Beautiful Malice (17 page)

33

W
hen I get home later that afternoon, Mick is already there, waiting for me. He swings the door open almost before I get the chance to knock and puts his arms around me as soon as I step inside. “We just got a phone call.” He laughs. “We got the apartment. We can move in next week.”

He takes my hand and tugs me to the kitchen, pulls out a stool, and hands me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He’s been preparing dinner. Sliced vegetables are piled together on a plate—mushroom, beans, carrots—and the tiny kitchen, which is normally in a state of messy chaos, is clean.

“I thought we’d celebrate with something healthy. A stir-fry.”

“Sounds great.”

“Well, I should warn you that it could be a disaster, but I’m trying. Hey, Philippa said that you bumped into Alice?” He glances up at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m all right.” I sit down heavily on the stool and rest my elbows on the countertop.

“Philippa said that Alice said some pretty vicious things. She said you were upset.”

“I was, I guess. But it wasn’t really what Alice said. Not really. I just … well, she hasn’t said anything I haven’t thought of myself a million times before. So I suppose it wasn’t really Alice that upset me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, of course she’s a bitch and everything. And she’s deliberately trying to be cruel, I know that. And her nastiness is scary, the way she wants to hurt me so much. But what she said was already going around my head anyway. It’s been there all the time. I did run away from Rachel, and I did leave her there to get murdered.” I lift my hand and raise my voice when I see that Mick is about to object. “It’s all true. They’re indisputable facts. And I did take her to the party and let her drink. I
was
responsible. And those thoughts were already there. Inside me. A part of me. Alice didn’t put them there. In fact, it feels like Alice is the only person who has been completely honest. The only person who has dared to say this stuff that everyone must have thought at some stage.”

“But you couldn’t—”

“Please, Mick,” I interrupt. “Just listen. I’m not finished.”

“Okay,” he says. “Go on.”

“Sorry. It’s just that I’ve realized something today. Something good, I think.”

He nods.

“I used to think that there would eventually come a time when everything would feel better. Like some kind of magic. I thought I’d just wake up and not feel sad anymore. Not feel guilty anymore. Just, like,
wham!
and I’d be over it. And I’ve been waiting for that day. I’ve been thinking to myself that as soon as that day came I would feel better and then I would start getting on with my life properly, fully enjoying it again.” I laugh, a little embarrassed by the emotion in my voice. “But what I finally realized today is that it’s not going to be like that. This is going to stay with me. Forever. And that’s okay. It’s fine. I can accept it.”

“That’s great, Katherine, but don’t you think—”

I don’t get to hear what he’s about to say because suddenly there’s a thunderous knocking on the door.

“Jesus.” Mick looks at me and shakes his head. “Who the—”

“Katherine! Katherine! Are you in there?” A man is shouting desperately through the door, pounding so hard that the walls are shaking. “Katherine! Open up!”

“Oh my God.” I sit up straight, feel the color drain from my face. “I think that’s my dad.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and I stand and rush to the door, pulling it open just as my father starts shouting my name once again.

Mom and Dad are standing side by side in the hall. They look surprised when they see me, as if they hadn’t really expected to. They look at each other and then back at me.

“Dad! Mom! What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Katherine.” Mom rushes forward and hugs me. “Are you okay? Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I squeeze her against me and then push away. “I’m fine. Everything’s great. But why are you here? What’s wrong?”

And then Dad has his hand beneath my chin; he lifts my head and stares intently into my eyes. “You’re sure everything’s okay?” he says. “You’re sure?”

“What’s
wrong?”
I repeat. “You’re scaring me. What are you
doing
here?”

In the next instant Mick is beside me, one hand in mine, the other stretched out in welcome to my parents. “Hi. I’m Mick. Do you want to come inside?”

Dad ignores Mick’s outstretched hand. He stares, his eyes moving from Mick’s face down to his feet and up again, in an obvious and rudely appraising way that I’ve never seen him use before.

Mom steps forward and smiles—but it’s a forced, unnatural smile, one that goes nowhere near her eyes—and shakes Mick’s hand. “Mick. I’m Helen. This is my husband, Richard. And yes, we would like to come in. Thank you.”

Mick and I step aside to let my parents through the door. We follow them, and Mick glances at me quizzically behind their backs. But I can only shrug. I’m as puzzled by their presence, by their weird behavior, as he is.

We go to the kitchen, which is light and bright and clean and full of the preparations for our dinner.

Mom turns to face us.

“We may as well be frank,” she says. “Alice called us.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly, and the feeling of foreboding her name invokes makes me feel instantly and desperately tired. “Why? What did she want?”

“She was worried about you, darling,” Mom begins, but Dad interrupts gruffly.

“She said that you were taking drugs. She said that you were living with some”—he nods toward Mick—“well, in her words,
motorbike-riding, drug-pushing bum.”
And then he looks at me, and he looks so small and sad and afraid that I can hardly bear it. “She also said that you were pregnant.”

I could easily defend myself. After all, I’m not taking drugs and Mick is not a bum. There’s enough evidence here—clean apartment, wholesome food, our glasses of
orange juice
, for God’s sake—to prove that it’s not true. But the whole pregnancy thing sticks in my throat, renders me instantly mute and ashamed.

“Alice is a liar,” Mick says, and I look up at him gratefully. He’s so full of decency and common sense and honesty. They have to see that. “Katherine doesn’t take drugs. That’s ridiculous.” He stares straight into my father’s face, and his expression is completely open and his eyes don’t waver. “And neither do I.”

Nobody speaks for a moment, but Mom and Dad look at each other and it’s obvious by the looks on their faces that they are relieved. They want to believe what Mick is saying, that much is clear.

“But why on earth would Alice say such things?” she asks, and already I can hear the hope in her voice.

“Because Alice has problems,” Mick answers. “Serious mental problems.”

“Katherine?” Dad is looking at me, his eyebrows raised. All the tension that made his face so stiff and unfriendly and intimidating just moments before has disappeared. “Really? Can you promise me? Katherine, you’re not taking drugs?”

“No, Dad.” I shake my head, smile. “Of course not. I promise. I can’t believe you even thought that was true for a minute.”

“We hadn’t heard from you,” Mom says. “You weren’t answering the phone at Viv’s and we couldn’t get through on your cell phone. We left several messages, darling. At least ten. We just … well, we were actually starting to get worried before Alice called.”

“Oh, God. Sorry, Mom. My phone’s been switched off. I just had it off because I wanted to avoid talking to Alice. I had no idea she’d call you. Make up such big lies. This is all so crazy. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I should have called, I should’ve let you know where I was.”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Mom shakes her head, and before she has the chance to blink them away, I see the tears in her eyes. “As long as you’re okay, I don’t really care.”

And then Mom and Dad both step forward and hug me. They kiss my head, my cheek, laugh with relief and happiness. When they have pulled away and composed themselves, the four of us stand there, looking slightly embarrassed, until Mick tells us all to sit down, pours fresh glasses of orange juice.

“I feel silly now.” Mom reaches over and puts her hand on mine. She looks at Mick. “You must think we’re dreadful, turning up like that. With all those insane accusations.”

“No. Just freaked out. As most parents would be.” He shakes his head, looks at my mother, and smiles his wonderful smile—and I can see by her response that she is charmed.

“I guess so.” And then she looks at me and laughs, squeezes my hand before letting go. “I’m so glad that you’re okay, darling. We were so worried. So afraid. You have no idea.”

And the next hour, though brought about by such bizarre circumstances, has a strangely happy, almost celebratory, feel. Mick insists that my parents stay for dinner. The four of us sit around the table together and eat Mick’s stir-fry, and Dad tells us about the phone call with Alice. And though I find it hard to believe that she would have the nerve to tell such lies, and slightly alarming that she feels so spiteful toward me, I feel oddly benevolent toward her. Her actions have only brought my parents closer, and though I’ve never doubted their love for me, I’m moved by their obvious concern, their panic. I feel loved. Cherished.

But my parents don’t ask whether or not I’m pregnant—either they’re assuming that everything Alice has said is a lie, or they’re too scared to ask—and neither Mick nor I mention it. As we eat, and talk, and joke, I keep thinking of different ways to let them know:
Oh, Mom and Dad, by the way, Alice wasn’t lying about everything. I really am pregnant! Aren’t you thrilled, you’re going to be grandparents!
But it’s such an impossibly enormous thing to drop into the conversation—so heavy and serious and permanent—that I say nothing. Every time Mick speaks I imagine that he’s going to tell them and the pace of my heart quickens, but he doesn’t, and our dinner passes in conversation about Alice. And music. And how and when Mick and I met.

When we’ve finished eating, Mick insists on washing up. He looks at me pointedly when my parents’ backs are turned and indicates with his hands that I should take them into the living room. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to give me some privacy so that I can tell them about the pregnancy.

But when I ask them if they want to come and sit with me for a while—ostensibly so that I can show them some photos from the last few weeks of school—Dad refuses. He’d like to help Mick clean up, he says. Mom shrugs and smiles and takes my hand in hers.

“Let him do it,” she whispers. “He probably wants to get to know your young man.”

And though I’ve rehearsed numerous different ways of saying it gently, tactfully, in the end I just blurt it out as soon as we are out of sight of my father and Mick.

“We’re going to have a baby.”

“What? What did you say?” Mom stops walking, turns to look at me. She is frowning. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’re going to have a baby.”

“You’re pregnant? Oh my goodness. Well, so that much was true.” She turns away, but not before I see the telltale wetness in her eyes, the quiver of her chin.

“Please, Mom. Please. I know you’re disappointed. I know this isn’t what you expected, or hoped for me. I know that. It wasn’t what I wanted, either. But I promise you, Mom, we’ll be okay. I promise. Don’t worry, Mick’s wonderful. He’s not about to run away or anything. We’ll make it work. We will. It’ll be okay. I can still go to college. I’ll still get my degree, I promise. It’ll be fine, Mom. Everything will be fine.”

“Pregnant?” She says the word again, as if she’s having difficulty comprehending it. She walks over to the couch and sits down heavily. “Pregnant.”

I sit beside her. I keep my eyes down, pick nervously at the fabric of my jeans. “You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?”

“No,” she says. “Of course not.”

“You’re ashamed.”

“No,” she says. “I’m not.” And now her voice is firm, indignant. “Katie. You don’t understand. I’m not disappointed, that’s not it. Not at all. And, darling, the word
ashamed
isn’t even part of my vocabulary. It’s a bit shocking, of course, that you’re pregnant, and it’s a little hard to absorb. But for God’s sake, Katherine, a few short hours ago we were terrified that you were taking drugs. We seriously thought we might lose you.” She sighs, shakes her head. “I’ve had a daughter die. I’m beyond such … I don’t even
think
like that anymore.”

I look at her. I’m confused. I have no idea what she’s thinking, no idea what to say.

“Katie. Sweetheart.” She smiles. “I probably shouldn’t say this, or even think like this, I’m sure it’s not in the handbook of good parenting, but you have to understand that it’s very hard for me to see this as a catastrophe.”

“Oh,” I say. “So what
do
you think?”

And she puts a finger to her lips, stares wide-eyed up at the ceiling for a moment, then looks back down at me and grins. It’s a gleeful, impish, guilty-looking grin. “I think I feel very excited really. If I’m honest, thrilled.”

I must look as shocked as I feel because she laughs, shuffles closer to me on the couch, and puts her arm around me.

She speaks quietly, intensely. “Perhaps it’s wrong of me, or selfish, even, but all I can think is how wonderful this is. You’re adding to our family, you’re creating a new person for us all to love. You’re creating life, darling, you’re … you’re
living
life. I think it’s wonderful, actually, if I’m honest. I’ll get a new grandchild, a new person to love … and just explain why should I ever think that was bad? And I think your young man is heavenly, really, an absolute gentleman. And so good to talk to, so intelligent.” And then she takes a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes at her eyes, blows her nose. “I remember perfectly when I was first pregnant with you. All that wonderful, innocent hope, all that excitement.”

“So you’re seriously not disappointed? You’re not upset with me?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

“You don’t think we’re insane to keep it when we barely know each other?”