Someone Like You

  Outside, Macon was still there, rumbling. He didn’t know how much worse he was making it.

  “Where were you?” she said to me. “Where did you go with him?”

  “Mom, we were just out, it was nothing.”

  “Where did you go?” Now her voice was getting louder. My father appeared at the top of the stairs, watching.

  “Nowhere,” I said, as Macon’s revving got louder and louder, and I clenched my fists. There was no way to stop it. “We were at his house, we were just hanging out.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Mom, it doesn’t matter.”

  She had her stony face on, that look again, like a storm crossing over. “It does to me. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Halley. Sneaking around, creeping in the door. Lying to me to my face. All because of this Macon, some boy you won’t introduce to us, who we don’t even know.”

  The rumbling got louder and louder. I closed my eyes.

  Her voice rose too, over it. In the alcove, it seemed to bounce all around me. “How can you keep lying to us, Halley? How can you be so dishonest?” And she caught me off guard, sounding not mad, not furious, just—sad. I hated this.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t want to—” and then the engine was tacking up higher and higher, louder and louder, God he wanted me to get caught, he didn’t understand, as the tires squealed and screeched, burning, and he took off down the street, racing, stopping to beep as he rounded the corner. All this I knew, without even looking, as well as I knew Mr. Harper’s light was already on, he was already out there in his slippers and bathrobe, cursing the smoke that still hung in the air.

  “Did you hear that?” my mother said, twisting to look up at my father, who just nodded. “He could kill someone driving like that. Kill someone.” Her voice was shaky, almost scared, just like Grandma Halley’s.

  “Mom,” I said. “Just let me—”

  “Go to bed, Halley,” my father said in a low voice, coming down step by step. He took my mother by the arm and led her into the kitchen, flicking on the light as they went. “Now.”

  So I went, up to my room, my heart thumping. As I passed the mirror in the hallway I glanced at myself, at a girl with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, in a faded jeans jacket, lips red from kissing. I faced my reflection and committed this girl to memory: the girl who had risen out of that night at Topper Lake, the girl who belonged with Macon Faulkner, the girl who broke her mother’s heart, never looking back. The girl I was.

  Chapter Ten

  “Look at this,” Scarlett said, passing me the magazine she was holding. “By Month Four, the baby is learning to suck and swallow, and is forming teeth. And the fingers and toes are well defined.”

  “That’s surprising,” I said, “considering it’s existing only on hot dogs and orange juice.” It was the next day, and we were at the doctor’s office for the fourth-month checkup. Scarlett had always been phobic of stethoscopes and lab coats and needed moral support, so I’d been pardoned from my most recent grounding, for (1) lying about being with Macon and (2) breaking curfew. I was becoming an expert at being grounded; I could have written books, taught seminars.

  “I’m eating better, you know,” she said indignantly, shifting her position on the table. She was in one of those open-back gowns, trying to cover her exposed parts. Behind her, on the wall, was a totally graphic poster with the heading The Female Reproductive System. I was trying not to look at it, instead focusing on the plastic turkey and Pilgrims tacked up around it; Thanksgiving was two weeks away.

  “You’re still not getting enough green leafy vegetables,” I told her. “Lettuce on a Big Mac doesn’t count.”

  “Shut up.” She leaned back, smoothing her hand over her stomach. In just the last few weeks she was finally starting to show, her waist bulging just barely. Her breasts, on the other hand, were getting enormous. She said it was the only perk.

  There was a knock on the door, and the doctor came in. Her name tag said Dr. Roberts and she was carrying a clipboard. She had on bright pink running shoes and blue jeans, her hair in a twist on the back of her head.

  “Hello there,” she said, then glanced down at her notes and added, “Scarlett. How are you today?”

  “Fine,” Scarlett said. She was already starting to wring her hands, a dead giveaway. I concentrated on the Life magazine in my lap; the cover story was on Elvis.

  “So you’re about sixteen weeks along,” Dr. Roberts said, reading off the chart. “Are you having any problems? Concerns?”

  “No,” Scarlett said in a low voice, and I shot her a look. “Not really.”

  “Any headaches? Nosebleeds? Constipation?”

  “No,” Scarlett said.

  “Liar,” I said loudly.

  “You hush,” she snapped at me. To the doctor she said, “She doesn’t know anything.”

  “And who are you?” Dr. Roberts turned to face me, tucking her clipboard under her arm. “Her sister?”

  “I’m her friend,” I said. “And she’s scared to death of doctors, so she won’t tell you anything.”

  “Okay,” the doctor said, smiling. “Now, Scarlett, I know all of this is a little scary, especially for someone your age. But you need to be honest with me, for the good of yourself and your baby. It’s important that I know what’s happening.”

  “She’s right,” I chimed in, and got another death look from Scarlett. I went back to Elvis and kept quiet.

  Scarlett twisted the hem of her gown in her hands. “Well,” she said slowly, “I have heartburn a lot. And I’ve been dizzy lately.”

  “That’s normal,” the doctor said, easing Scarlett onto her back and sliding her hand under the gown. She ran her fingers over Scarlett’s stomach, then put her stethoscope against the skin and listened. “Have you noticed an increase in your appetite?”

  “Yes. I’m eating all the time.”

  “That’s fine. Just be sure you keep up your proteins and vitamin C. I’ll give you a handout when you leave today, and we can discuss it further.” She took off her stethoscope and consulted the file again, tapping the clipboard with her finger. “Blood pressure is fine, we’ve gotten the urine sample already. Is there anything you’d like to talk about? Or ask me?”

  Scarlett shot me a look, but I didn’t say anything. I just turned the page, reading up on national politics, and pretended I wasn’t listening.

  “Well,” Scarlett said quietly. “I have one. How bad does it hurt?”

  “Does what hurt?”

  “Delivery. When it comes. Is it really bad?”

  Dr. Roberts smiled. “It depends on the situation, Scarlett, but I’d be lying if I said it was painless. It also depends on the course of childbirth you want to take. Some women prefer to go without drugs or medication; that’s called ‘natural childbirth.’ There are birthing classes you can take, which I will be happy to refer you to, that teach ways of breathing that can help with the delivery process.”

  “But you’re saying it hurts.”

  “I’m saying it depends,” Dr. Roberts said gently, “but honestly, yes, it hurts. But look at how many people have gone through it and lived to tell. We’re all here because of it. So it can’t be that bad. Right?”

  “Right,” Scarlett said glumly, putting her hand on her stomach.

  “You’re gonna need major drugs,” I said as we left, climbing into the car en route to our Saturday twelve-to-six shifts at Milton’s. I was driving, and she settled into the passenger seat, sighing. I said, “They should just totally knock you out. Like with a baseball bat.”

  “I know,” she said, “but that’s bad for the baby.”

  “The bat?”

  “No, the drugs. I think I should take a birthing class or something. Learn how to breathe.”

  “Like Lamaze?”

  “Yeah, or something like that.” She shuffled through the handouts the doctor had given us, packets and brochures, all with happy pregnant women on their
covers. “Maybe Marion could go with me.”

  “I’m sure she would,” I said. “Then she’d get to be there when it came. That would be cool.”

  “I don’t know. She’s still talking about adoption like it’s for sure going to happen. She’s already contacted an agency and everything.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  “I think she’s saying the same thing about me.” We pulled into Milton’s parking lot, already packed with Saturday shoppers. “Sooner or later, one of us will have to back down.”

  Later that afternoon, after what seemed like thousands of screaming children and gallons of milk, hundreds of bananas and Diet Coke two-liters, I looked down my line and saw my mother. She was reading Good Housekeeping, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, and when she saw me she waved, smiling. My mother still got some small thrill at seeing me at work.

  “Hi there,” she said cheerfully when she got to the front of the line, plunking the bottle down in front of me.

  “Hi,” I said, scanning it and hitting the total button.

  “What time do you get off tonight?”

  “Six.” Behind me I could hear Scarlett arguing with some man over the price of grapes. “It’s seven eighty-nine.”

  “Let’s go out for dinner,” she said, handing me a ten. “My treat.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m real tired.”

  “I want to talk to you,” she said. My line was still long, people shifting impatiently. Like me, they had no time for my mother’s maneuvering. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “But, Mom,” I said as she grabbed her wine and change from my hands and started toward the door. “I don’t—”

  “I’ll see you at six,” she called out cheerfully, and left me stuck there face to face with a fat man buying two boxes of Super Snax and a bottle of Old English. Lately to get to me she’d had to hit hard and fast, rushing me, then tackling to the ground. For the rest of the afternoon, all I could think about was what she had planned, what trick was up her sleeve.

  She picked me up at six, waiting in the loading zone with the engine running. When I got in the car, she looked over at me and smiled, genuinely happy, and I felt a pang of guilt for all the dreading I’d been doing all afternoon.

  We went to a little Italian place by our house, with checkered tablecloths and a pizza buffet. After a half a slice of pepperoni and some small talk about Milton’s and school, she leaned across the table and said, “I want to talk to you about Macon.”

  The way she said it you’d think she knew him, that they were friends. “Macon.”

  “Yes.” She took a sip of her drink. “To be honest, Halley, I’m not happy with this relationship.”

  Well, I thought, you’re not in it. But I didn’t say anything. I could tell already this wasn’t going to be a discussion, a dialog, or anything involving my opinion. I was an expert at my mother. I knew her faces, her tones of voice, could translate the hidden, complex meanings of each of her sighs.

  “Now,” she began, and I could tell she’d worked on this, planned every word, probably even outlined it on a legal pad for her book, “since you’ve been hanging around with Macon you’ve gotten caught skipping school, broken your curfew, and your attitude is always confrontational and difficult. Honestly, I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

  I didn’t say anything and just picked at my pizza. I was losing my appetite, fast. She kept on; she was on a roll.

  “Your appearance has changed.” Her voice was so loud, and I sunk lower in my seat; this wasn’t the place for this, which was exactly why she’d picked it. “You smell like cigarettes when you come home, you’re listless and distracted. You never talk about school with us anymore. You’re distant.”

  Distant. If she couldn’t keep me under her thumb, I was far away.

  “These are all warning signs,” she went on. “I tell parents to watch out for them every day.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” I said. “I was only twenty minutes late, Mom.”

  “That’s not the issue here, and you know it.” She got quiet as the waiter came by with more bread, then lowered her voice and continued. “He’s not good for you.”

  Like he was food. Not a green pepper or an orange, but a big sticky Snickers bar. “You don’t even know him,” I said.

  “That’s because you refuse to discuss him!” She wadded up her napkin and threw it down on her plate. “I have given you endless chances to prove me wrong here. I have tried to dialog—”

  “I don’t want to dialog,’” I snapped. “You’ve already made up your mind anyway, you hate him. And this isn’t about him, anyway.”

  “This is what I know,” she said, leaning closer to me. “He drives like a maniac. He’s not from Lakeview. And you are willing to do anything for him, including but probably not limited to lying to me and your father. What I don’t know is what you’re doing with him, how far things have gone—if there are drugs involved or God knows what else.”

  “Drugs,” I repeated, and I laughed. “God, you always think everything is about drugs.”

  She wasn’t laughing. “Your father and I,” she said, finally lowering her voice, “have discussed this thoroughly. And we’ve decided you cannot see him anymore.”

  “What?” I said. “You can’t do that.” My stomach was tight and hot. “You can’t just decide that.”

  “Well, Halley, with your actions lately you’ve given us no other choice.” She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. This wasn’t going the way she wanted, I could tell. This wasn’t her office and I wasn’t a patient and she couldn’t just tell me what to do. But I didn’t know what she’d expected. That she was doing me a favor? “Halley, I don’t think you understand how easy it is to make a mistake that will cost you forever. All it takes is one wrong choice, and ...”

  “You’re talking about Scarlett again,” I said, shaking my head. I was tired of this, tired of battling and putting up fronts, of having to think so hard about my next move.

  “No,” she said. “I am talking about you falling in with the wrong crowd, getting influenced to do something you aren’t ready to do. That you don’t want to do. You don’t know what Macon’s involved in.”

  I hated the way she kept saying his name.

  “There’s a lot of dangerous stuff out there,” she said. “You’re inexperienced. And you’re like me, Halley. You have a tendency not to see people for what they really are.”

  I sat there and looked at my mother, at the ease in her face as she told me how I felt, what I thought, everything. Like I was a puzzle, one she’d created, and she knew the solution every time. If she couldn’t keep me close to her, she’d force me to be where she could always find me.

  “That’s not true,” I said to her slowly, and already I knew I’d say something ugly, something final, even as I stood up, pushing back my chair. “I’m not getting influenced, I’m not inexperienced, and I am not like you.”

  It was the last thing that did it. Her face went blank, shocked, like I’d reached out and slapped her.

  You wanted distance, I thought. There you go.

  She sat back in her chair, keeping her voice low, and said, “Sit down, Halley. Now.”

  I just stood there, thinking of running out the door, losing myself in Macon’s secret network of pizza parlors and arcades, side streets and alleys, riding up to that penthouse room and stowing away, forever.

  “Sit down,” she said again. She was looking over my head, out to the parking lot. She was blinking, a lot, and I could hear her taking deep, deep breaths.

  I sat down, pulling in my chair, while she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and waved over the waiter. We got the check, paid, and went out to the car without a word between us. All the way home I stared out the window, watching the houses slip past and thinking back to the Grand Canyon, vast and uncrossable, like so many things were now.

  When we pulled into our driveway we passed Steve, who was getting out of his Hyundai in fro
nt of Scarlett’s house. He was carrying flowers, his usual, and wearing yet another tweedish, threadbare jacket with patches on the elbows. But this time I didn’t need Scarlett to point out the newest sign of Vlad’s emergence: boots. Not just regular boots either, but big, leather, clunky boots with a thick heel and buckles that I imagined must be clanking loudly with each step, although my window was up and I couldn’t hear them. Warrior boots, poking out from beneath his pants leg as if they’d just walked over the heads of dead opponents. He waved cheerfully as we passed, and my mother, still irritated, lifted her hand with her fake neighborhood wave.

  We still hadn’t said a word to each other as we came into the kitchen where my father was on the phone, his back to us. As he turned around, I could tell instantly something was wrong.

  “Hold on,” he said into the receiver, then covered it with his hand. “Julie. It’s your mother.”

  She put down her purse. “What? What is it?”

  “She fell, in her house—she’s hurt bad, honey. The neighbors found her. She’d been there for a while.”

  “She fell?” My mother’s voice was high, shaky.

  “This is Dr. Robbins.” He handed her the phone, adding, “I’ll use the other phone and start calling about flights.”

  She took the phone from him, taking a deep breath as he squeezed her shoulder and headed down the hall, toward her office. I stood in the open doorway and held my breath.

  “Hello, this is Julie Cooke.... Yes. Yes, my husband said ... I see. Do you know when this happened? Right. Right, sure.”

  All this time, each word she said, she was looking right at me. Not like she was even aware of it or could see me at all. Just her eyes on me, steady, as if I was the only thing holding her up.

  “My husband is calling about flights right now, so I’ll be there as soon as I can. Is she in pain? ... Well, of course. So the surgery will be tomorrow at six, and I’ll just—I’ll get there as soon as I can. Okay. Thanks so much. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone, turning her back to me, and then just stood there, one hand still on the receiver. I could see her tense back, the shoulder blades poking out.