Beautiful Malice (4 page)

6

W
hen the first song finishes, another comes on, one with a faster beat, and Robbie jumps up, stretches his hand out toward me, and pulls me up. And so we dance, the three of us. We dance close, our bodies touching, our hips and thighs bumping, our arms around one another. Robbie puts his arms around Alice. He kisses her and I watch them, their bodies pressed tight together. They are both so beautiful, they fit together so perfectly. Alice notices me watching and smiles, then whispers into Robbie’s ear. Robbie lets Alice go and wraps his arms around me, hugs me tight, and then he leans back, puts his hands on my cheeks, bends down, and presses his lips against mine. It’s a chaste kiss, almost brotherly, but it’s thrilling. Alice smiles, nudges me, giggles. And suddenly the three of us are hugging and laughing and I am deliriously happy. I feel liked. I feel attractive. I feel
young
again.

And when the small voice starts up in my head—the voice that tells me I don’t deserve happiness, that I shouldn’t take what Rachel can’t have—I refuse to listen. I decide, at least for tonight, to ignore the side of myself that disapproves of everything that I want. I’m giddy and carefree. I am Katie Boydell again. Just for one night. Young and happy and impetuous.
Katie
. Fun and adventurous.
Katie
. Just for this one evening, Katherine is gone and I can be me.

So we giggle and dance and hug to song after song until our faces are shiny with sweat and we become thirsty and need to go to the kitchen for water. When we’ve finished dancing, we pull the cushions from the sofa and set up a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets and collapse on the floor. We don’t stop talking until after three a.m.—and our sleep is the sleep of the exhausted, heavy and deep and still, the three of us close, legs tangled, faces buried in the pillows.

When I wake, Alice is curled up next to me. She is on her side in the fetal position, her hands clenched in front of her face. She looks like a sleeping angel getting ready to fight, a strangely innocent-looking boxer. She is breathing quickly and shallowly, and I can hear a little high-pitched squeak from her nose as the air rushes in and out. Her eyelashes flutter, and I can see her eyeballs roll beneath her lids. REM sleep. Dreams.

I extricate myself slowly and as quietly as I can. I’m still dressed in my skirt and T-shirt. I go straight to the bathroom and take my clothes off and step into the shower.

When I’m finished, I get dressed and go to the kitchen.

Robbie is at the sink, washing dishes. He has almost finished the pile left over from the night before—the mess Alice promised to clean up.

“Hey,” I protest. “Thanks. But you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Good morning.” He looks up and grins, and despite his messed-up hair and bloodshot eyes, he still looks incredible. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind doing dishes. Actually. I kinda like it. I remember being a kid and watching Mom do it. I always thought it looked like fun. All that splashing. All the bubbles.” He lifts a bubble on the palm of his hand, blows it off so that it falls back into the sink. “How are you feeling? Tired? We only had about four hours’ sleep.”

“Yeah, I know. I
am
a bit wrecked. How about you?”

“Excellent. All ready for a day of soccer practice and a long night waiting on assholes at the restaurant.”

“You poor thing. You should go back to bed. Get some more sleep.”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “I’m used to it. You want some tea? I put the kettle on.”

“I’d love some. But I’ll make it. I’m very fussy about my tea.”

“Oh?”

“I only drink the proper stuff, you know, the whole tea-leaf-and-teapot thing. People think I’m crazy. My pickiness annoys everyone. It’s always better if I just make it myself.”

“That’s cool. I like the good stuff best, too. My mother hated tea bags. She used to only drink the real deal, too.”

“Used to?”

“Before she died.” He looks down at his hands, which are immersed in the water. “Just over a year ago.”

“Oh, Robbie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No,” he says. “Of course you didn’t.”

I could leave it at that, change the subject and talk about something happier, something less intense, but I remember the way people used to do that when Rachel died. I remember how bizarre and hurtful it felt to have the subject of her death brushed off and discarded as if it had no more importance than a conversation about the weather. So I don’t change the subject.

“You must really miss her.”

“Yeah.” He looks up, and his eyes are wet with tears. “Yeah, I do.”

“And your father? How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay, I think. But it’s really hard to know for sure, isn’t it? I mean, I can’t just come right out and ask, can I?”

“Why not?”

“Because what if he’s not okay? What then? What can I do about it?”

I know better than to offer up meaningless platitudes, to tell the lie that words can heal. Because I know that they don’t, they can’t. Words are just words. They’re powerless against the force of real pain, real suffering.

“Nothing,” I agree. “You can’t do anything. Not really.”

“Exactly. And if you tell each other the truth, how sad you feel, then you’re only going to feel worse, because then you have to worry about the suffering of the other poor guy, as well as deal with your own crap.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “It’s probably better if you just deal with your misery your own way. And eventually, hopefully, it becomes less intense. Less at the front of your mind every day.”

Robbie nods his agreement. And then we’re silent for a minute. I wait, giving Robbie the choice of continuing the conversation or changing the subject. His next words come out quickly, in a breathless rush. “I was about to move out when she got really sick, but I stayed because I wanted to help and because I wanted to be with her, you know, spend as much time with her as possible before she … because we knew by then that she was definitely going to die, it was just a matter of when. But that was two years ago. And I’m still there. I’m twenty years old and I still live at home because I feel too sorry for my old man to move out. But the really stupid thing is, I don’t even know if he actually wants me there. He probably wishes I’d just move the hell out so he could be alone, so he could wallow in peace. He probably thinks I want
his
company. It’s just … well … it’s just all screwed up, basically.”

“So your dad’s still pretty sad, then?”

“Usually he seems okay. Or at least he
acts
okay. Usually he’s strong and really wants to get on with things, and make sure that the house is happy, clean, full of food, all that stuff. You know, we’re always having friends over, pizza-and-beer nights, as if everything’s okay, as if life couldn’t be better without a woman in the house. But then one night, about a week ago, I was heading to his room, I was gonna tell him something. And I just stopped for a minute outside his door, dunno why, maybe … Anyway … I stopped and I heard him crying. Really crying, you know, that heartbreaking, noisy, sobbing kind of stuff. It was horrible. I mean, sure, I know he really loved Mom, I know he misses her, but he sounded so … so helpless. Like a child. As if he had no control of himself. As if all this happiness crap was just bullshit. Something he does just for my sake. And I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there for a second, wishing he’d stop, that he’d shut the hell up. It was weird. The worst thing was that I felt no sympathy. I just hated him for it, for letting me hear that, for not keeping up the pretense that he was okay.”

“I know what you mean. Seeing your parents like that really makes you grow up; it makes you realize that the world’s just a big scary place that they have no control over. And if they can hurt so much, if they can’t control things, what hope is there for you?” The words are out before I realize what I’m saying, what I’m revealing.

“Exactly.” Robbie looks at me, suddenly alarmed. “Shit. Your mother hasn’t died or anything, has she?”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head and laugh, as if the idea that I’m familiar with death is absurd. “She’s fine. I’ve just thought about this kind of thing a bit. And I’ve read some of my dad’s books on bereavement and stuff. Morbid, I guess. Crazy.”

“Well, you really nailed the feeling. Most people freak out when I say that my mom died. Most people get all upset or embarrassed and change the subject. And my counselor’s useless. She always asks me what I’m feeling and how I feel about what I’m feeling. And then she tells me that my feelings are perfectly valid while all the time there’s this underlying message that I should really try to feel something completely different. I’d get as much insight talking to a roll of toilet paper.”

I’m about to reply when Alice calls out from the other room.

“Good morning,” she says, her voice raspy and deep from the late night. “People? Where are you? I’m getting very lonely in here.”

Robbie and I smile at each other and shrug, let the conversation end. We take the teapot and the milk, the sugar, and the cups and go into the living room to join Alice.

7

I
pick Sarah up earlier than usual from her day-care center. I watch her through the window for a moment before she sees me, and am pleased to see that she looks perfectly happy. She’s playing with a heap of bright green Play-Doh, alone, completely absorbed with patting and pounding it into a goopy, colorful mess. She’s a solitary little girl, uncomfortable with people—just as Rachel used to be—and though I’m glad that she’s cautious, I also worry that this will make things difficult for her. After all, she has to mix with people, whether she wants to or not.

It’s odd, because I never saw Rachel’s shyness as any kind of disadvantage. In fact, it was a trait that I found endearing in her. But for my daughter I want life to be perfect. I want everyone to love her. I want everything to be as easy and happy and untroubled as possible.

People tell me that I’m overprotective, that I need to let Sarah go, give her space to make her own way in the world, but I don’t believe there is any such thing as overprotecting your loved ones. I want to grab these people by the arm and shout,
There is danger everywhere, you fools! You think you’re safe, you think people are trustworthy? Nice? Open your eyes and look around!
But they would only think I was crazy. They are naïve, oblivious, unaware that the world is full of people who wish you ill, and I’m amazed that they can be so blind.

Being a mother is difficult, contradictory, impossible. I want my daughter to be happy, to make friends, to laugh and feel joyful. I don’t want her to be paralyzed by fear and anxiety. But I also want her to be careful. To go into this dangerous world with her eyes wide open.

When I open the door and enter the playroom, I stand behind her and wait for her to sense my presence and turn around. I love the moment when she first sees me, the look of pure delight that lights up her face, the way she’ll forget, instantly, whatever it is she’s doing, and rush into my arms. She comes to day care only two afternoons a week, Wednesday and Friday—painfully long, boring afternoons for me—and I’m always relieved when I pick her up on Friday afternoon, glad that another week is over, that we can be together for four whole days before it’s time to bring her back.

I’ve come to pick her up early today for our annual trip. I’m taking her to the mountains, to the snow, and I’m as excited as a child at the prospect of Sarah’s delight when she sees it. We can make a snowman, have snow fights, perhaps ride a toboggan. We can drink hot chocolate by the fire and enjoy the cold, enjoy also a little time on our own, away from my parents.

“Mommy!” she cries when she sees me. She stands up and rushes over, knocking her stool over in her haste, and when I stoop to hug her, she wraps her arms around my neck. “Are we ready to go?”

“I am. How about you?”

“Did you pack my things?”

“Yep.”

“My Sally-bear?”

“Of course.”

“But what about Nana and Pop?” She knows how much my parents depend on her, and it saddens me that at her age she already worries about them.

“They’re going to have great fun this weekend, too. They’ve got friends coming to dinner and everything.”

Her face brightens. “Are they ’cited?”

“Very. Almost as excited as you and me.”

I scoop her up, collect her bags, sign her out, and go to the car. The trip out of the city is quick and trouble-free; we’re too early for the Friday-night rush hour. In the car, Sarah is quiet. She sits staring out of the window, thumb in mouth, slumped and relaxed. She has always been like this in a car, and driving was always the best way, when she was a small baby, to get her to sleep or to stop her from crying.

I drive carefully on the highway, keeping my car as far from others as I possibly can, remembering my father’s lectures on defensive driving. Dad tried to dissuade me from taking this trip.
The roads will be terrible
, he said,
all the worst drivers, the maniacs, head there on the weekends. And you’re not used to driving in those conditions
. He spoke curtly.
Don’t be such a fool, Katherine
.

I understand his terror—people are killed on the roads every day. One small error, a tiny mistake in judgment, a lapse in concentration—any of these could put us in the way of the many hurtling tractor-trailers that crowd this highway. Two more lives gone in an instant. An already shattered family annihilated. My father knows, better than most, that the unthinkable happens. He knows that nightmares can and do come true.

So it’s for his sake that I keep my eyes glued to the road, my hands firmly on the steering wheel, my mind alert. It’s my father’s fear that keeps me from pushing down on the accelerator as hard as I can.

8

“N
o no no no. No way. I don’t want to go there.” Alice shakes her head. “It’s so awful, full of fat people. And there’s no decent food.”

“Full of fat people?” Robbie shakes his head. “You can be such a bitch sometimes, Alice.”

“It’s the truth. The place is a dump. It’s crap, believe me. It’s full of the kind of people who eat margarine instead of butter and iron creases in the front of their jeans. My parents used to love it there. Which is about as big an argument against the place as you can get.”

Alice hasn’t told me much of any real substance about her parents, and I wonder about her relationship with them. Occasionally she speaks of her mother with a love and admiration that is almost palpable, and at other times she is derisive, almost cruel. When she mocks them—their poverty, their bad taste, their stupidity—I’m shocked that she can be so unfeeling toward her own flesh and blood.

The three of us are trying to organize a weekend trip away together. I’m excited and imagine a lovely weekend of swimming and eating and talking. But we can’t agree on the best place to go—and we have a small budget, which makes it difficult because Alice is being fussy.

I feel a little guilty because my parents have a house in the country that they use for weekends occasionally. It’s a lovely house, modern, all pale wood and stainless steel, with spectacular views. My father designed it and incorporated all the things he loves about houses: comfort and style; clean, straight lines; and most important, light and air. There is also a swimming pool and a tennis court, so there is always something to do, and it sits on five acres of land, tucked privately behind a dense screen of pine trees.

My parents would be glad to let me use it—they often suggest that I take some friends there for the weekend—and I know they’d be thrilled to think of me enjoying myself there. But I don’t think I could endure it. I’ve been there only once since Rachel died—a few months after her death, when Mom and Dad and I were still in shock, still behaving like a group of aimless lost souls. And it was so painful being there without Rachel—her absence some kind of malign vacuum that sucked all the joy and beauty from the place—that I haven’t been back since.

We used to drive to the country during vacations and stay for a week, or sometimes two. It was a good, quiet place for Rachel to practice. The grand piano was always the focal point of the living space, and when she was still alive, Mom and Dad and I used to sit on the deck, sip lemonade, and listen to Rachel play. Except for Rachel’s music, they were very quiet vacations—there was no television or radio, no outside source of entertainment—and so we spent the days walking and swimming, the evenings playing Scrabble or chess.

It’s hard now to believe that I was often bored on those trips. It’s painful to remember that I sometimes resented being there: I missed my friends, my social life, whatever boy I had a crush on at the time, and was usually impatient to get back home. I wish now that I’d taken more notice, that I’d been more present. I wish now that I’d known how fragile it all was. If I’d understood how easily everything could be destroyed, I wouldn’t have taken it for granted.

With hindsight I can see so clearly how lucky we were. With hindsight I’m ashamed of the fact that I had no idea.

So, despite the obvious suitability of the country house, I don’t mention it. Instead, I suggest that we head to the beach.

“But it’s too cold to swim. What’s the point?” Alice objects.

“Don’t be such a wimp. The beach is great at this time of year. There’s no people but the water’s still warm.” Robbie smiles at me, then widens his eyes a fraction in fond amusement at Alice. “A most excellent idea, Katherine.”

“Hey.” Alice stares at me and then at Robbie. “I saw that look you two just gave each other. Having private little exchanges, are you now? About me, even?” She is smiling, but there is an edge to her voice, a cold glint in her eye. “Just remember that this is all about me. You two don’t exactly have a thing going. You wouldn’t even know each other if it weren’t for me.”

“Shut up, Alice.” Robbie rolls his eyes and lifts his empty cup. “I need some more coffee. Be a good host and go and get us some.”

Alice puts her face right up close to Robbie’s, and for a moment I’m not sure what she’s going to do. She looks angry, and I wonder if she’s going to scream, or tell him to leave, and for a moment I even think she might bite him. Instead, she presses her lips hard against his and opens her mouth, forces her tongue between his lips. Just as suddenly she pulls away, stands up, and collects our empty mugs.

“Another coffee? More tea, Katherine?” She smiles cheerfully.

“Sounds perfect. Thanks.”

Robbie watches her leave the room.

“Was she serious?” I ask him.

He turns to me with a startled look on his face, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Serious?” And then he nods. “Oh, yes. You mean everything being about her? Very serious. She’s a narcissist through and through. She really only cares about herself.”

At the time I think Robbie is just exaggerating. He loves her, after all, so he couldn’t mean this too seriously. Alice is a little selfish, a little self-absorbed, I’ve certainly noticed that about her. But so what? She can also be amazingly generous and kind. She has a remarkable ability to listen and to make others feel special.

“But you love her anyway?”

“She’s like a drug. I can’t get enough.” He looks suddenly sad. “I know she’s bad for me, I know I won’t ever be happy with her, but I can’t help myself. No matter what she does to me, I just keep coming back for more.” He shrugs and looks away. “I’ve got an addiction. An Alice addiction.”

“But what—?” I’m about to ask him what exactly she has done, why he thinks she is bad for him, when Alice comes back into the room carrying our steaming mugs.

“Thanks.” Robbie reaches out for his, and Alice bends down to kiss him tenderly as he takes it from her grasp.

“You’re an angel, Robbie. A star,” she says. Robbie rolls his eyes, but he is pleased by her display of affection, it’s obvious on his face.

She hands me my mug. “And you, Miss Katherine. You’re a total legend.”

I smile, sip my tea.

Alice sits down, leans forward, her face aglow. “I was just thinking when I was in the kitchen. I was just thinking how cool it is that the three of us have found each other. I mean, I know it’s probably super-corny to say so, but we really do get along well together, don’t we? I mean, we just seem to fit together, like … oh, I don’t know … like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. We just totally get each other.” And she smiles, looks down, suddenly self-conscious. “I just wanted to say that. Just wanted to say that you two are really important to me. My best friends in the world.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Robbie claps his hand on his knee and snorts loudly. “Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle? Did I hear you right? Did you really say that?” He looks at me, and his face is transformed by delight, all signs of his earlier concern gone. “Did she really say that?”

“She did.” I nod. “I think she did.”

“Oh my God.” Alice covers her smile with her hand. “Okay, I did. But in my defense, I was brought up by a woman who ate
Days of Our Lives
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I can’t help it if I’m a walking cliché. It’s petty and mean to laugh at me, Robbie, and you’re always scolding me for that. You hypocrite!”

“Too bad!” Robbie shakes his head. “Katherine and I want to go to the beach, and you have no excuse for being so difficult. No excuse at all.”

“Of course I do. I have every excuse in the world. Everything is difficult for me.” She puts her head down, speaks with mock shame. “You see, I have to overcome my upbringing, fight against all my natural inclinations.”

“I knew it!” Robbie laughs. “You’re secretly a margarine-lover, aren’t you?”

And the three of us laugh, clutch our stomachs, laugh some more.

“To be honest”—Alice puts her head down, pretends to be embarrassed—“I love ironing creases in my jeans. I have to force myself not to. It’s hard, but I’m getting there. Overcoming it slowly.”

And we laugh and make plans for our weekend away. I forget to wonder about what Robbie said about Alice, don’t think to ask him again later. So Alice has a few minor quirks. Don’t we all? I’m too happy to let that bother me. I’m having far too much fun to listen to the tiny little warning voice starting up in my head.