Freaky Green Eyes

  You wait for the signal, you don’t dive in before you hear the signal.

  You wait for the signal. That’s what you do.

  But there wasn’t any signal. We waited for ten minutes. Then Mom appeared in the doorway with swollen, reddened eyes, a kind of sickly look, and Dad was with her, carrying Samantha’s and my bags.

  Mom said, “Francesca, Samantha. You’re to go home with your father. Now. I’ve packed your things.”

  Samantha protested, “But, Mom—”

  “Samantha, I’ve told you. Go with Daddy. And Francesca—”

  Samantha ran to Mom and hugged her around the hips like a small, frightened child. Mom stood stiff, as if not daring to move. She repeated, “Go with Daddy, please. Samantha, Francesca. At once.” Her face was masklike, rigid. Her eyes were unseeing.

  I wanted to scream at her, Why’d you bring us here if you can’t keep us?

  Samantha was crying, “You come home, Mom! Come with us! Now!”

  All Mom could do was repeat, numbly, “No. Samantha, no.”

  “Mommy—”

  Mom pressed her hands over her ears, bent as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She said, pleading, “No. Go away. Go away with your father. You can’t stay with me, there isn’t room, for God’s sake go with him.”

  Dad behaved as if he wasn’t hearing this. As if he was above it. Without a word he carried our bags to his car—a shining new silver Mercedes!—and placed them in the trunk. Samantha and I followed him numbly.

  We didn’t look back at Mom.

  She was so weak, pathetic! I didn’t even feel sorry for her now, I just wanted to get away from her.

  Hours later, I would realize I’d forgotten about Garrett.

  And much later I would realize that this was to be the last time I saw my mother.

  TEN

  yarrow heights: july 27

  “Your mother is in love with another man. No matter what she has told you, she has chosen him over her family. She’ll have to live with her decision. We can never forgive her.”

  Dad’s voice was trembling with indignation. But he managed to smile at us. He was holding Samantha’s hand in his left hand and mine in his right hand, and he seemed almost not to know he was gripping us hard, until Samantha whimpered, just slightly. Then he released us.

  “I hope you understand, girls. There’s nothing to discuss, really.”

  Samantha wiped her nose on the edge of her hand and mumbled okay.

  I guess I must’ve mumbled okay, too. Whatever I said, or indicated, it was the right response to Dad’s words.

  Because he smiled, happy now. Because he hugged us both.

  “My big, beautiful girls!”

  Dad introduced Samantha and me to our new housekeeper-cook, a plump, dark-skinned Peruvian woman with a shy smile. Her name was something melodic like Lorita, Loreena. She might have been thirty-five years old, or fifty-five. Dad informed us that she would be on the scene six days a week, with Sundays off. Her specialties were fried bananas, bread pudding with rice, chickpea soup, roasted chicken, grilled sea bass, and “Peruvian pizza.” Dad rubbed his hands together happily. “How’s that sound, girls? Pretty cool, eh?”

  We beamed at Lorita, or Loreena, and she beamed at us. She was a short woman, hardly more than five feet tall. Beside her, Dad towered like a giant.

  Samantha didn’t ask if the new housekeeper’s six-day schedule meant that Mom wasn’t coming home any longer. Francesca didn’t inquire, either.

  In love with another man. We can never forgive her.

  Did I believe these words? I don’t know. Did I believe that there was a man in Mom’s life? I don’t know. Did I believe when I seemed to know, no, there was no man, there could be no man, Mom went away to Skagit Harbor to be free? Yet if Dad said there was a man, then there had to be a man.

  And we would never forgive her.

  ELEVEN

  the betrayal: august 11

  “Franky? Don’t think this is weird or anything, okay?”

  Twyla sounded embarrassed. It was rare that Twyla found herself in embarrassing situations—she was the most poised of any girl in our class at Forrester. So I was on Freaky alert. I said, trying to smile, “Twyla, sure. What?”

  “Well. Your mother called me. Yesterday.”

  This was like somebody dropping a shoe. You just naturally waited for the second shoe to drop.

  “Called you? My mother called you?”

  Twyla nodded. We’d been playing tennis, and Twyla had been winning, but the games hadn’t been very competitive because I wasn’t in the mood to win, or to try to win: for that, you need to believe that Winning Is Worth It. My Freaky-self was thinking it’s nicer to let a friend win, it’s like a small gift you can give, but only if the friend doesn’t know you’re giving it. I was thinking how much I liked Twyla, she was like a sister to me, my own age. And I was in a frame of mind, right now, where I needed her.

  Twyla said, “Your mother called, and talked with my mother a little, then asked to speak to me . . . so we talked, for a half hour or so. It was fine.” Twyla paused, and this word “fine” hovered in the air between us. When you say that something is “fine,” what are you saying? Twyla was sitting on a bench behind one of the tennis courts, sipping Evian water, her slim bare legs tightly crossed at the knee and locked at the ankles for extra security. Cool Twyla, trying not to squirm as I stared at her.

  I hadn’t spoken with my mother in more than two weeks. Since that day Dad came to get Samantha and me in Skagit Harbor. Dad was saying Your mother is incommunicado in her own zone, girls. I wasn’t sure what that meant. If I asked Dad, I mean if I drew breath to ask, Dad shut me off with a razor-swift smile and a warning wag of his forefinger. I wondered if Mom had tried to call us and could not. I kept my cell phone turned off. I never answered the family phone and never listened to voice mail on the family line.

  I never called Mom’s number in Skagit Harbor. After a while, I seemed to have lost it.

  I asked Twyla what my mother wanted.

  Twyla said, “That’s kind of it, Franky . . . I mean I’m not sure. It was like she just wanted to talk . . . to talk about you.”

  Too weird! My mother calls my best friend behind my back.

  I felt a Freaky-flame pass over me. It was like my mother was betraying me. And it was none of Twyla’s business what was going on in my family.

  The thought came to me thrilling-scared, Dad better not know about this betrayal.

  “Ask you about me, Twyla? Ask what?”

  Twyla shrugged, frowning. Her beautiful eyes were evasive.

  “Just if I’d been seeing you. Talking with you. I explained I’d been at camp, but we were getting together today, for tennis. She asked when, exactly when, like what time; and where were we playing; and if you’d been taking lessons this summer, which kind of surprised me, I mean, wouldn’t your mother know? Gradually it dawned on me that she wasn’t home. She was asking things because she hadn’t talked to you in a while. I think she liked to hear me say your name—‘Franky.’ While she kept calling you ‘Francesca.’ She sounded a little different than usual, like she was sort of excited, and nervous. Finally I said, ‘Mrs. Pierson, is something wrong? Haven’t you been seeing Franky? I thought Franky was home.’ She said, ‘Twyla, nothing is wrong. I’m just spending part of the summer at Skagit Harbor and it gets lonely here.”’

  Twyla paused. She took a thirsty swig of water. Her perfect Twyla skin was looking less perfect, like this conversation was giving her hives.

  I said, “My parents aren’t separated, Twyla, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I was trying for a Freaky-cool tone but my voice sounded like dry spaghetti cracking.

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t.”

  “This place in Skagit Harbor, it’s a summer cabin Mom’s family owns. She’s up there for a while, doing silk screens. Pottery. A gallery there exhibits her work.”

  Twyla was smiling encouragingly. “Gosh, Franky. That’s terrific.” br />
  “My mom and dad are not separated; it’s just that my dad travels a lot for his job.”

  Like this was a new, astounding fact Twyla needed to be told. But she said, “Oh, I know! Reid Pierson, he’s always on TV. All over.”

  “So—my mom’s at this summer place. For a few weeks. Samantha and I, we were just there visiting, and we’re going back again in a few days. We’ll be staying till Labor Day.”

  Twyla asked me about Skagit Harbor, not just to be polite but also because she was genuinely interested. (I think.) An uncle of hers had a fantastic summer place in Port Greene, which wasn’t far away. So I told her about Mom’s cabin, and Mom’s art, and how beautiful the small town was, and this guy I’d met named Garrett who was going to take me sailing soon. . . . I talked, and my voice sounded weird in my ears, earnest and eager. I wanted Twyla to know that things were fine in the Pierson family, just as they were in her family.

  But I wanted to confess, Twyla, I’m so afraid.

  I wanted to beg, Twyla, don’t tell anybody will you? Don’t betray me.

  We’d had a pretty long break. It was time to resume tennis.

  Heading back to the court, Twyla swung her racket to loosen up, and said, like she’d just thought of it, “Oh, Franky. When your mom hung up, she said to tell you, ‘Don’t forget Mr. Rooster.’”

  TWELVE

  the call: august 25

  When the phone rang at ten twenty P.M., it hit me how badly I wanted this to be Mom. I had not spoken with her since July 27: The Sunday of Betrayal. I knew that she’d been calling us. Our new housekeeper had been instructed by Dad how to deal with the absent Mrs. Pierson if/when she called so that the rest of the family could be spared. I kept my cell phone turned off except when I used it, and I had not used it to call Mom and would not. Counting the days since that Sunday. You can’t stay with me, there isn’t room. Go with him!

  The phone was ringing. Our housekeeper wouldn’t answer it so late in the evening. Dad was still out. Todd was home for the rest of the summer but out for this evening, too. I stood paralyzed staring at the phone. My fingernails were digging into the palms of my hands. “I hate you. I don’t love you. You go away.”

  I saw my hand reach out to pick up the receiver.

  Don’t let her manipulate you, girls. She’s a woman who blackmails with her emotions. The kind who betrays, and blames you for what she has done to you.

  You can’t live with both of us. You’ll have to choose.

  Samantha had chosen, like me.

  Saying, “You, Daddy.” A quick, frightened smile. A thumb jammed against her mouth.

  And I said, swallowing hard, “Y-you, Daddy.”

  The words came from me hoarse and cracked. I was numb, so tired. Freaky was such a long distance from me at this moment, I could barely remember what she’d felt like.

  Freaky Green Eyes? My eyes were faded green and bloodshot.

  It was the right answer, though. Daddy smiled eager as a boy, and Daddy stooped to hug us. This was our reward. This was our promise. That Daddy loved us, his big beautiful girls, and he would protect us because he was strong. Your mother has betrayed you.

  There was no need for Dad to tell us, Your mother can’t protect you.

  Mom wrote to Samantha and me, I guess. I mean, I was pretty sure. But Dad had had all our mail rerouted to a post office box. Dad had the key to this box, which was in the Yarrow Heights station. I would never see it.

  The more days passed, the more disgusted I seemed to get with my mother. I kept seeing her stricken faced, bent as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, making a pushing gesture with her hands, telling Samantha to go away. Go with him!

  We’d gone with him. We’d gone with Dad. What he was telling us of our mother: we understood how she’d betrayed us.

  I didn’t tell Dad about my mother calling Twyla to ask about me.

  I didn’t want to upset Dad more than he was.

  And I was furious with Twyla, too. My so-called Best Friend. Well, maybe it’s better not to have a Best Friend if she talks about you behind your back and betrays you. I could imagine Twyla on the phone telling Jenn, Marnie, Leona, Have you heard, Mr. and Mrs. Pierson are separated? Mrs. Pierson has moved out of the house. You can’t ask Franky—she’s into total, pathetic denial. Our last three tennis games, I’d hit dynamite serves over the net straight at Twyla, and the rest of the time I made her run panting all over the court, placing my shots with cruel precision. It was Freaky-control, mean and vengeful. My dad would’ve been proud of me if he’d seen! Twyla had been flattered by the tennis coach at the club into thinking she was a pretty good player for her age and size; now Freaky was exposing her. By the end of the set her face was flushed and mottled and her silky black hair was in her face. She said in this hurt, bewildered voice, “Oh, Franky! What’s come over you?” At the time I felt great, but afterward when I was alone, I felt really bad.

  Twyla wasn’t calling me much in August. I told myself I didn’t give a damn.

  Now the phone was ringing, and I picked it up, and my hand trembled as I brought the receiver to my ear.

  “H’lo?”

  “Francesca? Thank God, you’ve answered.”

  It was her. It was Mom.

  She was asking how I was and I said okay in this flat cool voice. In this voice meant to signal, Why are you calling me, why now? I am so, so bored by this. Mom’s voice was eager and anxious. She sounded as if she had a bad cold. She sounded as if she was making every effort to speak clearly, not to stammer or break down. I shut my eyes. I could see her with Dad’s eyes, in that cozy little cabin of hers where she lived her perfect, selfish life. In the dollhouse. In her own zone. She was saying how much she missed Samantha and me, how much she wanted us with her. How lonely it was there. At the same time she was begging me please not to tell my father she’d called because he had forbidden her to call, and she’d promised she wouldn’t call, but she had to call, to hear my voice—“Oh, Francesca, you and Samantha know that I love you, don’t you? You won’t stop loving me?”

  I swallowed hard. I wasn’t going to break down.

  I said, “You could come home, Mother. Anytime.”

  My mother stammered, “Francesca—no. Honey, I—c-can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t? You can!”

  “Not any longer. Not now.”

  “That’s a lie. Daddy says you can come back to live with us anytime you want to, except you don’t want to.”

  “Francesca, no. Please, honey. Don’t ask me to explain, this is too upsetting for the phone, I need to see you face-to-face—”

  I wanted to slam the receiver down. Don’t ask me to explain.

  It was like the way she’d fended Samantha off, screaming at us. You can’t stay with me, there isn’t room.

  She’d begun to cry. I hated her, blackmailing me with her emotions. I knew exactly what she was doing. I was quiet for so long, she said anxiously, “Francesca, are you still there?” and I said, “Yes, Mom. Where else would I be?”

  It was then I heard a car in the driveway. Possibly it was Dad coming home, which meant I’d better get off the phone. “I’m hanging up, Mother. Maybe you shouldn’t call back. Samantha and I will be starting school in two weeks. If you’re not back home by then, please please please don’t come back ever.”

  “Francesca, honey—”

  “I’m not ‘Francesca’! I hate that name! And I hate you! Good-bye!”

  The last time I spoke with Krista Connor, my mother.

  THIRTEEN

  the last day: august 26

  When something is the last, you don’t always realize. Like crossing over, it can happen without your knowing.

  When I was questioned about this day, afterward, I would try to remember the chronological sequence of events. I would tell the truth. But I would not tell all the truth. For most of that day was unreal to me, like a dream broken into pieces. An ugly dream broken into ugly pieces.

  All morning, I w
aited for the phone to ring. Suddenly I wanted to hear from Mom. I searched for Mom’s number in my room—everywhere!—but couldn’t find it.

  I guess I knew then. I knew something was wrong.

  I tried Skagit Harbor information and learned that Krista Connor’s number was unlisted.

  I requested Mero Okawa’s number. But when I dialed it, a recording clicked on. “Hi! Mero isn’t in right now but please leave a message. . . .”

  Proudly displayed on my bulletin board were two of the Polaroids Mero had taken of Mom, Samantha, and me. I kept looking at these, as if they held a secret. One had been taken in the Orca Gallery in front of a gorgeous crimson silk screen of Mom’s, and the other was on the windy deck of the restaurant overlooking the Skagit River. Mom stood in the middle, her arms around Samantha and me, and the three of us were smiling happily.

  I saw with surprise that Mom and I were about the same height, and that our features, especially our eyes, were similar.

  I was feeling numb, unreal. I didn’t leave a message for Mero.

  The night before, it had been my father who’d returned home while I was on the phone with Mom. I’d hung up quickly, though, and Dad hadn’t suspected.

  He’d knocked on the door of my room to say good night. He looked tired, with dark shadows beneath his eyes that were caked with, I guess, TV makeup he hadn’t bothered to remove. Dad was on location in Seattle for some sports documentary that was being taped for the network, and he’d worked a long day, he said. And he had a sinus headache. Possibly it was some allergy kicking in. “That damned dog dander is still in this house. In the carpets. I can smell it.”

  I said, meaning to be helpful, “Rabbit hasn’t been home in a while, though. Maybe—”

  “I can smell it, I said. That damned rat terrier, it’s like he was sleeping in my damned bed.”

  Next morning, Dad left for the studio at about eight A.M., but at nine thirty his assistant called to ask where Mr. Pierson was. Our housekeeper answered the phone and put me on. “Francesca? This is Holly Merchant. We’ve been waiting for your father for forty minutes, and can’t seem to get him on his cell phone. He isn’t still there, is he?”