Julia's Daughters (5 page)

Chapter 8

Haley

 

I hear my cell phone vibrating on my nightstand. It's the second or third time it's gone off. I groan and roll over and pick it up. WTF? I look at the screen. It's Marissa. My best friend. Well, my best friend now. Since the other one is in the cemetery in a jar. I slide the thingy on the screen. “Hey,” I say, flopping back on my pillow.

“Hey. I've been calling you. Why didn't you pick up?”

I close my eyes. “I thought you were supposed to go shopping with your grandmother or something today.”

“I am,” she says. “I'm in the dressing room at Forever 21. She said she'll buy me whatever I want. I've got a whole pile of stuff. You should come here.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. My curtains are closed on my window, but there's light around the edges. I feel hung over even though I didn't drink that much last night. “I probably can't. I'm in deep shit.”

“Get caught sneaking out? I told you it wasn't a good idea. Do you think I can wear yellow? I think it makes my skin look yellow.”

I tuck my phone between my shoulder and my ear and rub the little bumps on my forearm under my T-shirt. I can feel the need bubbling up. I try to ignore it. “Don't buy anything yellow.”

“But I like yellow,” Marissa whines.

“You look shitty in yellow. Everybody does.” I exhale, remembering the nightmare of a night. “I had to call my mom last night to come get me at Dodge's.”

“You're kidding. Holy shiite.”

I close my eyes and wince. One of the bumps on my forearm really hurts. I should probably put Neosporin on it. “He wanted me to do something I didn't want to do.”

“Like kinky sex stuff?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“I can't believe you called your mom to come get you. Did she even know about Dodge?”

“She knows now.” I rub the bump that hurts. “I didn't know who else to call. Your car's in the shop and you're not allowed to drive your mom's. Cassie wouldn't answer her phone. I got scared.”

“You? You never get scared.” Marissa groaned. “God, I have got to stop eating. My butt is getting bigger by the day. Do they have this in a six?” she hollers to someone. Probably her grandmother. She talks to her grandmother that way. Like they're friends. I don't have a friend kind of grandmother. My mom's mom is dead and my dad's mom . . . I can't stand that bitch. She's so judgmental, such a hypocrite. I don't even feel bad about stealing her drugs.

“What'd your mom say when she picked you up last night?” Marissa asks. She's grunting and groaning, trying to fit her size six butt into a pair of size four jeans, probably.

“She came inside Dodge's house,” I say.

“What?”

“I locked myself in the bathroom after he hit me. She walked right in the house.”

“Holy crap.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “These people were smoking crack right on the couch.”

“You're in sooo much trouble, Haley.”

I sigh and rub harder. My shirt is wet under my fingertips. Blood. “I doubt it. Mom's afraid to say anything to me. She's afraid I'll go stark raving mad or something. And you know how Dad is. He checked out months ago.”

“Because of Caitlin?”

“I guess. I don't know. It's been worse since then for sure. He's not really into being a dad or a husband. He's already got his mommy and his brothers and his business.”

“But you said you heard him telling your mom they should send you away to boarding school. You think he will?”

“I doubt it.” I press my lips together. My arm's really starting to bleed. I can smell the blood now. It smells like Caitlin's blood that night. It's weird, but the blood makes me feel better. “Whatever,” I add.

“I don't think your mom will send you away. I don't think Julia's got it in her. You're still her daughter, no matter what you did.”

“Yeah, but she's still got another one. Izzy's smart and she always does the right thing.”

“I got news for you; your little sister is weird. All those weird facts she's always telling us. And getting under her bed all the time. Certifiable.”

I smile. “She is, isn't she? A little weirdo.”

“Almost done,” Marissa says loudly. “I gotta go. G-mom's hungry. Low blood sugar. You sure you don't want to come to the mall? We're going to Chipotle for lunch.”

“I better stay here,” I say, slowly pushing up my sleeve. I feel like I'm stretched tight like a rubber band, like something bad's going to happen if I don't relieve the tension. Something really bad. I open the drawer in my nightstand and dig around. “Just in case Mom wants to come in here and lose her shit on me.”

Chapter 9

Julia

 

“You called me!” Laney exclaims into the phone, clearly tickled. “Jules, I can't believe you actually called me.”

“And a day early,” I point out. “And I'm not in bed.”

“Good for you. How about a shower?”

This is so like Laney. You give her an inch, she wants a mile.

“I even shaved my pits.”

“I'm proud of you.”

I'm standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom, just out of the shower. It's noon. I haven't talked to Haley yet; she's still in bed. I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to say. What I
need
to say. I think that's why I picked up the phone and called Laney. Not because I told her I would call her. Not because I'm hoping for answers from her (though I'm sure she'll have an opinion; Laney has an opinion on everything), I just think I need her strength. Because I
have to
say something to Haley. I have to
do
something.

My towel slips and I stare at my naked reflection in the mirror. I don't recognize my body anymore. I can't remember the last time I've seen my hip bones when standing. Pre-puberty? I like this new thinness-without-even-trying, but I don't like what it's done to my face. I look like I've aged ten years in the last seven weeks. There are fine lines around my mouth and eyes, lines I didn't have two months ago.

“I'm serious,” Laney says gently. “I know how hard it is to get out of bed. You
know
I know.”

I do. After Laney's husband died, after she got through the funeral and all, she took to her bed too. But she was only there weeks, not months like me. Maybe it was because she had little kids that she found her way out sooner. That's what she attributes it to. I attribute it to her strong character, her perfectness. Laney is the woman I'll always wish I could be, but know I never will be. Things are so simple for her, they're black and white. Her actions, her thoughts, her emotions have none of the messiness of mine.

I put Laney on speaker and set my phone on the sink. I rewrap the towel, lean closer to the mirror, and wipe at the steamy glass. My green eyes are still pretty, but I can't say that I'm pretty any longer. Is that why Ben isn't interested in having sex with me anymore?

I don't think sex has even crossed his mind since the funeral. It certainly hasn't crossed mine. I don't want to have sex with my husband or anyone else. My child is dead. I want to cover myself in ashes, hack off my hair with a kitchen knife, and throw myself on the ground in the cemetery where what's left of her rests in a little marble alcove in a wall of urns.

But before that. Why didn't he want to touch me? What happened between us? Ben and I always had a great sex life, even after having three children. And it had been a mutual thing, unlike with a lot of women my age; I enjoyed our relationship in bed as much as he did. Only three or four years ago, we were the envy of our friends/acquaintances. Those who weren't getting divorced were moving into separate bedrooms because the men snored. My now ex-sister-in-law had called us The Love Birds. People used to tease us because we held hands and kissed each other hello and good-bye with something more than a peck on the cheek. Where did that couple go? Thinking back, there was no specific event that threw cold water on our physical relationship. It just kind of . . . faded away.

And I've missed it. I've kept myself busy with my life with my girls and I've made excuses for Ben and for myself, but when I think about it, I have to admit that I've missed that intimacy. The emotional and the physical. Ben was once my best friend; he rivaled Laney. And now he's the guy who sleeps in a recliner in my living room and asks me to pick up a pack of boxer briefs for him at Target.

I exhale and focus on my image in the mirror. I can hear the exhaust fan rattling overhead; it needs to be repaired like a lot of things around the house. “I've got serious roots,” I tell Laney, pulling at my wet hair. I wear my natural blond hair that's not so natural anymore in a long bob. When it's cut at the salon, it falls just above my shoulders. I haven't had it cut or colored in two months and it looks it.

“So go get it colored. Get a cut. Get a mani and a pedi while you're there.”

“Maybe I should.” I lean closer to look at the red spot on my chin. Maybe I should make an appointment at the salon. I always enjoy getting my hair cut, my nails done. It's a guilty pleasure.

I meet my gaze in the mirror, horrified by that thought. What kind of mother am I? What kind of monster? What kind of mother monster? A monster of all mothers. My child is dead and I'm thinking about how nice it would be to go to the
salon
and get my
toenails
painted.

Caitlin loved getting her nails done. She used to get crazy colors: blue, green, purple. I remember the last time we went, just a week before she died. She got her toenails painted purple. At the memorial service, when she lay in that closed white coffin, before she was cremated, her toenails must have still been painted purple.

I close my eyes against the pain that's so overwhelming that I'm afraid it will crash over me and take me under, take me out. A tidal wave of black sorrow.

“Jules? You still there?” Laney's voice pushes against the void, drawing me back toward her.

“Yeah,” I say. I close my eyes and open them again. “Can't get my hair done. I have to do something with my daughter.”

“Which one?”

“Which one do you
think?
Haley.”

“What's she done now?”

“Let's see.” I turn around and lean against the sink, picking up the phone again. “You want to hear about her getting expelled from school or the drug house where I picked her up in the middle of the night last night? How about the bruise on her face from where some guy hit her?”

Laney makes a sound of disbelief.

“She called me scared to death of some maniac trying to break into the bathroom where she was hiding. It was the middle of the night. I thought she was in bed, Laney,” I go on. “When she called, she woke me up. I couldn't figure out why she was calling me from her bed.”

“Shit.
Expelled too?
”

“Sure thing. Not suspended, like last month. Expelled. Smoking cigarettes on campus, with marijuana and pills she stole from Linda in her bag.”

“She stole weed from her grandmother?”

I sort of laugh, but only to keep from starting to cry. “I don't know where she got the weed. Probably one of her uncles.” I'm being facetious now. Ben's brothers would never give my daughters weed. I don't think . . . “I'm more worried about the Percocet, Laney,” I say, thinking out loud. “It was a
lot
of Percocet.”

“She's taking it?”

“I don't know,” I sigh. I honestly don't think I've seen her high, or zonked out or whatever, but how much time have I spent with her in the last two months? I've been too busy drowning in my tears in my bed. “I'd be a fool to think she isn't taking them. Wouldn't I?”

“Well, does she act like she's on drugs? Like she's sedated? That's what Percocet would do.”

When I don't respond, she exhales. “Right,” she says, and I know she's remembering what this was like. “I know. You all look like you're sedated. You all feel like it. So, this all happened yesterday?”

“She was expelled Thursday. I rescued her from the bathroom on Drug Street last night.”

“Wait a minute.”

I can almost see her doing a double take.

“She got expelled
Thursday
and you haven't asked her about the Percocet yet?” Laney asks, her tone incredulous. “What the hell, Jules?”

Laney would never let two days pass without getting to the bottom of drug possession by one of her kids. Of course one of
her
kids would never have drugs in a Ziploc in her Lucky Brand backpack to begin with. They're all perfect boys; good grades, good behavior, adoration of their mother. And they're boys. An entirely different species. And one of her kids didn't kill one of her other kids. She can't possibly know what this is like for Haley.

“Why haven't you talked to her about it?” She didn't give me a chance to answer before she went on. “And what was she doing at a drug house in the middle of the night? I'm not even sure I know what a
drug house
is.”

“Just what you would think. I saw, firsthand, what I realize now was a crack pipe.” I hold the phone with one hand and rub my temple with the other. The towel is slipping again. “I can't imagine what she's going through, Laney. She and Caitlin, they were best friends, they—” I feel the tears coming. “I can't imagine,” I repeat. I can, of course. I understand the devastating, debilitating loss, but there's no way I can know what it feels like to be Haley. Not really. My daughter died, but Haley was the one responsible for her sister's death.

“You can't just let it ride, Jules. I know she's been through a lot, but you can't let this go.”

“I know,” I say.

“She's your daughter and you're responsible for her, for her choices, for her life,” she says passionately.

“I know. I know.” I sniffle. “But I don't know what to do,” I whisper. Suddenly I'm shaking, not with cold, but with fear. “I can't lose her, too,” I murmur as much to myself as to Laney as I realize the threat might be real.

“So get her out of there. Change of scenery. Get her away from the people and places that are negatively influencing her.”

“No.” I reach for a tissue from the box on the sink. Empty. I lean over and pull a length of toilet paper from the roll. “No,” I repeat firmly. “Absolutely not. I'm not sending her to boarding school. That's what Ben wants to do. She's not a boarding school kind of girl. I send her to school in another state and she'll end up a runaway or worse, Laney. I know she will,” I whisper desperately.

“So send her to me. I'll put her in school here.”

I smile sadly. Not only does Laney always have a plan, but she's willing to throw herself off a cliff to see it executed.

“I can't push her off on you. It wouldn't be fair to you or your boys.” I dab at my nose with the toilet paper. Ben's bought the wrong kind again. It's like wiping my nose with a piece of newspaper. I would never complain though. I haven't been inside a grocery store in, well, at least forty-nine days. “She's my daughter,” I say. “I'll figure it out.”

“I know you will because if you don't, if you don't do something sooner rather than later, Jules, she's going to end up in jail or in drug rehab.”

Or worse
. I think it, but I don't say it. I can't bear to say it. I think about the pills, about Haley's dangerous behavior since Caitlin's death. It's about Caitlin; I know that. While I may have been in a fog for the last two months, my visibility hasn't been
that
reduced. I'd have to be blind and an idiot not to see it. Before Caitlin died, Haley was certainly no angel. But it had been typical rebellious teenager stuff: being late for curfew, not turning in homework, saying she was one place when she was actually at another. But nothing serious. Nothing like stealing drugs and sneaking out in the middle of the night to go to a crack house.

“I know I have to do something,” I say into the phone when I find my voice again. “I just don't know what.”

“So Ben says send her to boarding school. Is that his only idea?” Laney asks.

She's being pushy.
Really
pushy. I'm beginning to wish I hadn't called her. I can't do this right now with her. I don't have it in me to defend my family or myself.

“What's Ben saying?” Laney asks when I don't answer.

She's like a dog with the proverbial bone. I know her too well. I know she's not going to let go of it.

“Julia?” Ben calls from the bedroom. “You in there?”

“Can I call you back?” I ask Laney, thankful for the reprieve. I don't want to talk to Ben, either, but I'd rather talk to him right now than to Laney. “In the bathroom,” I call. Then into the phone: “Ben's looking for me. I should go.”

“You two need to sit down and talk about Haley,” Laney tells me. “You're her parents. You owe it to her. You owe it to Caitlin,” she says fervently.

I dab at my eyes with the toilet paper. I hear Ben's hand on the bathroom doorknob. “Call you later,” I say, trying to grip the phone and my towel.

Ben opens the door without knocking, which irritates me. I've always liked my privacy in the bathroom. If the door is shut, in my book, that means you're not welcome, unless invited. It's not that way with Ben's family, though. They think nothing of brushing their teeth while a spouse sits on the john. I don't want to see Ben clip his nose hairs or have him watch me remove my tampon. Some things should remain private, shouldn't they? Isn't that a way to keep up the romance in a marriage?

Of course, obviously we're not doing so hot with that.
That
writing was on the wall even before Caitlin died.

“There you are,” he says. He's dressed in jeans and a red polo with his family's lawn care company logo on it. The shirt looks too small; it's pulling across his belly.

“I was talking to Laney.” My towel begins to slip and for some reason I feel a sense of panic. I don't want him to see me naked.

Why don't I want him to see me naked? He's been seeing me naked since I was twenty years old. I set the phone on the edge of the sink and cover my exposed left breast. I don't know if he doesn't see it or he just doesn't care. Even a year or so ago, Ben's face lit up at the sight of a bare breast, even one he knew well. The look on his face, or the lack of response in this case, makes me so sad and I don't know why. This isn't solely his fault, the state of our marriage. I know that.