Love Lies Beneath (19 page)

I start toward the kitchen, where a strong cup of coffee is waiting. I'm almost there when the doorbell rings, and I turn around. Cliff? What could he possibly want? I fling open the door. “Did you forget—”

I haven't seen her in decades. And while I'd like to say those years have not been kind to her, it would be a lie. She has gone slender, and there is pride in her carriage, perhaps even conceit. Her hair is cut stylishly short, and colored a pale titian. The only real evidence of her age is the whittled web etching her face. Could insanity be the fountain of youth? Or maybe it's just all the “good lovin'.” Beyond her, I notice the out-of-place semi loitering curbside.

She stares at me for a long minute, finally nods recognition. “Tara. What a surprise.”

My mother walks past me, smelling vaguely of diesel and sincerely of tobacco, yanking her bulky male companion over the threshold as if to avert having the door slammed in their faces. Excellent instincts, as ever.

“What are you doing here?”

“What? No hug?” She opens her arms. “It's been a real long time.”

I back away.

Something ugly surfaces in her eyes. “Where's your sister?”

“Dealing with a problem child.”

“Melody Ann!” she yells. “Where the hell are you?”

Melody Ann. Two names, the second used as punctuation. And suddenly, there's the venomous mom of my nightmares. I knew she'd slither out from the woodpile sooner or later.

The man, at least, seems to have the wherewithal to be discomfited by the outburst. “Now, June . . .”

Her head rotates slowly in his direction. “What?” she snaps.

“Nothing.”

Mel comes rustling down the stairs. “Mom? What are—”

“Not you, too! What am I doing here? Jesus H. Christ on a crutch! Can't a woman drop by to see her daughter when she happens to be driving past the neighborhood?”

Mel and I exchange confounded looks. I'd better let her do the talking. “No. It's just . . . I mean . . .”

I can't help myself. “She means it's not like you drop by every week or so, or even every year or so. Or, in my case, not even every decade or so. So what do you want?”

Rather than answer, she moves past us into the living room, where she makes a slow, assessing circuit. We have little choice but to follow. She stops in front of a framed family portrait hanging on the wall. “Beautiful kids. Too bad I don't know them.” She turns toward Mel. “You've done all right for yourself.”

Ah, here it comes. The shakedown. “You want money.”

“You always were a blunt bitch, Tara. But no, believe it or not, I'm not asking for a handout. Will over there earns a decent paycheck, and he's happy enough sharing it with me.”

“So what
do
you want, then?”

She takes a deep breath. Exhales, initiating a crusty cough. She really ought to give up smoking. “Connection.”

“What the fuck do you mean, connection?” Goddamn it, Idaho pops up on the doorstep and the classless Tara I've worked so hard to dispose of claws her way out of the crypt.

Mom throws back her shoulders, lifts her chin. “Look. Will's on a long haul, and I'm riding shotgun. We were passing by, so I thought we'd stop in. I'm not getting younger, you know. I'd like a little time with my family before I die. Is that too much to ask for?”

I toss a glance at Will. “Did you have something to do with this?”

He has been staring, slack-jawed, but now his gaze falls toward the floor. “Well . . . uh . . . why would you think so?”

“Because my mother never gave a shit about us, not even when we were little. She hasn't said one word to me in thirty years. Why would she care about
connection
now, unless someone else suggested it might be important?”

“You know something, Tara Lynn? Communication is a two-way street. You could have picked up the phone and called me any damn time.”

Anger crawls up the back of my neck, seethes into my cheeks. I fight to keep my temper in check. “You know what? You're absolutely right. I don't suppose we really have much to say to each other.” Obviously the bonding she wants doesn't include me, and that thought makes me change tack. “Did you know I was going to be here today?”

She looks me straight in the eye, shakes her head. “It was an unpleasant coincidence.”

The woman always could stun me silent. She circles the room again, trailing haughtiness like perfume. Attack seems fruitless, so instead I withdraw to the kitchen and pour wine in favor of coffee. The rich purple cab reminds me of blood, its full-bodied taste gone bitter. I fucking hate my mother.

In the other room, Melody calls for the girls to come say hello to their grandmother. I have no clear idea how much they know about her, or if she's ever visited before. This could be interesting. I gulp down the wine into my empty belly, pour another glass, feeling marginally mellower with the slow ascension of an alcohol buzz. This could be
really
interesting.

Mom and Will have perched on opposite ends of the sofa. Melody sits on the raised hearth, ready to officiate if necessary. Jessica is on the love seat with her overnight guest, Laura. Kayla has yet to appear. I stand in the doorway, ignoring the throb in my knee, sipping cabernet for breakfast, something Mom doesn't fail to notice.

“You celebrating something?” she asks.

“Hell yeah.” I lift my glass. “Here's to unexpected reunions. Should I pour you a glass?”

Her expression tells me she's tempted, but she says, “Kind of early, isn't it?”

“Not today.”

Kayla finally stomps into the room, still pissed and scowling.

“Glad you could join us,” says Melody, nerves finally showing.

“I was trying to manage some damage control, and considering it's
your
fault, I don't see why you're mad at me.”

“My . . . ?” Mel wants to say what I'm thinking, but this isn't the time, and she knows it, so she shifts direction. “You remember your grandmother, don't you? Can you please say hello?”

It finally dawns on the girl that there are a couple of strangers on the sofa. She turns on the dubious charm. “Oh. Sure. Hi, June. It's been a while, and I don't think you were with . . .” She redirects her question toward Will. “Have we met, um . . . ?”

Even beneath the chin and cheek stubble, the man's blush is obvious. “The name's William, but you can call me Will. Everyone does. And no, we haven't met before today.”

Mom pats the cushion between her and William. “I'd like you to come sit here next to me.”

I'm surprised at how easily Kayla complies, but she does, and sitting so close beside my mother, the resemblance is spooky. It's almost as if Graham wasn't involved in the genetics at all. When they talk, their speech patterns are similar, and driven by some tic of the psyche to begin almost every sentence with “I.” I want. I need. I'm going to. I wish. I will. I hate. It doesn't take long for it to become tiresome.

Jessica and her friend must agree. They both hold their phones in their laps and it's obvious they're texting each other. Every now and again their fingers move, their eyes drop, and suddenly they're smiling. Stifling giggles. That might be annoying, too, except it's so apropos.

Will looks bored, but he pays them the attention Mom would absolutely demand. My semi-inebriated brain clicks into snapshot mode.

Wonder how long he's been Mom's lay-o'-the-day.

Wonder if he realizes how many there were before him.

Wonder how long until she moves on to yet another.

Wonder if he wonders, too.

Melody seems content enough to listen to the exchange for a while. Then she must notice Jessica's distraction, because she tries to insert her into the lopsided conversation. “Jessica will be a freshman next year. She's trying out for the cheerleading squad.”

Mom downshifts. “Good move. Cheerleaders get all the cute guys.”

Jessica's and Laura's heads swivel toward each other, and they exchange eye rolls. Then Jessica turns back to Mom, and in complete seriousness says, “I'm not working my butt off to make the squad so I can get dates.”

“Really?” responds Mom. “So why, then?”

“It's my sport, and I'm really good at it. Maybe even good enough to get a college scholarship. Anyway, boys are overrated.”

Mom reaches across Kayla, pats Will's knee. “Oh, I don't know. I think they're kind of useful, if you know what I mean.”

“Jesus, Mother! Could you be any less appropriate?” My small outburst releases a big knot of tension.

“What? You think girls this age don't know what sex is?”

“I'm sure none of us cares that you still engage in it.”

“What do you mean, still? You're never too old to have a little fun. Right, Will?”

The younger girls burst out laughing, and their texting fingers fly. Will and Melody fidget, and Kayla wears an aura of amusement. Personally, I've had enough. “If you'll excuse me, I've been standing on this knee too long. I'm going to lie down for a while. It was, um . . . interesting to see you again, Mother, and nice to meet you, Will.”

As I retreat to the guest room, I hear her say, “She really shouldn't drink this early in the day. Makes her mean.”

Behind me, the “connection”continues. I can't disconnect fast enough, and by the time I reach the bedroom my head is, in fact, whirling from the wine and surprise encounter. I set the glass on the dresser, toss myself down on the bed. Around and around I go. But before long, the spinning slows and I can comfortably close my eyes.

You're never too old to have a little fun.

I spiral backward to an afternoon in Las Vegas. I was sixteen, and I arrived home from school on a half-day release. Apparently Mom didn't get the message because when I walked through the door, the first thing I noticed was that the place reeked of booze. The second thing I noticed was my mother, having a little fun on the sofa with some anonymous man. I don't remember his face, but I'll never forget seeing his cock, which was long and thin and curved to one side. When he noticed me watching, wide-eyed, he plunged it between my mom's open legs like a dagger.

I put my hands over my eyes but couldn't stop myself from saying, “Disgusting. I'll never sit on that couch again. Can't you do your screwing in your bedroom?”

From anyone but my mother, I would have expected embarrassment. I was not particularly surprised that she wasn't bothered in the least. “It's hot in there,” she said. “This is nice, in front of the swamp cooler.”

It was more than hot. It was sweltering, and I was wearing shorts and a tank top. Old Crooked Dick took a good, long look. “You've got a great ass,” he remarked, as if I'd find it a compliment. And then he dared ask, “Hey, June. You ever had a three-way with your daughter? Might be kinda kinky.”

I gritted my teeth, knowing what Mom's reaction would be. Of course, it wouldn't come until after Mr. Kinked Cock hit the road. All she said right then was, “What are you, some kind of perv? Tara there doesn't even have sex yet. Do you, girl?” She kept it light, but I could tell she was boiling.

“This is the closest to sex I've come, and if this is what it looks like, I don't think I'll be trying it anytime soon.”

I turned to go to my room and was almost there when the disgusting dude called, “You could do a whole lot worse for your first than this right here. This thing is one of a kind!”

The truth was, I'd already had sex, and found it mildly pleasurable, if ultimately dissatisfying, in the way most teen sex is. But that was not information to share with my mother, whose expected punishment came swiftly after the man left but before she showered. The door slammed open, and the odor of recent rutting preceded her into the room.

She had on only an oversize T-shirt, one some man had left behind. Her hair was an untamed nest, and her eyes betrayed her insanity. “What the fuck do you think you're doing, wearing clothes like that out in public?”

“It's a hundred degrees outside. Everyone's wearing shorts.”

“Not shorts like that. You look like a streetwalker.”

I wanted to toss back the cliché “Takes one to know one.” Instead, I tried a halfhearted “Sorry,” knowing it wouldn't be good enough.

“Sorry? I'll make you sorry, bitch.”

She charged me full-bore, her anger not at my clothing but at the idea of my drawing the man's attention away from her. Her fists were moving before she reached me, and for once, I refused to let them connect meaningfully, raising my arms to cover my face. That only enraged her more.

But this time, something wild reared up inside me, and it fed on years of past abuse. I turned on her and freed the beast. Physically, we were evenly matched. Psychologically, she stood zero chance. I allowed myself no choice but to win, and exact some small measure of revenge for too many years beaten down.

She never hit me again.

I claw my way up out of an Idaho nightmare, wake in a house fallen silent. Idaho. Mom. Oh yeah, she was really here, not a nightmare at all. But where did everyone go? I sit up, too fast. I feel as if someone split my skull with an ax. Wine for breakfast. Right. And now, headache or no, I'm starving.

The living room is empty, and a glance out the window confirms that Mom, Will, and semi have deserted the neighborhood. In the kitchen, I find a sandwich and note from Mel:
Jess and I took Laura home. Check in on Kayla, please. We'll be back before dinner.

A half dozen bites and the sandwich has vanished. It was tuna, not my favorite, but this afternoon I'm not picky. I chase it with water and three ibuprofens—one for my knee, two for my head. Guess I'd better go see what Kayla's up to. Normally, I wouldn't bother, but Mel did ask me to, and besides, I've nothing better to do.