Love Lies Beneath (20 page)

As I put my plate in the dishwasher, I notice the wine bottle sitting on the counter is empty. I definitely didn't kill it. Maybe Mom had a glass or two after all. I start toward the staircase, but as I exit the kitchen, I hear noise out on the back patio and divert to investigate.

When I open the sliding glass door, the scent of skunk nearly knocks me over. Kayla turns at the sound. In one hand, she's holding a tumbler of what appears to be what was left of the wine; in the other, there's a smoking pipe. “Oh, hey, Aunt Tara. Wanna hit?” She slurs her words, and she can barely keep her bloodshot eyes open.

“What are you doing, Kayla?”

“I think it's called self-medicating.”

“I think it's called underage drinking. And I don't suppose you have a prescription for that marijuana, do you?”

She finds that hysterically funny. “It's just a little weed. Bet you've tried it before, and don't tell me you didn't drink when you were my age.”

“Actually, I tried pot exactly once in high school, and hated how out of control it made me feel, especially since the guy who supplied it immediately attempted to take advantage of me. As for alcohol, I didn't start drinking until after my first husband died. I was in my midtwenties. Regardless, do you really think this is wise?”

“Sometimes you want to escape, you know? Give your brain a little vacation.” She takes a final hit off the pipe, taps the burnt contents into the winter-browned grass, rubs them in with her foot. Then she mostly empties the glass in one long pull.

“That's a waste of good grapes. Wine like that should be sipped, not gulped. It isn't Gallo.”

“Whatever. As long as it does the trick.”

Kayla puts the glass down on the wooden picnic table and tucks the pipe into a pocket. Then she sits on the slider, tilting her face up into the pallid February sunlight, closing her eyes. I settle into the adjacent wooden chair, watching her rock slowly back and forth. I know it's a ridiculous question, but I ask it anyway. “Does this have something to do with my mother dropping by?”

That, too, makes her laugh. “Are you kidding? Why would that bother me?”

“She has a way of making people nervous.”

“I didn't notice. Like, how?”

I shrug. “I don't know. Maybe it's just me. She and I have never exactly been close.”

“How can you not be close to your mother?” She opens her eyes and fixes them on me, truly curious.

“That's a very long story, one your own mom should probably share with you. But since you asked the question, it must mean you feel close to Melody. So why the meltdown?”

“I want her to let me grow up.”

“Then you'll have to act like a grown-up. Drinking and smoking dope don't qualify as adult behaviors, by the way. And what you did last night was inconceivably selfish and rude. How long have you known Cliff?”

“Two weeks.”

“So in what universe can you possibly believe that you two are in love? Love requires careful cultivation. It's not something you can screw your way into.” Like I have a clue about the cultivation part. The screwing-your-way-into element, however, I know something about. “He's cute and all, but he's a loser, Kayla. And, to be totally frank, right now you're looking a lot like a loser, too. I thought you had big dreams.”

“I do.” It's a whisper.

“Then don't give them up for a boy.” I purposely don't use the word “man.” “And most definitely do not drown them in a bottle of booze or let them go up in a trail of smoke. Look. I've gone out on a limb for you. It isn't often I ask favors of an ex-husband, and this one was major. I expect you to excel at the Art Institute—keep up your grades, and no disappearing acts with scummy guys who are only out for themselves. Your future is on the line here, Kayla, and ‘self-medicating' with alcohol or illegal drugs, or even taking a chance on some nasty virus, is only going to damage it. I don't know what you're hiding from, but if it's something big, tell me right now. If it's not, this is just plain stupid.”

She thinks quietly for a minute or two and finally admits, “Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy.”

“Everyone wonders that sometimes.”

“No. I mean really, certifiably insane. Like, possessing some sort of distorted personality trait, one that makes me reckless, and also makes me believe, no matter how hard I try not to, I will drive every important person from my life. So I spend hours figuring out ways to test them.”

How much should I tell her? “Look, Kayla, if you're really worried about that, let your mother know, and tell your therapist. There is a syndrome called borderline personality disorder, and one of its symptoms is thinking everyone in your life will desert you. Only a professional can help you figure out if what you're feeling is rooted there, or just a manifestation of teen angst.”

“Did you feel this way when you were my age?”

“Not exactly.”

I felt alienated.

Friendless.

Family-less.

Resentful.

Pissed.

Belittled.

Abused.

But I also felt in charge. Of my present. My future. I wasn't, but that was my youth talking, and it wasn't long before I found my ticket to complete control of my life.

“Were you popular in high school?”

“No. I've never had a lot of friends. High school was especially tough because we moved to Las Vegas from Idaho, and not even ‘big-city' Idaho, if you can call any of the cities there big. Beyond the radical lifestyle change, which took a whole lot of getting used to, our home was unhappy. Unstable. I would never have brought someone else into it. It's hard to build friendships that work in one direction.”

“That's sad.”

“It didn't feel that way at the time, but looking back, I guess it was.”

We sit quietly for a few minutes. I push away the recently resurrected snapshots of my mother having sex on the sofa. Bring a friend home? I choke back a laugh.

Finally, she says, “This house used to be happier. I don't invite people over anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Seems like Dad is always pissed at something. Usually me.”

“All kids feel that way, don't they?”

“Maybe. But this is different. We used to be pretty close. But now it seems like he keeps pushing himself farther and farther away. Not just from me, but from the whole family. I think it started with his band.”

“You mean, like, maybe he's experiencing a midlife crisis?”

“Something like that.”

“Also not that unusual for someone his age.”

But I swear if I find out he's been sleeping around, or if his behavior in any way hurts my sister, the next bottle of tequila will do more than give him the runs.

The wind has picked up, pushing a few high clouds in front of the sun. Kayla shivers. “Guess we should go inside.” She stands, reaches for the tumbler, which slips out of her hand, shattering against the patio cement. Wine-painted glass sprays everywhere. “Fuck.”

Oh well. At least it will give her something to do instead of feel sorry for herself.

I leave her busy with the cleanup, return to the relative warmth of the house—the heat tempered slightly by the chill of recent revelations. Silence drapes the rooms heavily. Some music might lighten the mood, as long as it's music I love, and there's plenty of that on my phone. I retrieve it from my purse, notice I've got a new message.

From “Private.”

You should have listened. Better watch your back, bitch. I've got eyes on you.

Fear begins a low throb inside my head. I limp quickly into the front room, stand to one side of the window to scan the street. Two cars, neither the beater sedan, cruise slowly, in opposite directions. Despite their tarried speed, I don't get negative vibes from either of them. This is a neighborhood where children ride bikes in the street, so cautious driving is called for. Four houses down, on the far side, a van is parked at the curb. Is there someone inside?

Can't tell.

Should I call law enforcement? And say what? Nothing came of the last message. Why should this one be any different? And what could they do, anyway? This isn't even an overt threat. Whoever “Private” is, he seems to know just how far to go.

I'm still pondering as Mel's car motors past the van, pulling into the driveway to park in the garage. I hear her come in the back door, yacking at Jessica, who howls laughter. “Anyone home?” calls Mel.

“In here.”

I take one last look out the window, where nothing seems amiss, and there's still no sign of a human presence in the van. Mel bustles into the room. “You should have seen . . .” Her voice trails away when she sees my face. “What's wrong? Your face is white. Are you sick?”

She doesn't need to be privy to my worry, which is probably pointless anyway. “Just a little headache. What should I have seen?”

Mel launches a lengthy story. I don't hear a word.

Freed within her exile, the serpent

slithers boldly, strikes

without compassion,

splendor in the death dance.

Ah, patient is my sister.

No hurry now but to sup

before the meal grows cold,

she enfolds her victim tenderly,

awaits the egress.

Therein lies the victory.

Could Eve have denied her,

so beautiful in patterned scales, cool

in calculated treachery, sensuality

defined in the flick of her tongue?

Temptation is her legacy.

Enhanced by evolution,

perfected by time's passing,

she expels the weight of Eden

in gushes of sweet venom.

To grow, she must leave herself behind.

Subtle stretch. Elastic. Pinpricks

of sensation. Inner fabric gives

way in painless liberation.

Sister emerges, new.

Sin such as this commands envy.

Graham arrives home on Sunday, almost on time, after an early-morning round of golf with his friends. Melody greets him with a lukewarm (aka married) kiss and, for not the first time, I wonder what's left between them. Considering he has been gone for two days, and she is about ready to escort me out the door, the answer isn't hard to discern. Marriage equals ho-hum, at least after a couple of decades. For me personally, it didn't take nearly that long.

We hit the road around two. It's a clear winter day, no hint of snow in the forecast, so the trip should be a piece of cake. The plan is for both of us to stay overnight at Cavin's, leave the Escalade there in the morning, and he'll drive us to the hospital. Mel will stay long enough to make sure I come up out of the anesthesia, safe and hopefully sounder than before I go under.

We've opted to take Interstate 80, and then drop over the mountain past the Northstar ski resort. The route is more direct to Cavin's place, and Mel is still a little uncomfortable with the big SUV, which can almost drive itself on the freeway. Once she's got it comfortably pointed in the right direction, I ask the question I avoided last night.

“So, how often do you see Mom?”

“I've been wondering when you would ask me that. The answer is, not often. The last time she stopped by was probably three years ago. She was with a different guy, and they stayed for lunch. Then I didn't even hear from her for several months. She e-mails from time to time. Calls once in a while.”

“Did this time seem any different? I mean, like, do you think she's dying or something?”

Mel snorts. “She looks awfully healthy, don't you think?”

Too healthy. It's irritating. “And she never asks for money?”

“She always asks for money. Including yesterday. I gave her everything I had on hand. Which reminds me, we need to stop at an ATM.”

“Why?”

“Uh . . . because I need some cash?”

“No. I mean, why did you give her any money?”

She infuses her reply with a massive sigh. “Look. Handing her a few bucks is the quickest way to get rid of her. All that stuff about connecting with the kids is crap, but then you already knew that.”

“She put on a pretty good act.”

“Mom always was the queen of melodrama. Too much time absorbing soap operas or something. Anyway, most of that was for your benefit.”

“I know.” This song comes on the radio—a reggae-sounding “Smoke Two Joints”
by a band called the Toyes. That, of course, reminds me of my niece. I attempt subtlety first. “Did you talk to Graham about Kayla?”

“You mean about her staying out all night? No.”

“Why not?”

Another protracted sigh. “Because if I would have, there would've been a huge blowup and it wouldn't have changed a thing. Not to mention, you and I would not be here right now. We'd be back at the house, and I'd be scrambling to make everything okay.”

“Everything isn't okay with Kayla.”

“What do you mean?”

I relate the circumstances of yesterday afternoon's encounter. “Did you know she smokes marijuana?”

Mel is slow to respond but finally admits, “Yes. I've smelled it on her before but have tried to ignore it. I'm sure it's just a phase and besides, to tell you the truth, she's easier to get along with when she's a little buzzed.”

“Are you serious?” I most definitely did not expect this. Melody has always been the Mother of the Year type.

“In all honesty, I think pot helps her more than her meds do. I've done some research, in fact, and there is a good deal of anecdotal evidence that THC can battle anxiety and maybe even depression. It's natural, and not physically addictive, like the prescription drug she takes. I wish they'd just go ahead and legalize it everywhere. Of course, the pharmaceutical companies will fight that tooth and nail.”

My sister is full of surprises.