Secrets of Eden (36 page)

“I knew they thought I might have been involved,” I said. “But the two of you? That’s absurd.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But I can see them looking at either you or me. Let’s face it: We’re both pretty damaged goods.”

Had she meant to be hurtful? It was possible. She knew that I didn’t view myself as any more damaged than most mortals. She knew that I took comfort in the way I was held close now by angels. When I said nothing, unsure how to respond, my older sister continued, “Seriously, Heather, just because our parents’ marriage was a disaster in every conceivable way, you shouldn’t assume all relationships are. My advice? Spend less time with your cherubim and seraphim. Spend more time with real people.”

“You’re the one living in the woods with the world’s quietest man,” I reminded her.

“And I’m a disaster. I’m nobody’s role model, least of all yours. But until you cut bait once again on what had the potential to be a terrifically normal—perhaps even healthy—relationship, I always presumed you were doing a lot better than me.”

There was never going to be anything normal or healthy about my involvement with Stephen Drew, but I was not going to argue that evening with Amanda. I remembered that Tuesday at the end of July when I had first met him: Originally I thought that I had gone to see the pastor of a small country church, because he’d seemed so lost to me in the newspaper and I presumed my history could help him.
Could help his community. Only later would I admit to myself that my motivation may have been slightly different—or, at least, more involved. On some level it was likely that I had been drawn to Haverill that afternoon by the inexorable gravity of memory. By my own fathomless scars. We may talk a good game and write even better ones, but we never outgrow those small wounded things we were when we were five and six and seven. When we were in grade school and hiding behind the couch. It’s why we need angels.

And there was something else that was always going to preclude any rapprochement with Stephen: There was that small detail that he was capable of murder. I understood the justification, and I appreciated the fury he must have experienced when he came upon the scene—when he saw his former lover dead on the floor in her nightgown. I was not unsympathetic. But I also knew that I wanted nothing to do with him ever again.

T
he fights were horrible, but the silences might have been even worse. No one could do silence like Mom and Dad. Especially Mom. We’re talking plasma TV with the mute button on. It was her way of fighting back, and it just drove Dad crazy. Because the thing was, after he’d hit her, he’d be all contrite and sorry and want to make it up to her. Breakfast in bed, sit with her on the couch and watch whatever she wanted—even
Sex and the City
reruns (which he hated), if that’s what was on. And that was the time when Mom was in the driver’s seat. Of course, it also meant that the fighting could drag on for days. Dad would hit Mom, Mom would clam up, and Dad would go from sorry to sulking to pissed. Not a promising cycle, if you get my drift.

Now, they had friends. My dad had his buddies in the volunteer fire company and people who worked at his stores and his restaurant. I think he was probably a pretty good boss. And Mom had chums, too. Some people said Dad took away Mom’s friends, and there were definitely some women he didn’t want her hanging around with. That’s true. But he didn’t stop her from seeing everyone. Mom still had the
crumblies in the Women’s Circle and Ginny O’Brien—who was also in the Women’s Circle but was a couple generations short of crumbly. And there is nothing that Ginny wouldn’t have done for Mom. Nothing. And I guess she had her friends at the bank. But the thing is this: Even if my mom had had lots of gal pals, the last thing she wanted was for people to think that her marriage was a failure and she was, like, a total victim. A total loser—because she wasn’t a loser, at least in my opinion. This was really clear when I would visit her at the bank branch on Saturday mornings, which I did pretty often by the time I was in middle school, because it was near stores and it was a chance to get out of Haverill. I saw her with the tellers and a man named Frank Albertson who was a commercial loan officer there. She was totally professional. She was completely different from the way she was at home. I wish she had known how good she was.

Sometimes I think Mom put up with a lot of Dad’s worst creepiness because she was afraid if things ever got too crazy—too violent—we’d both wind up at the shelter. We came close a couple of times. Sometimes Mom talked about going to Ginny’s, but we never did, because she was afraid of bringing her friend’s family into our nightmare. And I think she was afraid of what people would think if things ever got totally public. Like, what did it say about her as a mom and a wife that she had put up with this crap for so long? And I guess she figured if we spent even one night with Ginny or even one night in the shelter, there would be no going back. The marriage would be over. And looking back, it’s weird, but I don’t think she was ready for that. Really. I don’t know what freaked out Mom more: the fear that she had sunk so low that she was going to be in the battered-women’s shelter with her kid or the idea that she was walking on eggshells in her own house and no one was supposed to know.

THE SOCIAL WORKERS
and the therapists all wanted to know if Dad ever hit me. The short answer is yes. But it’s complicated. I mean, no kid deserves to be hit, but a smart one doesn’t get in the middle of some of the crap that I did. When your mom and dad are in the midst of an electrified-cage match, you steer clear if you want to keep your teeth. (That’s an exaggeration. A: I have never seen a real cage match, just videos of them on YouTube. And B: I have all my teeth. My father never punched me in the mouth.) Twice I made the mistake of thinking I could save my mom alone, and both times I got swatted like one of those gross, slow-moving cluster flies we had in the attic. In all fairness, the first time Dad walloped me was a mistake on his part. He hadn’t meant to. He was in one of his moods, and I don’t even remember anymore what set him off, and my mom was crying pathetically. They were both in their bathroom, and I could hear them through the walls, and I was at my wit’s end and totally furious with him. Maybe even furious with both of them for living the same rerun over and over and over. And so I went in to yell at my dad. I was a big-deal thirteen, and I think I was going to tell him to grow up. The scene I walked in on was really weird, because it was after dinner and he was, like, shaving. I knew he was worried that the toy store wasn’t making enough money—even I knew that a shop that sold mostly marionettes and wooden puzzles in an age when everyone wanted a PlayStation or Wii was a pretty lame idea—which meant that he was a little stressed. Still, I have no idea why he was shaving. He was also pretty hammered. I’m amazed he could figure out which side of the Bic he was supposed to use on his skin. Anyway, I went in with all this determination, and my timing was just perfect. Totally perfect. He was winding up to whack Mom, who was actually on her knees and pleading with him about who knows what, and I walked straight into his knuckles as he swung them back, taking it right on the ear. And I can tell you that ears have a ton of nerves. I guess hearing cells don’t. But the outer ear?
Trust me, it hurt like crazy, and my ears rang for hours. I fell against the frame of the door and then, I’m not sure how, wound up on the floor, half in the bedroom and half in the bathroom. Dad didn’t even realize what he’d walloped at first. I think he thought my head was, like, the door. But my mom knew, and she just threw herself at him, leaping to her feet like a missile, which of course caused him to throw her down onto the floor beside me. And that’s when my dad looked at me like, “Hello? What are you doing here?”

The other time he did hit me on purpose. It was a year later, and we had begun to figure out just how much we hated each other: I hated him for what he did to Mom, and he hated me for knowing he was a jerk and mean and pathetic. And that’s the thing—I knew he was pathetic. I don’t care how successful his restaurant or his stores were. My mom wasn’t the loser: He was. And so he probably despised me. But, in all fairness, it was only that one time that he meant to hit me. Just like that evening he nailed me by accident in the bathroom, he hadn’t hit Mom yet. But I could see where it was going. It was a Friday morning, and the bank was experimenting with casual dress on Friday, so the bankers didn’t have to look as formal as usual. Mom was wearing a pair of black jeans. Nice jeans—not mom jeans. They were tight, and she looked very pretty and very young in them. My dad didn’t know she owned them. Anyway, he had left early to play golf that morning, and so my mom had figured she could wear them to work. Unfortunately, my dad forgot his golf shoes, and so he came back for them and saw what Mom was wearing. His voice got that creepy, sarcastic, I’m-your-daddy tone to it. He almost sounded British when he got like that. And that was always the overture. The warm-up. You knew what was coming next. Mom and I were in the kitchen when he returned, and I was eating a Pop-Tart or something at the counter and making sure I had wedged every binder I would need that day at school into my backpack. (My backpack is always a total
wreck.) Mom immediately dropped the lipstick she’d been holding in her fingers into her purse when he started leaning into her. His golf shoes had these pointy metal studs on the soles, and he grabbed one by the top and was holding it like a knife. He ordered her upstairs to the bedroom, where he told her that she was going to put on clothes that didn’t embarrass her or him or his daughter.

And so I told him that Mom’s jeans sure didn’t embarrass me. I said I liked them and thought she looked great. He turned to me and hissed something about how this was none of my business and to get ready for school. I shrugged and held up my backpack with both hands. (And it really did take both hands, because it always seemed to weigh as much as a case of beer, which, just for the record, I only know weighs a ton because I carried them in from the supermarket when I would help Mom with the grocery shopping. In the months after my dad killed my mom, I smoked a lot of dope, but I was never into beer. Too fattening. And it reminded me too much of Dad.) I told him I was all ready for school. And so he said in that case I should go. And Mom said I should, too, and she was practically begging me to get out of the house. But I didn’t want to leave her like this. To leave her to him. So I told my dad that Mom’s jeans were fine and to let it go. I said he didn’t want to miss his tee time. Mom was, like, babbling about how she was going right upstairs to change, she was, and she scooted around Dad so she was between the kitchen and the stairs, and she yelled back at me in a voice that was bizarrely cheerful considering what was going on that I didn’t want to miss the school bus. And I thought, fuck the school bus, this has gone too far. And, in fact, I may even have said that. I can’t recall for sure. All I remember for certain is my dad glaring at me and his eyes getting narrow: Think of a newt. And then, out of the blue, he rammed the toe of the golf shoe into my stomach. It didn’t hurt that much, and it didn’t knock the wind out of me, but it did cause me to drop my backpack and coil up like a spring.
My mom screamed at him to stop, but she didn’t need to worry. He was totally shocked at what he’d done. He was stunned. Then he shook his head in disgust and said I was every bit the slut my mom was and walked out of the house with his golf shoes.

That was the only other time he hit me. And it led to the longest cold war my parents ever had. It took him longer than usual to get all syrupy and apologize, maybe because he’d never had the chance that morning to vent the full fury that was always smoldering just underneath his skin. Also, he needed to apologize to me, too, this time. Which he did. I wound up with a new iPod and a hundred bucks on iTunes. I believe it would be months before he would hit Mom again. Not till the autumn, I think. But when he started up again, things would spiral quickly through the holidays. I’m amazed it took Mom until February to find the backbone to get the restraining order and kick him out of the house. It wasn’t just that he was becoming so unbearable to be around and so weirdly scary. It was that by then she had Stephen Drew in her life.