Exposure (36 page)

“Yes, she’ll be here. Ms. McGuiness said they can’t stay long, but she’s got some pumpkin-zucchini bread and pumpkin-raisin bread for us, and homemade butter. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

If Amelia could muster an appetite, then yes, she supposed she would find it delicious. Why, though, was Cameron’s mother coming over at all? If it was just to deliver bread, Cameron could do that on her own. Liz McGuiness was not part of her mother’s circle; the two women knew each other only through their daughters, in a kind of casual pick-up, drop-off way that had ended when the girls got cars. For her to call and then come by to visit was surprising.

Amelia said, “Sure,” and kept those questions to herself. “When will they be here?” she asked instead, checking the time on the microwave. Five minutes before ten. Anthony might be in front of the judge right now. According to Hubbard, the outcome of Anthony’s appearance today would help them know what to expect when her turn came. Granted, he was only facing the misdemeanor charge at this appearance, but if the prosecutor agreed to dismiss the case, or the judge agreed with the lawyer’s argument for dismissal, they could hope for similar results for her charges. Maybe the DA would be satisfied with having scared them and gotten a lot of publicity doing it. Maybe he’d intended only that all along.

Her mother looked her over and, frowning, said, “What a state you’re in. I wish you had time to shower.”

“They won’t care.”

“No one wants to see you—or smell you—in your sweaty, clingy clothes.”

“Fine,” Amelia said, though her tone said the opposite. “Everything has to be
your
way; I should know better than to even
think
I can decide anything for myself.”

Her mother’s tone was similarly sharp when she said, “And don’t dawdle, they’re due any minute.”

Amelia pounded up the stairs. Thank God Cameron was coming over and something real was happening for a change. That she’d imagined her life was slow before all the trouble began was laughable now. Her life had run itself into a muddy ditch like the one that ran along the road her father grew up on, and had stalled, no jumper cables available, no mechanic in sight.

Cameron and her mother arrived at the house at ten past ten. Liz McGuiness, as enthusiastically blond as Cameron was redheaded, was dressed in black jeans and a green cashmere cardigan Amelia knew was Cameron’s. Her heart-shaped face was youthful in spite of the deepening lines at the corners of her eyes, which Amelia saw as proof that she smiled a lot—a real contrast from her own smooth-faced mother. Liz McGuiness carried a picnic basket, which she set on the kitchen counter before reaching for Amelia and pulling her into a hug. “Oh my, look at you—I’m not a minute too soon with the bread. If you get any skinnier …”

“She insists on running every morning,” Amelia’s mother said. “And she only picks at her food.”

Cameron, her back to Amelia’s mother, rolled her eyes and said, “Who can blame her?”

Liz gave Amelia one more squeeze, then let go and opened the basket. She took out two towel-wrapped loaves, unleashing the scents of nutmeg and cinnamon and making Amelia’s mouth water. Amelia wanted to cry with the pleasure of it all—the sight of Cameron, the feel of Liz McGuiness’s arms around her, the scent of thoughtfulness, of concern, of support that wafted from the stillwarm bread. In all the days that she’d spent here with her own mother, both of them trying to fill the long hours between wake and sleep that were not taken up by the tutor or by her father, not once had they baked something—together or separately. It was as though even the idea of baking, with its promise of comfort and pleasure, had become too hazardous for either of them to approach.

Cameron hooked her arm through Amelia’s and squeezed. This made Amelia want to cry, too. Really, there was little that didn’t—which she hated, because until three weeks ago she had not been the crying type.

“We should eat on the patio, don’t you think?” Cameron said. “We’ll go outside and clean the leaves off the table.”

Amelia, hearing the cue in Cameron’s voice, said, “Good idea. It’s so nice out.”

As the girls went out the back door, Amelia heard Liz McGuiness saying, “Sheri, if you’ll get some butter knives, and let me just pop this tub in your microwave …”

Outside, Cameron began pushing the fallen leaves from the wide teak table’s surface. Amelia stood with her face upturned to the sunshine and breathed in the earthiness of the morning. The slight chill in the air was offset by the sun, encouraging them all to pretend that the seasons weren’t changing. Amelia tried to hold on to the moment, to the feeling of safety, the sense of benevolence, false though she knew it was.

She turned her attention to the chairs, pulling one out and brushing it off as Cameron said, “So here’s what’s really going on. Mom wanted to see you in person and see how things are going. She thinks you’re getting a raw deal, and she wants to help you out.” Cameron stopped her work and took her iPhone from the pocket of her jeans, checked it, texted a reply to someone while Amelia looked on enviously, then put it away. “Did you know that adding a line to a phone plan is only ten dollars a month?”

“No, I didn’t,” Amelia said, puzzled at the change of subject. “In fact, I’ve just about forgotten what it’s like to have a phone. Why?”

Cameron started wiping down the table’s surface. “My mom, she gives like two hundred dollars to charity every month. Food bank. Women’s shelter. Red Cross.”

“How much bread does she give?” Amelia joked, setting out the plates and waiting for Cameron to reveal whatever it was she was hinting at. Buttercup followed her as she circled the table, as if in a game of follow the leader.

Cameron reached down to pet the dog. “My dad says if Mom takes on one more cause or takes in one more stray he’s going to have to get a second job.” She took her phone from her pocket again.

“Anything from Anthony?” Amelia asked, watching Cameron read a message and then type one out.

Cameron finished and said, “Not since last night. So anyway, Mom thinks spending another twenty dollars a month for a really worthy cause would make her feel a lot better, and my dad doesn’t need to know about it.”

“Okay …” Amelia said. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“
I
had to buy the
phones
, of course, but …”

“Buy what phones?” She looked at Cameron, whose eyes were twinkling with the fun of keeping her guessing. Then the door opened, and Cameron’s face became a mask of innocence.

Amelia thought back: ten dollars to add a new phone to a cell account, Cameron had said. Twenty-dollar expense for a good deed. Cameron bought phones. “Oh!” Amelia said, getting it.

Her mother looked alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I … I just thought of something.” She glanced at Cameron knowingly.
Phones
, for her and Anthony, so that they could stop using Cameron as their go-between. So that they could talk to each other again, directly. Such a common thing, and yet now it felt like a miracle, like God acting through Cameron and her mother. Cameron wasn’t a fairy, she was an angel.

Liz McGuiness set a platter of sliced bread in the center of the table. “So, Amelia, how goes it with the tutor? It must be awfully difficult to be away from school and all your friends.”

Her mother sat down, saying, “She’s really better off away—other kids can be so cruel.”

Cameron pulled out a chair and climbed onto it, tucking her knees beneath her the same way she’d done when Amelia met her in preschool. “Yeah, there are some real bee-otches out there talking trash, but there’s also a Facebook page up supporting
both
of them,” she said pointedly, then added, “Amelia
and
Anthony,” in case Amelia’s mother missed the point.

“Cameron,” Liz McGuiness chided as she took her seat, “do you have to be so subtle?”

Amelia sat, too. “What are they saying?”

“Who?”

“At school.”

Cameron shrugged. “What you’d expect. Jealous, snotty stuff. That you must be a slut—sorry, Ms. Wilkes—and that Anthony’s your pimp. Intelligent stuff like that.” Cameron pushed her wild hair behind her shoulders and said, “I told them all to screw off—”

“All of this must be difficult for you, too,” Liz McGuiness interrupted, reaching for Amelia’s mother’s hand. “Are you doing all right? Can I help?”

“I … No, we’re fine. That is, thank you. You’re kind to offer.” She could hardly sound stiffer.

“I’m sure you’ve found a great lawyer. What’s the plan for—”

“We can’t talk about it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. But my husband says the lawyer was quite clear that we shouldn’t discuss it with anyone.”

They were all quiet then, while they took thick slices of the warm bread and slathered them with the honey butter Liz McGuiness had made from scratch. When Amelia’s mother remarked on the butter, Liz said, “There’s a lot less to making it than you’d think. I buy the cream from a dairy out in Orange County, whip it into butter in about five minutes, add the honey, some cinnamon, some vanilla, and voilà!”

“Voilà!” Cameron echoed, pronouncing it with a
v
instead of a
w
the way her mother had just done. “Ms. Winter would be so impressed with your pronunciation, Mom.”

“What are you all doing for Thanksgiving next week?” Amelia’s mother asked, a clear subject change that couldn’t have been lost on any of them.

Liz McGuiness said, “We’ll be in town, doing our usual ‘widows and orphans’ dinner.”

“We invited the Winters; maybe you guys could come, too,” Cameron said, looking directly at Amelia’s mother, “and, you know, think about burying the hatchet.”

Amelia watched her mother’s mouth tighten with the effort of determining how she ought to respond, and then Liz McGuiness rescued her, saying, “I’m sure you have plans already?”

“We do, yes. My family, in High Point.” The Kerrs, who had made no secret of their feelings regarding Amelia’s predicament, as they called it. Though her mother tried to keep these phone conversations out of Amelia’s earshot, some of them had taken place without warning—while the two of them were at the flower shop, for example, ordering a bereavement arrangement for a friend of her mother’s who’d been in the Women’s Club. In the tiny, quiet space of the shop, Amelia had been able to hear her aunt Lou saying how shocked they’d all been to see Amelia on the news. “That’s just the kind of predicament Daddy warned you about,” Lou had said. “He hasn’t forgot. You ought to hear him.” Amelia had listened keenly, wondering how her grandfather—who was a distant man, and not close to her at all—could have imagined her troubles ahead of time and warned her mother about them. But then it occurred to her, as the brief exchange played out, that Lou might not mean this literally. It occurred to her that her grandfather’s warning might have been about some other troubles, and a long time back. She listened for more clues or for confirmation, but her mother cut Lou off with a promise to call her back when she got home.

“But how about this,” Liz McGuiness was saying now, “we’d love to have Amelia come to the beach with us this weekend. Cam’s got it in her head to bake a Black Forest cake, and I was thinking we could pick up Amelia on Friday, unless you’ll be going out of town early—”

“I think she’d better not, but thank you so much for the offer.”

“Momma, why not? Daddy will be in San Francisco, so—”

“Another time,” her mother said, politely but firmly. “I’m not even sure it’s allowed.”

“Allowed by who? The court, or you and Daddy? For God’s sake,” Amelia said, tossing her napkin on the table and standing up, “why do we have to live like cowards?” She started to walk away, then turned, grabbed her half-eaten bread, and headed inside.

The dog jumped up and followed, and Cameron did, too. “Good move,” Cameron said after shutting the door behind Buttercup. “While she’s out there apologizing to my mom for you being so troublesome, like you know she’ll do, I can give you what’s in my purse. Come on,” she said, “let’s go have your fit in your room.”

Amelia’s anger drained and her anticipation returned. She smiled at Cameron. “I am so grateful for you.”

They hurried upstairs, Cameron leading, as if they were twelve-year-olds again in a rush to watch Miley Cyrus as Hannah Montana. For Amelia, the teen superstar had been a brief preadolescent interest, a look at what Amelia might be able to do with her own emerging good looks and appealing voice. She’d known pretty quickly, though, that the pop music, pop stardom route would never be for her, supposing she even had a chance at it. Hannah Montana was as much Miley Cyrus as the other way around; Amelia would never be able to put herself out there that way. She needed a character to inhabit who was not a glorified version of herself. She needed to be the vessel for the playwright and the composer, and in that way she could safely express, safely release all the things she kept inside.

Cameron climbed onto Amelia’s bed, moving aside the journal, magazines, and pillows, and dumped out her purse. Among the hairbrush and wallet, lip gloss, keys, folded notes, and half-finished bags of M&M’s that spilled out were two basic slider-style cellphones. “They aren’t much, features-wise,” Cameron said. “No Internet service or anything, no picture-sending enabled. But they do have keyboards—I’m looking out for you, kiddo. You can call and text as much as you want.” She pushed one toward Amelia. “I’ll give Anthony his after he gets home from court, when we drop some bread off for them.”

Amelia examined the phone, a rectangular silver and black device with the front display reading out the time, 10:37
A.M
., as though it were a precious and rare artifact from another era. “You know that if I use this to get in touch with him, I’m violating my bail terms.”

“Then you better not get caught this time; I’d hate for Mom to get in trouble.” She winked.

“Your mom did this, really?”

“I coughed up one-fifty for the phones, but yeah, she was thrilled to go along with the idea. All right, maybe not ‘thrilled.’ But she kept saying how she had to do
something
, so I gave her a good idea of what the something should be. I said I was tired of being Ms. Ambassador Go-Between. Do I
look
like Switzerland?”