Freaky Green Eyes (6 page)

I never clicked Send, though. After a while deliberating, I clicked Delete.

There was this puppet-girl Franky Pierson. I hoped that people were marveling how extra normal
and totally sane she was.

For instance: I helped Jenn Carpenter's mother organize a surprise sixteenth birthday party for Jenn on June 20, which was the eve of her birthday. For weeks we made plans by telephone and e-mail. (During which time, when Mrs. Carpenter asked about my mother, I told her always cheerfully that Mom was “fine”—Mom was “working at her art.”) Twyla and I were entrusted to pretend to be dropping by the Carpenters' to pick Jenn up for a movie, but when Jenn walked into the Carpenters' family room, where we were waiting, there were twenty-three of Jenn's friends plus relatives and even Jenn's father, who'd flown home early from a business conference in Rio. When we started singing “Happy Birthday,” Jenn gaped at us wide-eyed. Her jaw literally dropped. So funny! Mrs. Carpenter was videotaping. There were balloons, there were mounds of presents. Someone put a glittery hat on Jenn's head. We laughed and laughed. I wiped at my eyes seeing how totally surprised and happy
Jenn was, how people loved her and she loved them.

The thought came to me
I wish I was that young
.

“Francesca? It's me.”

After a while it got to be that, when Mom came home, sometimes I wasn't home. And if I was, sometimes I didn't come out of my room to meet her. Stayed at my computer cruising the Web. Clicking onto sites that took me to distant places. (I was getting interested in paleontology. Paleontology digs in Montana, Wyoming. Digging up bones from one hundred million years ago. In some clear, dry climate where you could see for miles, where it wasn't always misty or raining.) I'd hear the station wagon in the driveway, and Samantha running, and Rabbit barking, and I knew that Mom would be wondering where I was, waiting for me to come out and hug her. I thought,
Let her wait. Let her wonder
.

Soon, then, Dad would depart. And when Dad
returned, Mom would leave again for Skagit Harbor. Lots of people in this part of the state commute, by ferry as well as car, so I tried to think of Mom and Dad as perpetual commuters. What was strange was that Skagit Harbor was so close to Yarrow Heights, actually; an hour's drive along Route 5 north skirting the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Samantha kept saying to Mom, “Why can't we go with you? You promised!” And Mom turned the silver ring around her finger nervously, and said, “Honey, I did promise. I haven't forgotten. But this isn't the right time.” Samantha said loudly, “When, then?” and Mom said, “When your father says so.”

Another time, Samantha said slyly, “Mom? Daddy is away until Friday. We could go with you to the cabin, and you could bring us back before Daddy came home. He wouldn't know!” I saw Mom glance at me, her worried, frightened eyes, and I knew she was hoping I wouldn't think that this was a great idea, too. I hated seeing her so scared seeming and
weak. I guess my face hardened, and my eyes. Mom said, “Samantha, no. That wouldn't be a good idea at all. Your father would be furious with us. All of us.”

But when Samantha asked Dad when we could visit Mom, Dad said with an air of surprise, “Sweetie, it isn't up to me. It's up to her.”

(Lately, Dad spoke of Mom as “her” or “she.” He never said “your mother” or “Krista” any longer.)

Samantha protested, “But Daddy, Mommy says it's up to you. Mommy says to ask
you
.”

“No. She's just pretending that. It isn't so.”

Confused by this, Samantha stood blinking. She had the look of a child abandoned on the median of an expressway, as traffic sped past in both directions.

“Dad
dy
! Can we all drive up to Mommy's cabin, just for a little while? I want to see Mommy's cabin!” Samantha's voice was shrill, and I knew it was a mistake but there was no way to stop her. She kept on like this, whining, childish, pulling at Dad's
arm until he lost patience and took hold of her wrist and twisted it, and Samantha whimpered like an injured puppy, and dropped to one knee, and Dad released her, breathing hard, saying in a level, calm voice, “I told you, Samantha. I'm not going to tell you again. Both of you had better get this straight. It's up to
her
. Not
me
.”

Samantha bit her lower lip to keep from crying. She knew she'd better not.

By the time we went to bed that night, Samantha's wrist was circled in red welts from where Dad's fingers had twisted. Next morning, it looked as if Samantha was wearing a bracelet of plum-colored bruises.

I felt sorry for Samantha but, well—she'd provoked Dad. She would have to learn not to do that.

As I'd learned, at about her age.

It wasn't until two days later that Mom noticed Samantha's wrist. It wasn't until two days later that Mom was home, to notice anything.

Mom said, “Samantha, what's that? What
happened to your wrist?” and Samantha murmured, “I don't know, maybe I . . . fell down, I guess.”

“Fell down—where?” Mom asked, concerned, and Samantha shrugged away from her, not wanting Mom to touch her. She said contemptuously, “Where's anybody fall? On the dumb
ground
.”

This was June.

June was a long month.

I'd been supposed to spend two weeks at the Bainbridge Island Arts Camp, where some friends of mine from school were going, but I never got around to filling out the application, and Mom must have forgotten, too. Every week Dad was promising we'd go away for a few days to Cape Flattery, where some rich Seattle businessman had a place on the ocean, but (somehow I knew this) Dad was embarrassed to accept an invitation without his wife; how could he explain his wife's absence, unless Krista could be talked into joining her family. (I overheard certain phone calls. I wasn't eavesdropping, but I overheard.)
But so many people wanted Reid Pierson to stay with them at their beautiful summer places, how could he choose? And it was baseball season. And Maria was fired (by Dad, for no reason we ever learned), so another woman had to be hired. And Samantha came down with summer bronchitis. And that was June.

“We can have a good time, Franky, can't we? Even if Mom isn't with us?”

For Fourth of July Dad finally drove us out to Cape Flattery, which is about as far west and north on the Olympic Peninsula as you can get. We were excited! It was the first outing we'd had with our father in a long time. The Blounts' lodge, as it was called, was six miles south of the Cape, built on a high, rocky bluff overlooking the white-capped greenish waves of the Pacific Ocean. We'd be going sailing and whale watching, Dad promised. The Blounts had three children, two boys and a girl, so we'd have someone to “relate to.”

There'd been the possibility of Mom joining us for the long weekend. At least, that was what Dad hinted. Except on the morning we left for Cape Flattery, Dad told us there'd been a sudden change of plans. “She changed her mind, girls. She just called and said she wasn't coming.” Samantha cried, “Why? Why isn't Mom coming?” and Dad said, shrugging, “Sweetie, you'll have to ask her.”

Later Dad said, in a voice meant to be forgiving, “Like I said, girls, she's in her own zone now. ‘Skagit Harbor.'”

Each time Dad spoke of Mom, his words seemed to take on newer and more mysterious meanings.

(First they swear to you there's “nobody else.” Then, later, you learn that not only is there “somebody else,” it's this “somebody else” who's the reason for the weird behavior: quarreling, crying, shoving-around, falling-down-drunk stuff that makes you ashamed you even know these people, let alone they're your parents. And sure, there's a divorce. And it drags on,
and on. And it never ends, because it's inside you, too. And you carry it with you wherever you go, like a turtle with a crooked shell.

(This is what friends of mine have said. Girls at Forrester whose parents went through divorce. I'd hear, and I'd think,
But not the Piersons. We're special
.)

Samantha's bruise bracelet was mostly faded now. You had to know what it was to notice it. On the drive to Cape Flattery, Samantha in the front seat of the car with Dad while I sat in the back, sprawled out, reading and scribbling in my diary, I'd see Samantha examine her wrist now and then, lifting her slender arm to the light.

Since Dad had disciplined her, Samantha was better behaved in his presence. I guess I was, too.

When we got to the Blounts' lodge, it was midafternoon. Dad had trouble locating the property, it was set back so far from the road in a dense evergreen forest. He'd been telling us about the Blounts, who were strong supporters of his and loyal friends.
Mr. Blount was a multimillionaire, and he was locally famous for his generous donations to civic causes and charities. As a distinguished alum of the U. of Washington he'd endowed athletic scholarships for both men and women, including, just last year, a scholarship in Dad's name: the Reid Pierson Class of '78 Football Scholarship. Dad marveled, “That was one of the great honors of my life, I can tell you. It was an absolute surprise.”

When Dad spoke like this, I couldn't tell if he was addressing just Samantha and me or other, invisible listeners. Sometimes I could almost see this audience, on the far side of blinding lights. I could hear their cheers and applause.

Finally Dad found the Blounts' driveway. Bumpy, bouncy, you needed a Jeep to navigate it. Dad was cursing under his breath, and Samantha and I were very quiet. But there was a clearing after a quarter mile, sunlight flooded in, and the Blounts' lodge lifted above us, so impressive we just stared. Dad murmured happily, “Now there's class, girls. Wealth and taste.”
The “lodge” was the size of a small hotel, made of redwood logs and stone, with numerous sliding doors, balconies, and open decks. There were beautiful stone chimneys and what appeared to be Indian gargoyles and totem poles used for decorative purposes. Beyond the house was the bluff, and an enormous sweeping view of the ocean. For once the mist wasn't obscuring the horizon.

There were at least eight vehicles in the Blounts' horseshoe driveway. My heart sank—I hadn't anticipated so many Fourth of July guests. Somehow from the way Dad had talked, it had seemed as if Reid Pierson and his family would be the only guests.

Dad was in a great mood immediately. Shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and hugging. Everybody knew Reid Pierson, and everybody was drawn to Reid Pierson. From time to time Dad would remember that Samantha and I had come with him, and he'd wave us over, or snap his fingers like a magician, “Girls! Sam-Sam and Franky, c'mere.” For Dad was proud of his daughters, he wanted everyone to know.

Samantha was an honor student at Country Day. Franky was a star swimmer and diver on the girls' team at Forrester. Todd, who hadn't been able to join us today, was into serious football at Washington State.

When Dad was asked about his wife, he smiled and shook his head wryly. “Krista sends her regrets. She's so terribly sorry not to be with us. She has an extremely dependent family down in Portland; they're forever calling upon her to help them with ‘crises.' . . .”

For a moment I wondered: Is this true? Mom isn't in Skagit Harbor, but in Portland? Maybe that was why Aunt Vicky had called and e-mailed me?

As soon as I saw the Blounts, especially Mrs. Blount, who was about Mom's age but sleekly blond and glamorous in that way Mom no longer wanted to be, I was lonely for home, and for Mom. In this beautiful place on the ocean, on the Fourth of July. I felt lonely, gawky, self-conscious. Samantha and I were like orphans at this house party where everybody
knew everybody else and there were children running in and out and strangers carrying drinks drifting by, crying, “Happy Fourth! Great weather, isn't it? For once.” A witty variant of this was “Great weather, isn't it? Bud ordered it.”

Mrs. Blount seized both my hands in hers and said, “Franky, is it? I'm sooo sorry your mother wasn't able to join us. I hope the ‘family crisis' isn't terribly serious?”

“Just some people dying, maybe.”

This was a Freaky remark—I couldn't resist. The look on Mrs. Blount's tight, manicured face!

“Oh, dear. I hope—it isn't—” Still, Mrs. Blount meant to be upbeat at her party and needed my help; we were clumsy as canoers struggling with outsize paddles, about to capsize.

I mumbled a vague reply that might have been interpreted as
It's okay, it won't last much longer
, and Mrs. Blount pretended to feel relief hearing this, and smiled at me and squeezed my hands in a gesture of maternal sympathy. But her gaze slipped past my
head to fasten eagerly upon another, more promising guest who'd just arrived.

“Excuse me, dear! We'll catch up later.”

There came our host, Bud Blount, to say hello to me. He was a hearty, red-faced man of about fifty with thick graying hair on his head and a darker patch of hair at the deep V of his sports shirt. “Your father says you're quite a swimmer, eh? Diver? Me too. I mean, I used to be. In college. C'mere, darlin'.” He wanted to show me his Olympic-size pool, which was visible from one end of the redwood deck, but he was distracted by other guests, including my father, who were praising the wine he was serving and asking about its vintage. I would have slipped away while they were talking, but Mr. Blount had hold of my arm. He said, “My sixteen-year-old, Sean, is a helluva diver too. Sean? Where's Sean, Leila? Tell you what, I'm going to propose that you two sexy kids change into swimsuits and put on a little performance for us, eh? I bet you're terrific.
My
diving days are over.” He chuckled, patting his hard-looking stomach
that protruded over the belt of his khaki shorts. “All I can do now are belly flops, but kids like you, you're in terrific shape.” Mr. Blount not only tugged my ponytail fondly, like I was five years old, but made a playful swipe as if to pinch my bare midriff.

Hey! I didn't like this. But it happened fast, and Mr. Blount was obviously not a bad guy, just gregarious and trying to be funny the way Dad was sometimes when he'd been drinking. So I resisted the impulse to push away from him. I gave him the excuse that I wasn't “swimming or diving right now”—it was “that time for me.” This was a Freaky trick: acting like I was really really embarrassed, and causing Mr. Blount to be embarrassed, too, after he caught on. His heavy face was flushing a deeper shade of pink. He mumbled, “Well. I'm—sorry.”

“Some other time, maybe. Invite us back.”

Samantha and I had a nice bunk-bed girls' room on the second floor of the lodge, and Dad's room was just across the way. It seemed strange to be in a place
like this, like a hotel, without Mom close by to supervise us. Samantha whispered, “We could call her, Franky, couldn't we? Just to say hello.” But the cell phone was mine, and I vetoed the idea.

I didn't bother unpacking most of my things. Left them in the suitcase. We were staying only three nights.

There was to be an outdoor barbecue, a suckling pig roasted on a spit. The smell of roasting flesh permeated the air and was both mouthwatering and sickening. (Twyla was a vegetarian. I was fully intending to become a vegetarian, too, except I knew Dad would be annoyed: he called it a “hippie affectation.”) I was feeling more and more Freaky-restless, wondering why I was here. Wondering why I hadn't had the courage to tell Dad I'd prefer to spend the Fourth of July in Skagit Harbor with Mom.

You wouldn't, ever. You don't have that courage
.

Know what you are? A hypocrite
.

Freaky's derisive voice in my head.

Before the barbecue, while it was still daylight,
Mr. Blount took some of his guests out on his forty-foot sailing yacht
Triumph II
to look for whales. I was excited about going—I loved those smallish killer whales that relate so strangely to human beings—but the air was cold on the water; the wind blew spray into our faces, and the season was no longer summer but felt more like November. And Samantha was frightened of the way the boat bounced and bucked sideways against the waves.

Mr. Blount was at the helm, and Dad was his cocaptain. The two men were laughing and shouting, “Whale! Whale ahoy! To the starboard, keep your eyes open.” We kept our eyes open but didn't see any whales; or, if we saw them, we didn't know what we were seeing in the roiling water because they surfaced and sank again in nearly the same motion. I wondered if the whales were teasing us, laughing at us. After about fifteen minutes Samantha's lips and fingernails were turning blue and she was shivering so badly, I hunted up a sweater for her in the cabin and wrapped it around her. Samantha tried gamely to see
what Dad was pointing at, but she was dazed and vacant eyed. The boat dipped and heaved, rocked and rolled. The wind sucked our breaths away. I couldn't even see the Blounts' lodge above the bluff, there was so much spray and mist. But the mood on
Triumph II
was mostly festive, since the adults had been drinking. This was a party after all. Fourth of July.

The Blount brothers, Sean and Chris, had come with us. Sean was a familiar high school type: one of those guys who look slantwise at you like they're assessing you, maybe liking what they see, but maybe not. Ever since we'd been introduced up at the house, Sean seemed undecided about me, impressed that I was Reid Pierson's daughter but unconvinced that I was pretty enough, or sexy enough, for him to waste time on. I was only a year younger than Sean, but probably he thought I was even younger. Still, he seemed to like me. He wanted to impress me. He had a pair of binoculars for me to look through, to see whales in the distance, surfacing and leaping up to flash their sleek, glistening faces in the air, then disappearing again. “See? They're
cool, whales.” I thanked Sean and handed the binoculars to Samantha.

Sean said he wished they could hunt whales like in
Moby-Dick
. With harpoons. “Know what I'd like to do someday? Catch a baby whale in a net and train it in our pool. And videotape it.”

I wondered, could this guy be serious? He seemed to be.

“That's illegal, isn't it?”

Sean grinned and shrugged. “Who's to know? The Coast Guard? The FBI?”

After thirty minutes of bucking the waves, Mr. Blount turned the boat around and we headed back to his dock, where the sweet-sickening odor of roasting pig greeted us.

The adults returned to the party on the redwood deck, but Sean had something to show me, his “private zoo.” It was a hike uphill from the dock to a grassy area behind the Blounts' three-car garage, where Sean and Chris had a number of cages. Samantha and I were quiet, seeing the brothers'
collection of animals: a hare, a fox cub, two nervous raccoons, and a young owl. “Pretty cool, huh?” Sean boasted. “The fox especially. The mother comes around, making these barking, mewing noises.” He laughed. “If she doesn't watch out, we'll catch her, too. See this trap?”

At least it was a Havahart trap, not a leg-iron trap.

A feeling like flame passed over me. I was so disgusted! But I managed to speak calmly. “Where'd you get all these?” I asked, as if I was truly impressed.

Sean gestured toward the forest. “Right around here. It's a wildlife refuge, that way. We trapped them. There's thousands of them—it's no big deal. I mean, they're not endangered species or anything.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

Sean shrugged. “Who cares? It's cool.”

Chris echoed his older brother, grinning. “It's cool.”

“Your parents don't care?”

Again, Sean shrugged. “No big deal.”

Samantha was staring at the hare. He was much larger than a bunny of the kind you see in pet stores at Easter. He was a beautiful, sad-looking creature with dark moist eyes and a quivering nose and strangely short, collapsed-seeming ears. She said, “Don't you feel sorry for them?”

“Hell, no. We feed them real well.”