Freaky Green Eyes (10 page)

When the phone rang at ten twenty
P.M
., it hit me how badly I wanted this to be Mom. I had not spoken with her since July 27: The Sunday of Betrayal. I knew that she'd been calling us. Our new housekeeper had been instructed by Dad how to deal with the absent Mrs. Pierson if/when she called so that the rest of the family could be spared. I kept my cell phone turned off except when I used it, and I had not used it to call Mom and would not. Counting the days since that Sunday.
You can't stay with me, there isn't room. Go with him!

The phone was ringing. Our housekeeper wouldn't answer it so late in the evening. Dad was
still out. Todd was home for the rest of the summer but out for this evening, too. I stood paralyzed staring at the phone. My fingernails were digging into the palms of my hands. “I hate you. I don't love you.
You
go away.”

I saw my hand reach out to pick up the receiver.

Don't let her manipulate you, girls. She's a woman who blackmails with her emotions. The kind who betrays, and blames you for what she has done to you
.

You can't live with both of us. You'll have to choose
.

Samantha had chosen, like me.

Saying, “You, Daddy.” A quick, frightened smile. A thumb jammed against her mouth.

And I said, swallowing hard, “Y-you, Daddy.”

The words came from me hoarse and cracked. I was numb, so tired. Freaky was such a long distance from me at this moment, I could barely remember what she'd felt like.

Freaky Green Eyes? My eyes were faded green and bloodshot.

It was the right answer, though. Daddy smiled eager as a boy, and Daddy stooped to hug us. This was our reward. This was our promise. That Daddy loved us, his big beautiful girls, and he would protect us because he was strong.
Your mother has betrayed you
.

There was no need for Dad to tell us,
Your mother can't protect you
.

Mom wrote to Samantha and me, I guess. I mean, I was pretty sure. But Dad had had all our mail rerouted to a post office box. Dad had the key to this box, which was in the Yarrow Heights station. I would never see it.

The more days passed, the more disgusted I seemed to get with my mother. I kept seeing her stricken faced, bent as if she'd been kicked in the stomach, making a pushing gesture with her hands, telling Samantha to go away.
Go with him!

We'd gone with him. We'd gone with Dad. What he was telling us of our mother: we understood how she'd betrayed us.

I didn't tell Dad about my mother calling Twyla to ask about me.

I didn't want to upset Dad more than he was.

And I was furious with Twyla, too. My so-called Best Friend. Well, maybe it's better not to have a Best Friend if she talks about you behind your back and betrays you. I could imagine Twyla on the phone telling Jenn, Marnie, Leona,
Have you heard, Mr. and Mrs. Pierson are separated? Mrs. Pierson has moved out of the house. You can't ask Franky—she's into total, pathetic denial
. Our last three tennis games, I'd hit dynamite serves over the net straight at Twyla, and the rest of the time I made her run panting all over the court, placing my shots with cruel precision. It was Freaky-control, mean and vengeful. My dad would've been proud of me if he'd seen! Twyla had been flattered by the tennis coach at the club into thinking she was a pretty good player for her age and size; now Freaky was exposing her. By the end of the set her face was flushed and mottled and her silky black hair was in her face. She said in this hurt, bewildered voice, “Oh,
Franky! What's come over you?” At the time I felt great, but afterward when I was alone, I felt really bad.

Twyla wasn't calling me much in August. I told myself I didn't give a damn.

Now the phone was ringing, and I picked it up, and my hand trembled as I brought the receiver to my ear.

“H'lo?”

“Francesca? Thank God, you've answered.”

It was her. It was Mom.

She was asking how I was and I said okay in this flat cool voice. In this voice meant to signal,
Why are you calling me, why now? I am so, so bored by this
. Mom's voice was eager and anxious. She sounded as if she had a bad cold. She sounded as if she was making every effort to speak clearly, not to stammer or break down. I shut my eyes. I could see her with Dad's eyes, in that cozy little cabin of hers where she lived her perfect, selfish life. In the dollhouse. In her own zone.
She was saying how much she missed Samantha and me, how much she wanted us with her. How lonely it was there. At the same time she was begging me please not to tell my father she'd called because he had forbidden her to call, and she'd promised she wouldn't call, but she had to call, to hear my voice—“Oh, Francesca, you and Samantha know that I love you, don't you? You won't stop loving me?”

I swallowed hard. I wasn't going to break down.

I said, “You could come home, Mother. Anytime.”

My mother stammered, “Francesca—no. Honey, I—c-can't.”

“What do you mean you
can't
? You
can
!”

“Not any longer. Not now.”

“That's a lie. Daddy says you can come back to live with us anytime you want to, except you don't want to.”

“Francesca, no. Please, honey. Don't ask me to explain, this is too upsetting for the phone, I need to see you face-to-face—”

I wanted to slam the receiver down.
Don't ask me to explain
.

It was like the way she'd fended Samantha off, screaming at us.
You can't stay with me, there isn't room
.

She'd begun to cry. I hated her, blackmailing me with her emotions. I knew exactly what she was doing. I was quiet for so long, she said anxiously, “Francesca, are you still there?” and I said, “Yes, Mom. Where else would I be?”

It was then I heard a car in the driveway. Possibly it was Dad coming home, which meant I'd better get off the phone. “I'm hanging up, Mother. Maybe you shouldn't call back. Samantha and I will be starting school in two weeks. If you're not back home by then, please please please don't come back ever.”

“Francesca, honey—”

“I'm not ‘Francesca'! I hate that name! And I hate you! Good-bye!”

The last time I spoke with Krista Connor, my mother.

When something is
the last
, you don't always realize. Like
crossing over
, it can happen without your knowing.

When I was questioned about this day, afterward, I would try to remember the chronological sequence of events. I would tell the truth. But I would not tell all the truth. For most of that day was unreal to me, like a dream broken into pieces. An ugly dream broken into ugly pieces.

All morning, I waited for the phone to ring. Suddenly I wanted to hear from Mom. I searched for Mom's number in my room—everywhere!—but couldn't find it.

I guess I knew then. I knew something was wrong.

I tried Skagit Harbor information and learned that Krista Connor's number was unlisted.

I requested Mero Okawa's number. But when I dialed it, a recording clicked on. “Hi! Mero isn't in right now but
please
leave a message. . . .”

Proudly displayed on my bulletin board were two of the Polaroids Mero had taken of Mom, Samantha, and me. I kept looking at these, as if they held a secret. One had been taken in the Orca Gallery in front of a gorgeous crimson silk screen of Mom's, and the other was on the windy deck of the restaurant overlooking the Skagit River. Mom stood in the middle, her arms around Samantha and me, and the three of us were smiling happily.

I saw with surprise that Mom and I were about the same height, and that our features, especially our eyes, were similar.

I was feeling numb, unreal. I didn't leave a message for Mero.

The night before, it had been my father who'd returned home while I was on the phone with Mom. I'd hung up quickly, though, and Dad hadn't suspected.

He'd knocked on the door of my room to say good night. He looked tired, with dark shadows beneath his eyes that were caked with, I guess, TV makeup he hadn't bothered to remove. Dad was on location in Seattle for some sports documentary that was being taped for the network, and he'd worked a long day, he said. And he had a sinus headache. Possibly it was some allergy kicking in. “That damned dog dander is still in this house. In the carpets. I can smell it.”

I said, meaning to be helpful, “Rabbit hasn't been home in a while, though. Maybe—”

“I can smell it, I said. That damned rat terrier, it's like he was sleeping in my damned
bed
.”

Next morning, Dad left for the studio at about eight
A.M
., but at nine thirty his assistant called to ask where Mr. Pierson was. Our housekeeper answered
the phone and put me on. “Francesca? This is Holly Merchant. We've been waiting for your father for forty minutes, and can't seem to get him on his cell phone. He isn't still there, is he?”

I said, “I'm sure he isn't.” But I ran to Dad's bedroom to check, and looked into his study, and the family room, and the basement fitness center. Of course, Dad wasn't here. One of his cars, the new Mercedes, was gone from the garage.

Later, around noon, Holly Merchant called back to report that Dad was on location, not to worry. He'd gone first to an emergency room in Seattle to get medication for his sinus headache.

When Dad came home at about seven
P.M
., he was walking unsteadily, and his eyes glistened. There was something strange about him, as if he was running a fever, and light-headed. He'd wiped the makeup partially off his face, but you could see some of it, caked and grainy, across his forehead. He repeated what Holly Merchant had said on the phone—he'd gone to an emergency room, had been put on medication with
a codeine base, which had gotten him through hours of taping. He was told to eat an early dinner, take another pill, go to bed immediately afterward, and sleep for twelve hours.

So we had an early dinner, in the kitchen. The Peruvian food was tasty but sort of rich and heavy, so Dad couldn't eat much of it but tried, washing mouthfuls down with ice water and small sips of red wine. Todd was home from four weeks at a summer football camp in the Cascade Mountains, so most of the conversation was between Todd and Dad. Todd's big news was that he'd transferred from Washington State to Western Washington, in Bellingham, where he had a better chance of playing varsity football. (Evidently Dad had helped arrange for the transfer, since Todd had missed the application deadline.)

I wanted to join in the conversation—I hated it that Samantha and I were left out—so I said, smiling, “Gosh, that's great, Todd. That's great news. We'll be looking forward to football season.”

Todd said, hardly glancing at me, “Sure.” His
attention was focused exclusively on Dad, as usual.

Todd was heavier than he'd been earlier in the summer. I guess he was getting into condition to be a linebacker. His neck and upper arms were dense with muscle. There were pimples on his forehead, and his face was ruddy, roughened. He laughed a lot but seemed jumpy. The thought came to me:
He's on steroids
.

This was a scary thought. Not just that steroids were dangerous, but Todd was the son of Reid Pierson who, like all TV sports personalities, had come out strongly against drugs for athletes.

Midway through dinner, Dad shut his eyes and murmured, “God. I'm dead.” He'd eaten about half the food on his plate, and he'd drunk an entire glass of wine, which probably wasn't such a great idea with codeine medication. He tried to laugh, lurching to his feet. Samantha, Todd, and I stared at him, concerned. “C'mon, girl nurses. Your poor old dad needs nurses. One pretty nurse under each arm. Ooops!” It was like Dad to make a joke of being sick; he hated
any kind of weakness, especially his own. So Samantha and I helped him make his way downstairs to his bedroom, while Todd followed close behind in case he needed more help. Dad was heavy, and very warm, leaning on us. It wasn't a joke—he truly needed us. By the time we got downstairs to his bedroom, we were all panting, including Todd, who was steering Dad into his room. But Dad refused to allow us to help him undress. “G'night, girls. G'night, Todd. You're terrific kids. I love you.” He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, pulling at a shoe. “Hope your poor old dad makes it through the night.”

Todd shut the door. The three of us stood in the hall for a long moment, waiting for Dad to call us back. But he didn't, of course. He had too much pride.

Todd turned and walked away, clearly not wanting to bother with his sisters, but we trailed after him, lonely and worried. Samantha was whimpering, “What if Daddy is sick? Bad sick?” Todd glared at us and said, “
She's
the reason he's sick. He's allergic to that woman.”

“What woman? Who?”

For a confused moment I thought Todd meant our new housekeeper.

“Her. In Skagit Harbor. The whore.”

“Todd!” I was so shocked, I almost couldn't speak. It was terrible to hear my brother say such a thing about our mother, and in Samantha's hearing. I protested weakly, “She's your mother, too.”

Todd said, sneering, over his shoulder as he walked away, “No. She's my stepmother. She's your mother.”

When, where did I see my mother last?

In Skagit Harbor. Sometime in July.

I guess . . . I don't remember the date. I haven't thought much about it since.

Nobody can arrest me for that, can they?

No. I told you, I never heard them quarreling.

If some of my mother's things are missing from home, she must've come to get them. In the night, maybe. I don't know.

No. I never go into my mother's studio. Actually, I can't remember the last time I was in it. I never look in her closets—why should I?

No. Definitely not close.

It's my dad I'm close to. Everybody is.

I told you, I guess so. I guess I met Mero Okawa.

I remember him sort of. Unless I'm mixing him up with someone else. My mother's new friends in Skagit Harbor weren't very real to me.

Make me take a lie detector test, you don't believe me.

When did I speak to my mother last?

I'd prefer that you call her “Krista Connor.” I'd prefer that you didn't constantly refer to her as my mother.

“Krista Connor” is her professional name. She signed her art with that name. In Skagit Harbor she was never “Krista Pierson.” She was never our mother there. It was her decision.

She sent us away. She said the cabin was too small for us. For the three of us.

Was it too small?

I don't remember.

Ask Dad. He will tell you.

Dad will tell you the truth.

When did I speak with Krista Connor last?

How do you know it was a different time from when I saw her last?

Well, it's pretty obvious. What you're saying. You asked two separate questions. So probably you know.

Because if you know to ask two separate questions, when did I see my mother last, when did I speak with my mother last, you know that the time I spoke with Mom last must have been on the phone, not in person.

So you know that Mom called, and I picked up the phone. You would know how long the call lasted. Dad's lawyer Mr. Sheehan says that you have the right to examine phone records, so you know, so why are you asking me if you know?

It was sometime in July. Late July. When she invited us to Skagit Harbor, then sent us away.

After that, I don't know. I've told you. Our housekeeper answered the phone mostly.

No. Dad has not “instructed” us to hang up if Mom calls. We make our own moral decisions, Dad says.

It was sometime in late August she
called. I mean, when I answered the phone.

You know this, you have her phone records, why ask me how long we talked?

Except “we” didn't talk, really. Mom talked to me.

Why did she call?

I don't know.

I don't remember.

I've told you: I don't remember.

. . . Well maybe it was to say she missed us. Samantha and me.

Maybe that was it.

How long did she talk?

Before I hung up?

Why ask me, you have her phone records. Unless you're trying to trick me.

Unless this is a game.

Do I have any idea where Krista Connor is?

I told you NO I DO NOT.

NO she did not tell me where she was going. NO she did not tell me who she was going with. NO I don't know any reason why she would “disappear.”

NO I am not angry with Krista Connor. I feel no emotion for Krista Connor.

None of us do. In our family.

Because she abandoned us.

Because she betrayed us.

Because she moved away from us, to live in her own zone.

She even took Rabbit with her.

Rabbit? Our Jack Russell terrier.

We miss him. It's lonely without Rabbit in our house. . . . See, Mom had no right to
take Rabbit away with her, that's why Dad says she's a
selfish woman
.

And now Rabbit is gone, too. “Disappeared.”

NO Dad never “struck or kicked” Rabbit!

Who told you that?

NO Dad has never “struck or threatened” me. NO Dad has never “hurt” me.

And not Samantha either.

If my aunt Vicky is saying these things, she's . . . lying.

If my mother's family is saying these things . . .

If Mom's friends are saying these things, they are all lying, and I hate them.

Maria? Maria said . . . ?

She's lying. She's confused.

No, I don't know why Maria would make
up such things. Maybe Mom told her, and Mom was lying. Pretending Dad had hurt her when she'd hurt herself somehow.

Bruises on her neck. Welts. Then she'd hide them with a scarf.

No. I don't know. If she was doing these things to herself, I don't know why.

Maybe Maria wants to get back at Dad. Because he fired her he said for stealing.

Dad told us. Not her. Never her. She told us not to make her explain. She screamed at us,
Go away!
So we went away. But we don't hate her.

No, it was Dad. Driving back from Skagit Harbor. He said—

           
Your mother is in love with another man.

           
She has chosen him over her family.

           
We can never forgive her.

Absolutely we're on Dad's side.

No. Dad didn't say who the other man is.

No. I don't know if he knows. If she told him.

No. Dad wasn't angry. Isn't angry.
My Dad never gets angry
.

Todd is the most disgusted. Todd made Samantha and me cry saying our mother is a whore.

Do I think that Krista Connor is a . . .

I don't know. I don't think about it.

I'll take a lie detector test, you don't believe me.

Yes, Todd had a different mother. Not Krista Connor. His own mother died, and Dad remarried. Todd was four, I guess. It all happened a long time ago. We never think of it.

YES Dad was home all that night. I've TOLD YOU.

YES I would know if he'd left the house. YES I would swear.

NO Dad has not told me what to say.

NO I did not discuss this with Samantha and Todd.

Mr. Sheehan has said not to answer that question but that isn't the reason I'm not answering it, I'm not answering it because I've TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW.

Yes I love him very much. He's a wonderful father, and I . . . I love him very much.

Mero Okawa? I told you, I don't know anything about him.

Except I know he's “missing,” too.

I've told you, I don't remember. I guess he owned one of the galleries. He took Polaroid pictures of lots of people, not just us.

No. Dad never met Mero Okawa.

Yes, Dad drove to Skagit Harbor. He came to take Samantha and me home. But Dad didn't meet Mero Okawa, I know.

How do I know? I know.

Because Dad says so. Dad never lies.

I'm starting to forget lots of things. I don't sleep very well, so it's like my brain is shutting down during the day. Especially about Krista Connor, I'm starting to forget.

Because she forgot me, that's why.

Even before August 26 she was forgetting me. I can't forgive her for that.

Nobody can make me remember. It's my right to forget.