House Broken (13 page)

GENEVA

G
eneva received a call from the school and left the game immediately to pick up Ella and bring her home. Now she sat on the edge of the couch and placed a cold washcloth on Ella's forehead. Her daughter's eyes were closed and her cheeks were pale.

“Feeling any better yet?”

“Ish.”

“And you were fine when you woke up?”

“A little nervous, but not sick.”

Geneva wondered how much anxiety Ella would own up to. Maybe she had caused this by encouraging—pressuring—her to practice as much as possible. Her only goal had been for Ella to do her best and not have to take the test more than once. But
she may have completely misjudged her daughter's level of stress.

“Ella, do you remember your heart racing, or feeling sweaty?”

“No.”

Not likely a panic attack. She studied her daughter's face and thought about her symptoms. Dizziness, nausea, imbalance. And slurred speech, which was not a symptom of stress. A stomach bug? That didn't fit either.

She was missing something. She stood quickly and walked the few steps to the kitchen. Ella's breakfast was on the counter where Geneva had left it, a bite gone from the toast.

“Did you have anything else this morning other than a little toast?”

“Mom . . .” Ella groaned.

“I'm not upset. I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with you.”

“An iced tea. I was really thirsty.”

“Did you finish it?”

She shook her head.

“Where is it?”

“Where? I dunno.” She looked at her mother. “It tasted really gross. I think it's in the car.”

The clanking of the walker on the wood floor of the hallway heralded Helen's appearance. She wore a robe and slippers, but her hair was tidy.

“So much coming and going so early in the day! Don't you people ever take a Saturday morning off?”

Geneva ignored her and hurried out the door. She jogged over to the truck, opened the door, and grabbed the bottle from the center console. The bottle was half-empty and the liquid much paler than it should have been. As she unscrewed the cap, she
knew what she would find and a wave of anger rose inside her. She sniffed the tea, then took a small sip. Now that the liquid was tepid, the taste of vodka was unmistakable. Geneva recapped the bottle and leaned against the truck.

Judging from the color and taste, about half the tea had been replaced with vodka, so Ella had drunk four ounces of vodka on an empty stomach. In someone unaccustomed to drinking, and she was certain that was true of Ella, it was enough to account for her symptoms. And while Geneva knew in her heart who had spiked the tea, she forced herself to consider every option. If nothing else, the exercise would give her time to calm down. She considered them in reverse order of probability.

Tom. They'd hidden all the alcohol, but if he wanted a drink he could have one. He had no reason for subterfuge.

Charlie. Teens drink. Geneva didn't think her son drank with his friends—not yet—and the family refrigerator would be a strange place to store it. And didn't boys gravitate toward beer? Still, she resolved to be more vigilant, especially as he had acted oddly on a couple of occasions.

Ella. She had resisted studying for the test and it was conceivable she had made herself sick in order to avoid taking it. If that were the case, she believed her daughter would simply have faked an illness rather than risk getting in more serious trouble for being drunk at school. Also, she had been studying hard all week and seemed eager to have it behind her. It wasn't Ella.

Her mother. She had already suspected Helen was sneaking drinks. Between early bedtimes, walker mishaps, and the dearth of complaints, Geneva had lacked only hard evidence. And now she had it in her hand.

But she was too angry to confront her mother now. Instead,
she would tend to her daughter and wait for Tom to come home. She was mad at him, too, and wanted him present when she revealed what an utter mistake it had been to help Helen.

• • •

Helen was reading in the backyard and Ella was asleep in her room when Tom and Charlie came home. Geneva sat in the kitchen with the newspaper in front of her.

“Hey, Momster. How's Ella?”

“Asleep.”

Tom asked, “Is she okay?”

She nodded. Charlie grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, then headed to his room.

Tom pulled up a stool across from his wife. “So does she have a stomach flu?”

“She's drunk.”

“What? How?”

“Accidental. There was an iced tea in the fridge that was half vodka.”

“Who did that?”

“Who else?”

He frowned. “How do you know?”

“I like the odds.”

“Did you talk to her yet?”

“No. I was too angry.”

“Good call.” He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Maybe we made a mistake cutting her off. Maybe it would have been smarter to regulate her drinking.”

Geneva couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Yes, Tom. It was our fault. Mismanagement.”

“That's not what I said.”

“Because the way I see it, she violated our trust. And how do you think Ella will feel? She was ready to have the SAT behind her.”

“I'm not sure what we should say to Ella.”

“How about the truth?”

He sighed and looked her in the eye. “I know this is a setback, but don't you think, overall, having your mother here has been positive? Seems like you've been getting along fine.”

“Only because I absorb every criticism. Then we get along perfectly.”

“Geneva . . .”

The back door opened and they fell silent as Helen made her way into the kitchen. Tom raised his eyebrows at Geneva, imploring her to remain calm. She flipped to the next section of the paper.

Helen brightened when she saw Tom. “Oh, you're back. How'd the game go?”

Not once in three weeks had Helen asked a question about Geneva's life. She supposed her mother saw no point in pandering to her.

“Fine, Helen. Charlie had an RBI.”

“That's great! He's a fine boy. So friendly and helpful.”

Geneva's mind snagged on the word
helpful
. Helpful how? Maybe she was reading too much into everything. After all, her mother did need a lot of help.

“Helen,” Tom said. “I'm going to be blunt with you. We found an iced tea in the fridge that had vodka in it. Was that you?”

Helen turned toward the refrigerator as if reminding herself what it was. Geneva studied her mother's posture and face to gauge her reaction. Before she could conclude anything, Helen smiled thinly at Tom.

“You caught me red-handed. I was having so much fun at your dad's party that I put a little vodka in a water bottle and stuck it in my purse.” She shrugged as if to say these things happen. Geneva gave her a stern look. Helen continued. “Of course I was worried one of your kids might drink it, so I put it in the iced tea. That particular one's been in there since I got here.”

“You're very observant,” Geneva said.

“Runs in the family.”

“Well,” Tom said. “At least we have an explanation.”

Helen asked, “Did one of you drink it?”

“Ella did. Right before the SATs.”

“That can't be why she feels sick. Why, there wasn't enough in there to get a fly drunk! Maybe she's got the flu. Kids bring all sorts of illnesses home from school, don't they, Tom?”

“They do, Helen, but . . .”

Geneva turned to Tom. “Why are you agreeing with her?”

“Only about kids spreading bugs.”

“That's irrelevant!”

Helen shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You need to calm down, and I need to sit down. My knee's aching.”

Tom helped her to the couch.

Geneva, restless with anger, rose from her stool and stood in front of her mother. “Mom, I want you to admit that you acted wrongly, that you endangered our children.”

Helen stared at Geneva's knees. “I do wish I'd finished it off.”

“Oh, this is absurd! I can't listen to this!” She swung around to face her husband. “Thanks for backing me up!” She stormed out of the room with every intention of throwing her mother's belongings into a suitcase and putting her on the next plane to LAX.

Halfway down the hall, she paused at Ella's door, which she
had left ajar. Resting her hand on the doorknob, she tried to steady her breath and slow her racing heart, but failed. She inched the door open until she could see Ella, lying on her side, her shoulder rising and falling slightly with each breath. Geneva watched for a moment, then entered, and quietly closed the door behind her. The only chair stood opposite the bed and was piled high with clothing, so she sat on the braided rug and leaned against the chair.

She didn't know what to do about her mother. She didn't know whether she could, in fact, send her back to L.A. Helen couldn't yet make it up the steps to her condo, put on her shoes, or even reach the controls on the microwave, and she couldn't afford the weeks of help she would still need. And Geneva didn't know how much she cared anymore about her mother's problems. Three weeks ago, she had cared enough to bring her here, but now Geneva questioned her motivation for that decision. Had she been trying to demonstrate to Tom that she was a good person, that after eighteen years of soaking up the Novak family spirit she was finally primed to open her home, and her heart, to her mother? What if she had refused? Would Tom have been disappointed in her, and, if that was the case, what did it say about their marriage and how he felt about her? She had done what Tom had convinced her was right, and now she didn't know where she stood with him, her mother, or herself.

She needed to reason this out. The decision to help her mother was in the past. What mattered now were her decisions from here. What was she going to tell her daughter when she woke up? That she got her first hangover courtesy of her grandmother? Geneva told Tom she didn't want to lie to Ella, out of principle, but she wondered whether it would help her to know the truth. Sitting
cross-legged on her daughter's floor, the late morning sun angling onto the rug in front of her, Geneva felt trapped in a net of poor options. If she could only see clearly which road would lead to the least harm for her family. But that, right there, was the sticking point, because if she could simply cleave her mother from her notion of family, the way forward would become clear. Wasn't clarity what she was after? What had her mother done to deserve any more consideration than she'd already had?

Geneva's throat closed. She bit down on her lip, pulled her knees to her chest and rocked. She glanced at her daughter, her mouth a perfect bow, her golden bangs touching the ends of her eyelashes. Geneva's nose stung and her vision blurred. Tucking her head into the cradle of her arms, she cried, silently, so as not to wake her child.

HELEN

T
he interesting thing about being caught red-handed, Helen surmised, was you could throw your red hands in the air like you were surrendering, and paint a painfully remorseful look on your face, but without punishment to fit the crime, what's to stop a person from carrying on the same as before? Geneva was mad as a wet hen about the iced tea—didn't bother to hide her feelings, neither—and Helen figured she was likely as not to be sent packing, cripple or no cripple. But she didn't care. If she had to hire help, she'd hire help, and if she ran out of money, she ran out of money. One thing for certain, whether she was up here in the fog or down south in the sunshine, she planned to live the way she pleased. She was sorry the girl got tipsy and missed her test, but it wasn't exactly the end of the world. At sixteen she'd been drunk a
dozen times or more and the only unfortunate circumstance was that one of those times hadn't been her wedding night.

She and Charlie would devise a different plan. He'd helped himself to some fancy new toys on her nickel, so he owed her that. One hand washes the other. So long as her credit card held up, she knew she'd get her drink. Keeping Geneva off her back was another matter. Maybe, just maybe, that girl would give up the fight. If not, Helen had an emergency supply of pain pills. Every time someone had left a bottle nearby, she'd taken one for safekeeping. She had a dozen in reserve. She would never look forward to one of them as much as a good, stiff vodka, but when it came right down to it, forgetting was forgetting.

Afraid of misremembering where she'd stashed the pills, Helen put them with the last letter she got from Paris more than twenty years ago. No way on God's green earth she'd ever forget where she'd hidden that. Crumpled it up and threw it away on more than one occasion, but always dug it out of the trash. The letter was like a piece of herself she despised. Even lying on the bottom of the trash can, it still belonged to her. If throwing it away didn't change anything, she reckoned, might as well hold on to it.

The letter, now soft as a puppy's ear, was in her quilted makeup bag, zipped inside an inner pocket. She usually kept the bag in her purse. She wanted to be reminded of it, and also the pills, so she kept it close. The letter and the pills went together, she now realized, although she hadn't planned it that way. Pain and pain relief. If Geneva understood—and after thirty years of silence on the subject, Helen had no intention of educating her daughter now—she'd realize why Helen didn't give a damn about getting caught sneaking alcohol. Her hands were red all right, but not for the reasons Geneva supposed, and in any case, she was long past caring.

• • •

Helen kept out of the way for the rest of the day, although she was sorely tempted to discover whether Geneva had thrown out the rest of the iced tea. Before supper she fiddled with the radio in her room, and chanced upon a station that played old tunes. Dancing music, they used to call it: Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, the Andrews Sisters. The lighthearted songs cheered her some, until one came on she'd rather not have ever heard again: “Blue Moon.” She reached over and switched off the radio, but it was too late. The song kept on in her head.

Every summer the club in Aliceville hosted a number of events, including the father-daughter dance, held in mid-July. Paris had been itching to go for years, but Eustace made her wait until she turned fifteen. Eustace was keener on dancing than the majority of men and suggested to Paris they practice their steps. Of course Paris said yes.

So after supper one night they cleared a space in the living room, and Eustace shuffled through the records. Paris looked pretty and grown-up in her sundress with the sweetheart neckline and her hair arranged on top of her head, showing off her long neck. She wore the attitude of a dancer before she took a single step. The other children lined up on the couch and watched for a time, expecting a show, but soon drifted off when they realized it was only some stepping and a twirl or two. Humming to the music that drifted through the house, Helen tidied the kitchen, then went outside to catch what breeze might be caught and see that Dublin didn't get filthy before bed. When Geneva began to rub her eyes, and Dublin and Florence started to argue over who had kicked the ball the farthest, Helen pushed the younger ones inside
and up the stairs to bed, and Florence went to watch TV in the den. On her way past the living room, Helen noticed Paris was getting the hang of the steps.

She thought her children were settled, but Geneva had forgotten that monkey of hers on the back porch, and wouldn't contemplate putting her head on the pillow without it. Helen reprimanded her for her carelessness, then headed downstairs.

The staircase took a corner halfway down, and when Helen reached the landing, she paused without knowing why. The sad, sultry notes of “Blue Moon” floated up to her. She proceeded, but was careful of where she placed her feet lest the stairs creak. Eustace had neglected to cut the lamps on, so the only light came from the stairwell, falling short of where he and Paris were dancing. Nevertheless, Helen could see enough to tell they were slow dancing. He had one hand around Paris's waist and the other held her hand against his shoulder.

All the dances had to be practiced, she supposed. And Geneva would be up out of her bed in a minute if she didn't get her monkey. Helen's foot was hovering above the last step when she froze. Eustace brought Paris's hand to his lips and held it there for a long moment before returning it to his shoulder. Helen's insides twisted, and her hands went cold as ice. She shook her head as if she could make the image settle differently in her mind.

Can't a man kiss his daughter's hand?

She strained to see their faces, hoping for a sign that everything was as it should be. They made a slow quarter turn. Eustace's back was now to her and she couldn't see her daughter at all. But then he bent his head and Helen could only surmise he'd planted another kiss, this one on the crown of Paris's head.

Helen turned and crept up the stairs. At the top, she held a
hand to her chest and willed the air to return to her lungs. When she could breathe again, she walked to the linen closet, opened the door, then closed it firmly.

“Don't get up. I'll be right there,” she called to Geneva, loudly enough for everyone in the house to hear.

• • •

After Eustace had gone to sleep, she stared at the ceiling as if it was a movie screen that was about to show her what to make of her husband and her eldest daughter. Or Eustace and her, because in her mind there most certainly was a connection. When was it she had gone from being grateful that he'd taken an interest in one of the children to feeling it had maybe gone too far? She couldn't put her finger on it, not even near it, because all that time she'd been too busy thinking about how nice it was to have one out from underfoot. And who could blame her? Four children was a handful and a half.

Lying there, she made a conscious decision not to take it personal. Pure foolishness, it was, to on the one hand be happy to have Eustace's attention settle elsewhere, and on the other be jealous of it. And it was only attention. He was a big man who liked the light shining all over him. Helen didn't think she could muster up the energy for that job anymore, even with a gun to her head. Heck, she couldn't even remember being young enough to entertain the notion. If Paris was content to stoke that man's pride, then Helen should step out of the way. Jealous feelings would do none of them a lick of good. She'd be forced to do away with those concerning Eustace. It only required practice.

Helen thought it natural a woman would come to look upon her own daughter with envy. She'd seen it clear enough in the face
of her own mama when she came to visit, and probably she'd have seen it earlier—before Eustace—if she'd known to look for it. How could a woman not look at a girl, fresh as a rosebud, hair shining, eyes bright, her breasts perched high on her chest, and not think of herself as coming up a bit short? And when the daughter's looks were a pure gift from her mother, as Paris's were, that made it all the worse. At times Helen imagined her youth and beauty pulled out of her and soaked up by Paris. If she was a sweet girl, or deferential to her mother, Helen might have swallowed it better. But Paris took her looks as her right, and Helen couldn't help but be niggled, just a bit.

It was the course of nature, and the way of life. Even a woman like Helen could see that, at the ripe old age of thirty-three.