Anne & Henry (14 page)

T
he porch light glows through the trees, an unfamiliar beacon drawing me . . . home. The sentiment doesn't sit right, kind of lodges in the back of my throat. It's too soon to stop smiling, to stop thinking of Henry, our date, the feeling of—

A blush creeps up my neck.

I pull Clarice over at the bottom of the driveway, cut the engine, and slide off my helmet. Listen. I half expect my mother's voice to slice through the eerie silence. I'm two hours past curfew on a school night, sopping wet and grinning like a damned fool.

Cold rain trickles down the back of my neck. I strap my helmet onto the seat and start pushing the bike up the driveway to keep the noise down. Pebbles, branches, and wet leaves
crack-crackle-snap
under my boots and Clarice's tires.

Lake Washington shimmers in the background. A handful
of lights twinkle through the pitch-dark shoreline, like distant fireflies too restless for sleep. I inhale air that smells clean and fresh, untainted by the greasy scent of the fast food joint at the end of my old street. On the other side of the lake, stars blink from behind retreating storm clouds.

I lean Clarice up against the garage. I'm not allowed to park her next to Thomas's expensive car or my mother's new BMW, as though Clarice's very presence will somehow cheapen the other vehicles.

Tonight, even this doesn't annoy me.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and creep up the sidewalk. The whole house is dark, quiet, tucked in under the thick cover of night. I insert my key into the lock and open the door with a gentle push.

Blinking, I adjust my eyes to the lighting in the grainy hallway as I bend to untie my boots, edge them off my bare feet. Dried mud flakes onto the tile floor. Still beaming, I slide off my wet jacket and tiptoe to the bathroom for a towel to clean up the mess.

The sitting room lamp switches on and I gasp.

“Quite late for your curfew, aren't you, Anne?”

My back stiffens at the sound of my stepfather's disapproving voice. “Shit,” I hiss, my hand moving to cover my chest. My pulse pounds in my ears.

Thomas sits in an enormous wingback chair, hands wrapped around the armrests, legs bent with rigid formality.
There's an empty bourbon glass on the side table and I wonder how much he's had to drink, whether I'm in for a fight or quiet admonishment. My gaze flits to the coffee table where the final plans for the new creative center are spread across the surface, a complex tangle of lines and sharp angles.

“Working late?” I say, and tuck a strand of wet hair behind my ear. My skin is cool, goose pimpled. I can hardly stand still thinking about curling into bed and calling Henry.

“Where have you been?”

The truth balances on the edge of my lips, but I bite down. I don't know how Thomas will react to my date with Henry, if he'll be happy, relieved, or angrier than hell. It doesn't matter. I'm not ready to share.

“Exploring.” I consider telling him about the cemetery, the theater, and the intriguing Medina landmarks I've passed, but even that feels too sacred. “This town is bigger than it looks.”

“Your mother was worried,” he says. He leans forward as though to stand, but rests his forearms on his knees instead. Interlaces his fingers. His meaty thumbs rub absently against each other and he bows his head. “I don't like it when she's upset. She doesn't sleep. I had to give her a pill.” He glances over at the grandfather clock in the corner. “She's been out for half an hour.”

I should feel guilty, but the emotion lies dormant, stifled by a range of feelings I can't identify. The air in my lungs escapes in a shuddering, long breath. “I lost track of time.”

Thomas pauses for what seems an eternity. “And you weren't concerned about riding your motorcycle in the storm?” He holds my gaze and my blood runs cold. Busted.

I consider the best phrasing, some kind of excuse. “I pulled over and found shelter, waited out the worst of it.”

The tension between us hums, stretches out for seconds, minutes—

“It's very important to your mother that you fit in here,” Thomas says. My spine straightens and my lips press together in a firm line. It's so much harder to “fit in here” than everyone thinks. I'm expecting a lecture, but Thomas softens his tone, like he wants us to be best buddies. Worried, maybe, that if he pushes too much, I'll snap. “I want that too. I want both of you to like it here. We're a family now.”

He loves knowing he swooped in to rescue Mom from certain destitution, scooped us out of a Jerry Springer episode and planted us here in this cold, stone-walled castle. My mother's knight in shining armor. I don't even know if she truly loves him—or if his proposal simply gave her an out, a way to forget the dysfunctions of our fractured family. Yesterday I might have told Thomas to fuck off, that we never needed him to save us, aren't ready to move on, but tonight, I think about Henry, about the future, and maybe there's a twinge of gratitude. Because if it wasn't for Thomas and his white limousine, there'd be no Henry.

A deep pulsing ache fills my chest, a reckless need to
return to the theater, to the safety of Henry's arms.

“And I want that too,” I say calmly, unwilling to let him hear the desperation in my admission. “I like the school. It's . . . huge. And my chem teacher is funny.” I chew on the inside of my cheek, waiting to see if he needs more convincing. Thomas nods but I keep going, suddenly compelled to prove that I'm making an effort. “I have this new friend, Sam. She's on Student Council—the, uh, secretary. I think you and Mom would like her.” I clear my throat. “And I've been invited to a few parties, even a murder mystery.” My smile is authentic, encouraging.

Thomas stands. “Good. It sounds like you're on the right track, then. Your mother and I just want to make sure you stay there. No repeats of the past.”

His meaning hovers in the air like a ghostly apparition. Anger burns its way up my esophagus. Which version of the story does he believe? Whose side is he really on? My body goes hot with the need to defend myself. I don't like the way he's lumped himself in with Team Mom.

Instead I just say, “Yes, sir.”

Thomas grunts. “School tomorrow. You head on up to bed now.”

I turn, but he stops me with a warm hand on my shoulder. His voice is low and gravelly, infused with an underlying hint of warning. “Let me deal with your mother. I'll assure her that this won't happen again.”

Thomas shuts off the light, and when he finally retreats to the main floor master suite, I climb the long staircase to my bedroom on the second floor, his words, the warning, echoing in my mind:
I'll assure her that this won't happen again.

A blast of cool air hits me as I cross the threshold of my new bedroom. Gauzy curtains hover at the open window, damp from the wind and rain. Despite the chill, I'm comforted knowing no one has been in here, pawing through my shit for clues to where I've been.

Not that they'd find much. I've thrown out or left behind most of my personal things—my old Goth art and glam rock posters would shock the simple palette of my new space. A walk-in closet overflows with clothes I won't wear and heels more suited for stabbing someone than walking in.

I peer out into the darkness. Henry's house hides somewhere in the distance, invisible through the thick forest of trees that separates us. Below, the soft glow of the yard lights shine over the labyrinth of perfectly trimmed hedges and the rose garden that surrounds the white latticework gazebo at the end of the grass. Grass so meticulous I'm afraid to walk across it.

I pull the window shut and slide the curtains into place, turn on the bedside lamp, and fold back the thick duvet. I strip down to my underwear and tanktop, crawl into bed, pulling the blankets up around my neck, cell phone gripped tight in my palm.

Finally, I send Henry a text.

M
y mother breathes in like she's trying to make herself taller, more authoritative. Then her mouth goes small, a sign she's trying not to erupt and say something she might regret.

I'm used to feeling like I'll never measure up. I can't recall the last time she wasn't annoyed or sad or disappointed. But this level of anger . . .

She doesn't yell. Just closes her eyes and inhales deeply, like she's aiming for patience. There's something scary about my mother's silences that makes you wish she'd just scream and get it all out.

“Can you imagine,” she says, her voice small and tight, jaw clenched. Every word comes out like an extended syllable. “My embarrassment? My utter shock?”

She lowers herself onto a chair and cups her hands around a glass of red wine. “I don't understand,” she starts, and I know
what's coming, brace for the fallout. “Catherine is perfect for you. I expected you to get married. Everyone did.”

I slide out of my jacket, still damp from the rain, and fold it across my lap as I sit at one of the kitchen chairs, careful not to get the white cushion dirty. The spicy tang of Anne's perfume lingers on the fabric. “It may as well have been an arranged engagement,” I say, softening my voice to take the sting out of my next sentence. “Catherine was perfect for Arthur, Mom. Not me.”

My mother often wields her sadness like a weapon. But this time, I don't duck.

“Did you even give it a chance?” she says. “You're still in high school. You would have loved each other in time.”

Love.
I'm not even sure I understand what that word means, but it sure as hell isn't what I felt about Catherine. “How much time, Mom?” I lean across the table and take one of her hands in mine, tilt my head so our eyes lock and she can't escape the question. “We have nothing in common.”

“She's a beautiful young girl with a bright future ahead of her,” my mother says.

“Which is why I know she'll be just fine,” I say.

“Her father will never give you an internship now.”

I nod. “I know. There are other ways—”

She leans back and starts picking at something on her blouse. Her pantsuit is wrinkled, like she's been wearing it a few hours too long.

Cut through the tension and it's plain to see her anger isn't rooted in my failed relationship. Not really. Sure, she's pissed that I blew off the gala, that I apparently missed an important, surprise meeting with a Harvard VIP. But even that's not the core of her frustration.

The real problem is that I didn't tell her about Catherine—someone else did. And since I wasn't there, it provided undeniable proof that, despite pretending, my mother and I aren't as close anymore, that her influence isn't as substantial as some may have been led to believe.

Guilt winds its way down my throat and settles on my chest, making me feel heavy with responsibility and longing. Our relationship has changed so much, no more the simple bond between mother and son, but rather a complex business partnership, with her holding on with an iron fist.

“I should have called,” I say.

She glances up at the giant clock over the china cabinet. The minute hand clicks past midnight. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I know it's Anne, texting to say she got home safe, waiting for me to call and whisper good night.

Mother swirls her wine, downs what's left. “So, where have you been?”

I hesitate a second too long. She pushes her glass aside with disgust and stands. Begins to pace the narrow length of the kitchen. “It's true then? The rumors . . . about her?”

“Mom . . .” I run my hand through the disheveled mess of
my hair and squeeze the back of my neck. Tension pulls my muscles into knots. “It's not what you think.”

Except that it is, and she damn well knows it.

“I don't know what to think anymore, Henry.” She throws her arms up, then presses the heel of one palm to her forehead. Closes her eyes. “It's like you've forgotten who you are. The person you're
meant
to be.”

My voice rises an octave as frustration gives way to anger. “And who is that, exactly? Arthur? Because in case you haven't noticed, he's dead.”

She whips her head around and silences me with a glare. “At least there's something we agree on. Arthur would never have disrespected the family, thrown all of our hard work in my face.”

“I missed an event, Mom. It's not like I dropped out of school or murdered someone.”

Normally when my mother brings up Arthur, all I feel is guilt. But right now I feel indignant, empowered even. My phone vibrates again, sending a tingle into my legs. If I don't call Anne soon, she'll worry something's wrong.

“I should have been the one to tell you about Catherine.” I fold my jacket over my arm and stand. My knees buckle a little. “And maybe I shouldn't have gone out with Anne tonight.” The words sound insincere on my tongue, a thinly veiled apology.