up with a cheeseburger, and bit into it so hard that I almost choked on the mouthful. I chewed, saliva flooding my mouth, as I ripped off the top of the bag to make the fries easier to access.

  Glorious salt, fat, protein. And a soda in the slot in the armrest, a straw sticking out, to wash it down. I wanted to wolf the food down but I slowed myself, because I knew it wasn’t ladylike.

  Until this latest development, I couldn’t say that Mrs. Wentworth had starved us. The meals were healthy, nutritious, and while they weren’t indulgences, they were actually pretty good. I couldn’t get enough of ahi. I liked big crunchy salads.

  But once in a while, crap food actually tasted amazing. Once in a while, it was okay to indulge, to celebrate with food. Even though I knew I’d feel awful later.

  In fact, halfway through my burger, I shoved it back into the bag on top of the remains of the fries. My hands and mouth were covered with grease. I’d used up all the napkins, so I dug into my pockets, hoping to find at least a tissue.

  In my jacket pocket, something crinkled when I pulled it out. Not a napkin, not a tissue. Not even normal paper.

  I wiped my fingers on my jeans and reached around above me, fumbling for some kind of light. We were still on the mostly unlit highway; we hadn’t reached the freeway yet.

  Aunt Pat poked something above the rearview mirror that I hadn’t noticed, and a light illuminated my seat.

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  My hands shook as I unfolded the tightly folded, textured art paper.

  When Taryn had pushed me at the door, her hands on my back, she’d managed to tuck whatever this was into my pocket. So I knew it was important.

  It wasn’t a large piece of paper; smaller than a notebook page. I recognized the size from one of Taryn’s sketchbooks.

  When I saw what it was, a sob hiccupped into my throat.

  It was a sketch of the two of us, leaning towards each other, our faces in a three-quarter perspective. It looked as though we were sharing a secret, that one of us had just whispered in the other’s ear. We both had small smiles tugging the corners of our mouths, far from full-on laughter, more like gentle amusement. A private joke.

  An intimate moment, unshared with the rest of the world.

  The lines had been roughly drawn with pencil, but she was so skilled, our faces were easily identifiable. She’d gone over it with a pastel watercolor wash. The colors reminded me of the art hanging in her bedroom, the one by Michael Parkes.

  What did she call a piece like this? A study? Something like that. (I truly was interested in her art, but when she was explaining things it was easy to get distracted by the brush of her hair against her cheek, or the way she bit her lower lip when she concentrated.

  It didn’t matter. All I knew was the power of the emotion—the love—that practically vibrated from the picture.

  I’d never seen it before, hadn’t seen
anything that could have been an earlier attempt, so I had no idea when she’d done it. Last week? Two nights ago, after we’d talking and I’d fallen asleep with the burner phone still tucked against my cheek? After I’d told her Aunt Pat was coming, and she decided not to come with me?

  The last thought made no sense—why would she create something so beautiful but push me away with finality with her cruel words?—but none of it made sense.

  Why would she have ever put it in my pocket?

  A spot of moisture bloomed on the lower corner of the paper, and that was when I realized I was crying. Not sobbing, but silently weeping, tears flowing down my cheeks. I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling.

  Eventually, I felt Aunt Pat’s hand come to rest gently on my thigh. I glanced over at her in alarm. But Aunt Pat was watching the road, not me, and I relaxed. If she hadn’t been paying attention to her driving, I might have had a panic attack; I’d had some after my parents’ accident, flinching at every car that came near until the world grew black around the edges and spots danced angrily in my vision. My therapist had helped a lot—I was no longer always on edge when I was in a car—but I still had surges of fear.

  Aunt Pat must have seen me in her peripheral vision, though, because she said quietly, “Is there anything I can do?”

  Not “Are you okay?” or “Why are you crying?” or “How bad was it?” She didn’t care about the details; she just wanted to make things better somehow. That fact broke my heart even further—both because she cared, and because there was nothing she could do.

  I cleared my throat and said, “I don’t think so.” I wasn’t nearly ready to explain how I felt about Taryn, about the love and last-minute betrayal, or even about anything else, like the locked fridge. “But thank you.”

  I looked back down at the sketch in my lap, and touched my thumb to the teardrop that had fallen on it, trying to blot the moisture that thankfully hadn’t landed on the art itself.