Love Lies Beneath (11 page)

“I don't know. Why? And what text? Mel, I have no idea what you're talking about.” There are, like, five conversations going on at once, and they're all coming out of Melody's mouth.

She flops on the sofa, crestfallen. “It's Kayla. She's having an episode.”

“Episode?”

“Sometimes she goes a little off the deep end. She's threatening suicide.”

“Because of her boyfriend?”

“He's not her boyfriend anymore. But no, he's not the reason. Apparently, she's getting a B minus in American History, despite massive extra-credit work, and she's certain her GPA will condemn her to community college.”

This is keeping my sister away from the latest HBO miniseries? “But she'd never do something so extreme over something so not extreme. Right?”

“I don't know,” she admits. “Sometimes I worry she inherited the family
gene.
”

“You mean Mom's BPD.”

She nods. “It often manifests in late adolescence, and she seems to demonstrate some of the symptoms, including over-the-top reactions to relatively insignificant things. Not to mention relationship problems. I feel sorry for Jeff.”

“Jeff?”

“Her last boyfriend. They were together almost a year.”

“The ‘squeaky little a-hole'?”

“Is that what she called him? He's such a nice young man. She just kept seeing things that weren't there.”

“You mean, like ghosts?”

Mel rolls her eyes. “No. Like disrespect or inattentiveness.”

That does sound like our mother, who demanded respect and attention. “Has she seen a therapist?”

“Yes, but don't tell Graham. He insists she has no problems beyond the usual female kind. BPD is difficult to diagnose correctly, and is often confused with other things. Not only that, but medications are hard to get right, especially in teenagers. Antidepressants can actually exacerbate suicidal thoughts in young people. Anyway, if it's okay with you and we can travel safely tomorrow, I'd like to cut our vacation short a day. What do you think?”

Oh, great. Extra time at the Schumacher abode, while their oldest daughter flips out and has a giant meltdown over a B minus grade, and her father just nods and says whatever. I seriously must rehab the knee while I'm there so I can get myself home ASAP. “If that's what you need to do. Not like I'll miss a whole lot if I don't hang around here.”

I call down to the desk and ask for a local weather report. “Clearing by midmorning” is the answer. Assuming that's close to correct, we should make it no problem, especially once the roads have been plowed. The Escalade is all-wheel drive and would make it anyway, but I'm not always comfortable driving in a blizzard. No way would I trust Melody to get us over that mountain in a whiteout.

Regardless, looks like we'll be able to leave, so we decide to go ahead and pack up. Before I start, I spend a few minutes online, ordering rush delivery gifts. Christmas is on Friday. We can pick up the iPhone at an Apple Store near where Mel lives on the way home. The Sports Authority gift card should arrive no later than Thursday. The Art Institute is trickier, so for now I'll just give Kayla cash and a promise to make some inquiries. Maybe that will make her relax about her report card.

This trip was my gift to Mel, but I should probably get something for Graham. Let's see. What's a good gift for a self-centered prick who refuses to acknowledge the possibility that his daughter might be a little unstable? Maybe a copy of
Mental Illness for Dummies
? Okay, probably not.

As I'm thinking about it, it occurs to me that I should probably let Cavin know we're departing tomorrow. I call, expecting to leave a voice mail. Instead, he picks up. “Oh, hello. Sorry to bother you. I didn't think you'd answer.”

“No bother. Just sitting here, watching it snow. What's up?”

“I wanted to tell you that we're cutting out of here a day early. One of Mel's kids is having some health issues.” Not exactly a lie.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

“She'll be okay. Just needs her mother. Hey, while I've got you, you're a good person to ask. I'm trying to figure out what to get Mel's husband for Christmas. What's a good present for a pediatrician with a bad attitude?”

He laughs. “When in doubt, gift liquor. It's every off-duty doctor's best friend, and a surefire mood enhancer.”

“Alcohol. Of course. A nice añejo should do. Many thanks for the suggestion.”

“Anytime, fair lady. Safe travel over the pass. Oh, by the way. I'll be coming through San Francisco next month.”

“Really? Business or pleasure?”

“Both, I guess. The headmaster at Eli's school wants me to stop by for a ‘discussion.' He wouldn't elaborate over the phone.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“There's a lot about my son that sounds ominous. He seems relatively mellow at the moment, however. But anyway, after my visit to the principal's office, I'm planning a short vacation. I keep a house in Carmel so I can escape the mountains in favor of the ocean a couple of times a year. I'm still a San Diego boy at heart, I guess. If you'll be around, I'd like to stop by and see how that knee's coming.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Give me a heads-up and maybe I'll cook for you.”

“I accept your generous invitation. And I'll bring the Cristal.”

One thing's been pestering me, so I unshrink my inner violet and blurt, “Will you be spending Christmas with anyone special? I mean . . . I'm sorry to be blunt, but are you seeing anyone else? I dislike unpleasant surprises.”

“I'd rather you be blunt than coy. And I'll answer your question the same way. I go out from time to time, and once or twice I thought I might get serious about someone, but I currently maintain no love interest. And truthfully, I haven't enjoyed a recent date anywhere near as much as I've enjoyed being with you. As for Christmas, Eli and I will probably ski and get takeout. Afterward, I'll ply myself with heavily spiked eggnog and watch
It's a Wonderful Life
alone, while he hangs out in his room, playing World of Warcraft or something. Sounds kind of pathetic, huh?”

“Actually, it sounds better than Christmas at Mel's, though you might want to skip pudding for dessert. And thanks for your honesty.”

“Dishonesty is the surest way I know to ruin a relationship. I have nothing to hide.”

That I doubt. Everyone has something to hide.

The drive back to Sacramento was a tedious slog, plenty of time to consider the ins and outs of this budding relationship. Logistically, there are plenty of problems. Distance. Schedules. Deep snow over the mountain passes. All those are conquerable, however, if we discover a true desire to be together.

I've been at Mel's for four days now, enough time to dampen the initial attraction, but all it's done is make me want to see Cavin again, and soon. It's strange, because I've never felt exactly this way about a man, especially not one I know so little. I can't call the feeling love, but it could be its predecessor. Maybe? I'm not certain.

With way too much time on my hands, and scant entertainment, I've been dissecting my life. Other than total financial stability, there's not a whole lot to like about it. My mother and her string of miserable men made the first eighteen years unbearable. And while there were decent periods during my marriages, the bad outweighed the good in the end. I married all three men for stability. There might have been romance, but nothing I felt for any of them approached love. At least I don't think so.

The absolute truth is, people like me aren't meant to fall in love. I'm completely in the dark about that experience, so how will I know if that's what this thing with Cavin will become? Pathetic. I sound like a twelve-year-old girl.

I know that for a fact because I've been listening to a twelve-year-old girl argue with her fifteen-year-old sister ever since I got here. And when she's not doing that, she's on the phone with her friends, discussing the facets of upper-middle-class preteen existence. Basically, this means that though they have not one valid thing to whine about, they complain about everything. It's alternately fascinating and maddening.

Right now, in fact, I hear Jessica say, “I want to open presents tonight.
Everyone
opens presents on Christmas Eve except
my
family.”

Pause for a response.

“I don't know. Dad says if we open them tonight, tomorrow won't be as much fun.”

Pause for a response.

“I'm pretty sure I got an iPhone. It better be the new one.”

It is. One hundred twenty-eight gigs, too. That phone can do everything but pay for itself, but she'll probably complain that it's not the right color. In a way, I understand that Mel wants to spoil her daughters, and not just with stuff. She showers them with compliments and encouragement, even when they don't deserve it, overcompensating for her own sterile childhood.

My cell rings and I grab for it, sure it must be Cavin. But no. It's Finn. “Merry Christmas,” he says, and I can hear Pregnant Barbie chattering in the background.

I choke back my distaste. After all, I did ask for a favor. “You, too. What's up?”

“That thing you wanted? Handled.” Finn is a man of few words.

“Already?”

“I happened to run into the right person at a party last night. He said it shouldn't be a problem. I'll give you details later, but figured you'd like to know.”

“Thank you, Finn. I suppose I owe you one.”

“No, but this makes us closer to even. Have a great evening.”

The power of connections. I've learned to never, ever underestimate it. Even in matters of divorce, burning bridges is generally counterproductive to forward movement. Not that revenge is a bad thing, as long as it remains anonymous. But what if something you need lies buried on the far side of the river behind you?

Mel's planning a big Christmas dinner tomorrow—turkey or ham or whatever—so tonight it's pizza, ordered in from a great little local pizzeria. Suz comes to get me, knocking on the open guest room door.

“Aunt Tara? We're ready to eat. Can I help you?” Of the three kids, she's the only one who cares to understand the extent of my knee injury, mostly because she participates in the kinds of sports that could net her a similar catastrophe.

“I think I've got it, thanks.”

I've found if I'm very careful about any sort of sideways movement, I can manage to limp around the house sans crutches. The hallways are narrow, the distance between rooms relatively short. I make my way to the kitchen, where we're eating tonight instead of the formal dining room, which is already set for tomorrow's celebration.

Pizza fragrance hits my nose immediately, all yeast and garlic. “Oh my God, that smells heavenly. But two pizzas in as many weeks? Before the one I shared with Mel at Tahoe, I don't think I've touched pizza in over a year.”

“Why not?” asks Jessica, who's at the counter, helping herself to a slice.

“Should be obvious,” comments Graham, coming up behind me. “She's afraid it will go straight to her butt.”

“Graham!” Mel spins, turning her back on the apples she's slicing for tomorrow's pie. “That was rude.”

“Was it? Sorry.” Okay, he's obviously halfway to inebriated, but still.

“That's okay. He's right. When you hit forty, you have to be careful with carbs, no matter how hard you work out. Once in a while, however, you should just go ahead and indulge, and that's what I plan to do.”

“Suz, would you please go call Kayla to dinner?” asks Mel.

“Kayla! Dinner!” Suzette's shout reverberates off the carnation-pink walls.

“That's not what I meant. I could have done that.”

“Don't worry about her,” says Graham. “She'll eat if and when she gets hungry.”

He carries his plate to the dinette, slides across the alcove bench, making room for Jessica. I sit on a chair at the end of the table, where I can stretch out my legs.

“Why are you so sullen tonight?” Mel directs the question toward her husband.

Graham shrugs. “Extended-family pizza night. Always a good time.”

Kayla sweeps into the kitchen. “Pizza. Yum.”

“Hey,” says Graham. “Bring me a beer.”

Just what he needs. Man, he's always a little cool, but rarely does he get outright pissy. “What's wrong, Graham? In need of a snotty-nosed-kid fix or what?”

The girls all laugh, and their father flushes a fabulous cranberry shade. But before he can respond, Mel loudly pops a Heineken, hands him the bottle. “Well, we're very happy to have you all to ourselves for a few days.”

Not a single soccer mom in sight. Maybe that's what he's missing. I search for conversation. “So, Mel says you're in a band, Graham.”

He actually smiles. “That's right. We're even booking gigs.”

“What kind of music do you play?”

“Old music,” says Suzette.

“Lame music,” adds Kayla.

“What, no hip-hop?” I ask.

“Grunge,” explains Graham.

“Ah,” I say. “A return to your glory days.”

His smile dissolves and we retreat into wordless reverie, finish our pizza that way. Every now and then, I glance around the table. No one looks happy to be here, despite the deliciousness on our plates. Food can't fix this family. Strangely, I didn't realize it was so broken. It took total immersion to see it.

I clear my throat. “Normally, I'd be happy to wait until tomorrow morning to open presents, as per Schumacher family tradition. But I think everyone could use a little holiday cheer tonight. Shall we adjourn to the living room?”

Graham shoots me one nasty look, but the girls whoop and clear the table. I leave the room to let him argue it out with Mel, commenting as I go, “I've got something for you, too, Graham. Maybe it will make you feel better.”