Wild Swans

Was this a one-time thing, or could it be more?

  Chapter

  Eight

  When I get back from the pool Monday morning, I expect to find Luisa sliding a pan of homemade cinnamon rolls into the oven, Granddad reading the Cecil Gazette at the table, and the kitchen filled with the scents of coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I’ll kick off my sneakers and throw my Cecil Warriors hoodie over the back of my chair, bend to hug Luisa, and complain that I’m starving after an hour in the pool. That’s how we do mornings.

  So it’s a surprise when I throw open the back door and find Erica sitting at the kitchen table, her phone in one hand and a tall, slim glass of tomato juice in the other.

  I’m tempted to walk right past her but I don’t. I can be mature about this. I can. I pull out my earbuds. “Good morning.”

  She looks up with a frown. “You’re up early. Yesterday too.”

  I fight the urge to apologize. For everything. Being awake. Being in the kitchen. Being tall. Being born. We haven’t spoken a single word to each other since that scene in the library. Other than the awkward family supper last night, where the conversation was carried mostly by Gracie and Granddad, I’ve managed to pretty well avoid her.

  “I was at the pool,” I explain. “I go most mornings. Free swim from seven till nine.”

  “Dedicated. Dad must love that.” She makes a face. Her bottle-blond hair is a little less spiky today, but her eyes aren’t. “When I was your age, you couldn’t have pulled me out of bed before noon. Especially yesterday, after a bonfire party.”

  I shrug. “I wasn’t out that late.” I peer into the fridge. Luisa’s been here after all, judging by the pitcher of orange juice. I wonder if she saw Erica and fled. I wouldn’t blame her. “Where’s Luisa?”

  “I told her I had breakfast covered.” Erica’s chuckle is low, with a raspy catch to it. She stirs her drink with a celery stick. “Ever had a Bloody Mary?”

  “No.” I pour a glass of juice.

  “There’s vodka in the cabinet, if you want to make that a screwdriver.”

  “No, thanks.” I smile, uncomfortable. “I don’t think Granddad would approve.”

  “Don’t you ever do anything he’d disapprove of?” She gazes at me over the rim of her glass. “I bet you don’t. Jesus. How are you my kid?”

  Is she drunk? I peer at her closely, but I don’t know her well enough to tell. Still, it’s the first time she’s acknowledged that I’m her daughter. “Careful. You wouldn’t want anyone to overhear that.”

  She waves a skinny hand laden with chunky silver rings. I think she is drunk. Wow. It’s only nine o’clock in the morning.

  “Nah. Grace is watching cartoons in the living room with Dad, and Iz won’t be up for ages yet. She’s like me. Likes her sleep. I can’t sleep in this house though.” She turns back to me. “I can’t believe Dad lets you go to parties at the cove. Are they still fun?”

  “It was fine.” I lean against the counter, wary of her sudden interest.

  “Fine?” she mimics. “That’s it? Are you dating the housekeeper’s kid?”

  “No.” I am careful to keep my voice even. Just thinking of Alex makes my heart hurt. He’s never been that angry with me before. “Alex and I are just friends.”

  “Too bad. He’s cute. And he’s obviously got a thing for you. Are you seeing somebody else?” She takes a bite of her celery stick.

  I shake my head, pushing away thoughts of Connor. I am not about to confide in her about him. Or anything else. Mother or not, I don’t trust her and I am not up for her drunk attempt at bonding. “No.”

  “Let me guess. You’re too busy for a boyfriend. How many classes does Dad have you taking this summer? Ballet? French? Painting? Piano? Voice?” She stands up. In bare feet, she’s a few inches shorter than me. “Shit. Can you sing?”

  “No. Not well.” I can’t tell whether she’s relieved or disappointed to find that we don’t have that in common. Honestly, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I tried out for chorus in seventh grade with Abby, and I still remember—vividly, viscerally—when we walked up to Mr. Kerns’s door to check the list. Abby squealed when she saw her name, but mine wasn’t there. Before that, I always sang confidently in the car, in the shower, around the house, assuming I’d inherited a little of my mother’s talent. After that, I’d stopped.

  If you’re not any good, what’s the point?

  Milbourn girls don’t do mediocre.

  “Do you still sing?” I ask, curious despite myself.

  “No. Not for years.” Erica evades my eyes and takes a long sip of her Bloody Mary. Everyone says she had a gorgeous voice. Erica even admitted that she was happy singing with her band and waitressing. Why did she quit? And what does that do to a person? Giving up the thing you love most, stifling your talent. Is that why she’s so unhappy? Does it poison you, slow and sure?

  “You didn’t answer me,” she points out. “What classes are you taking this summer?”

  “None.” But I have taken all those classes at one time or another. This conversation is so strange. I don’t know Erica at all, but she knows bits and pieces of my life. She lived them twenty years ago. “I’m volunteering at the library in town. And swimming.”

  “That’s it? He’s letting you slack off.” The celery stick crunches as she bites off another piece.

  I shrug, weirdly stung. Is he? Does he expect less from me than he did from her? “I hang out with my friends. Play Scrabble with Granddad. I read.”

  “You’re such a little nerd.” She says it almost affectionately, but the way she’s looking at me, scanning me from head to toe, is like she’s trying to see straight through my skin. It’s a little creepy, especially coming from someone who hasn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in me for fifteen years. “I don’t see myself in you at all.”

  Neither do I.

  I’ve been searching for a resemblance in sly little moments at supper or passing her in the hall. Studying her when her head’s turned.

  I haven’t found any similarities.

  Not being like her is a good thing. That’s what I’ve been told my whole life. So why does her saying that she doesn’t see herself in me hurt so damn much?

  “Good,” I mutter, sliding the pitcher back into the fridge. I should go upstairs. Connor will be here in less than an hour and—

  My mother grabs my arm. Spins me around so fast my hip smacks into the counter and I almost tumble off balance. She’s sneaky without those heels.

  “What did you say?” Her breath smells like tomato juice and nail polish remover.

  I feel a second of guilt, but only a second. The urge to hurt her back is stronger. “I said, good. I’ve heard about you my whole life. What a screwup you were. What a slut. And selfish. How you didn’t care about anybody but yourself. So far you’ve proven them all right.”

  She takes a step back. “You little bitch.”

  I’m so mad that I’m shaking. “I’d rather be a bitch than a pathetic drunk. Maybe instead of worrying about your ex finding out about me, you should worry that he’ll find out you’re drinking at nine a.m.”

  “Shut up.” Her eyes narrow as she steps forward, her sharp chin jutting out. For a minute I think she might hit me and I shrink back against the counter.

  “Stay out of this, Ivy,” she says, seething. “I’m not playing around. I don’t care what you’ve heard. I’m a good mother to Grace.”

  “Yeah, well.” I pick up my orange juice and walk past her. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, would I?”

  • • •

  In the bathroom, I turn up the music on my phone, blasting it, not caring if I wake up Isobel. This is my house. She can go complain to her mother.

  There are unfamiliar products in my shower right next to my Hello Hydration shampoo and Yes to Coconut body scrub: brightly colored kids’ shampoo, color-protection conditioner, and a body wash for oily skin. When I get out of the shower, both of my fluffy cornflower-blue towels are alr
eady damp. I frown, dripping water across the tiled floor as I rummage in the linen closet. Abby would laugh at me for being a spoiled only child, getting mad over a towel, but this is all I’ve ever known and those towels are mine. I wrap myself in an old, faded pink one and march upstairs to my room.

  After I get dressed and braid my hair, there’s still half an hour before Connor’s due. I settle in with my laptop and pull up the college’s website, specifically the summer course listings in the foreign language department. Summer classes started two weeks ago, but I bet Granddad could still get me in to audit. I’m already fluent in Spanish; Luisa’s parents emigrated from Mexico and she helped me with my accent. Adding another language will look good on my transcripts though, and my middle-school summer-camp French is getting rusty.

  There’s an intermediate French class that’s only one night a week. I can make time for that. I write the course number down on a sticky note to ask Granddad about later. Maybe he doesn’t push me as hard as he did Erica because he’s afraid I’ll break, the way she did. But I won’t. I’m stronger than that. I’ll show them both that no matter what this summer throws at me, I can take it.

  I take a deep breath and head downstairs, feeling somehow fortified.

  Isobel has joined Erica in the kitchen. She’s wearing black yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt and staring into a bowl that contains half a grapefruit. They stop talking when I walk in, and I’m left feeling like the one who doesn’t belong here.

  “Morning, Isobel.” I grab a jar of peanut butter and a spoon and then lean against the counter, peeling a banana.

  “Peanut butter is really fattening,” Isobel informs me, tightening her messy ponytail. “And there are twice as many calories in a banana as in a grapefruit.”

  “Peanut butter also has a lot of protein,” I say, since apparently we are exchanging nutritional data. “Which is great, because I just swam for an hour.”

  “Does swimming burn a lot of calories?” she asks.

  “Yeah. But that’s not why I do it.” When I’m in the water, I’m all motion—breath and stroke and kick and turn. I’m pushing my body; I’m concentrating on what I can make it do, not how it looks. “I swim laps up at the college most mornings. We have a membership to the pool and the gym, if you ever want to join me.” I glance nervously at Erica, hoping this won’t set her off like Granddad’s offer to teach Gracie how to swim.

  Isobel fiddles with her spoon. “No way. I am not exercising in front of people. Or wearing a bathing suit. Mama and I are going to go for a run. Right, Mama?”

  Erica gives her an absentminded smile before turning back to her phone. “Right.”

  “Ivy!” Granddad hollers from the hallway. “Connor’s here!”

  My stomach twists. Granddad must have seen him from the living room window. Connor didn’t even have a chance to ring the doorbell. I was kind of hoping we might have a minute alone first.

  “Who’s Connor?” Isobel asks. Erica listens, head cocked like Abby’s sisters’ parakeet.

  “One of Granddad’s students. He and I are going to be working together on a project this summer.” I am immediately conscious that I’ve called Granddad “Granddad” and not “Dad”—but maybe that’s not weird, since he is Isobel’s granddad? Gah, this is so unnecessarily complicated.

  Erica glances up. “Letting Dad pick out your boyfriends?”

  “It’s not like that.” I fight to keep from flushing.

  “Sure it’s not.” She rolls her eyes.

  It’s too bad they don’t get stuck at the back of her head so everybody could see that she’s part demon. But I flee down the hall without arguing. I can take the high road.

  Connor’s standing just inside the front door. He’s carrying a red computer bag and a tray of coffees from Java Jim. “I brought iced coffee,” he says. “Black with three sugars for you, Professor. Ivy, this one’s just black—figured you could doctor it however you want. Sorry, I—” He looks at me and I am caught like a butterfly pinned to a board. “I didn’t know what you like.”

  My mind floods with extremely inappropriate responses.

  “Uh, that’s okay. Iced coffee’s great. I… I’ll go get some sugar,” I say, taking the cup he’s holding out. My fingers brush against his and I blush.

  Granddad chuckles. “She’s being polite. Ivy hates coffee.”

  I shoot him a murderous look. “Well, I was trying to be polite.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Connor frowns. “What do you like? So I’ll know for next time.”

  Next time. Like this is going to be a regular thing, him showing him up at my house with beverages.

  For work. This is work, Ivy, not a date. I have to get my head together or I am going to make a fool of myself. I force myself to look at Connor like I am not torn between simultaneous urges to either hide or attack him in a fit of lust.

  “Iced tea. Earl Grey, if they have it. One sugar. Thank you.”

  Connor shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Employee discount.”

  Java Jim’s opens at six a.m., so either Connor cut short a busy Monday morning shift to come over here, or else he swung by special to get us coffee. Either way, he’s trying to impress someone.

  The question is, is it me or Granddad?

  Granddad leads us into the library, pontificating about Dorothea’s journals and her dedication to writing in them every morning. How they’re a mix of personal information—including some fairly salacious details about her crumbling marriage and her affair with Robert Moudowney—and notes on her works in progress. Occasionally there will be a scribbled rough draft of a poem, with lines that don’t work crossed out and new phrases written in the margins. It’s fascinating to be able to trace her thoughts and inspirations clearly.

  Granddad used to buy me a journal every Christmas. I’d fill the first five or ten pages, writing diligently every night before bed, until I’d forget about it one night and quit. Last year at an end-of-semester barbecue, Granddad bragged to someone about my dedicated journaling. How I was just like Dorothea. I waited till the car ride home to set him straight, but from the look on his face, he was disappointed. Again.

  “What an incredible resource.” Connor runs his hand gently over the spines, and I remember him tracing my spine with the same careful attention. “May I?” he asks, setting the tray of coffee down on the desk.

  “Of course. But no food or drinks anywhere near them.” Granddad gives me a pointed look. “These are very valuable documents.”

  He talks about them—about everything of Dorothea’s—like they belong in a museum. “It was the teeny, tiniest splotch of iced tea. You can still read everything!” I protest.

  Connor selects a journal from the middle of the shelf and opens it, flipping pages reverently, squinting as he tries to decipher Dorothea’s faded, spidery handwriting. “This is so cool.” He looks up at Granddad. “Thank you. Thank you for trusting me with these.”

  “I know they’re in good hands with you,” Granddad says, and he does not add unlike with my careless granddaughter, who once had the audacity to splash a drop of iced tea on these hallowed pages, but he might as well have.

  I sigh. “I’ll be really careful this time, okay?”

  “You better. I know some graduate students who would kill for this opportunity.”

  “Yeah, but you’d have to pay them more,” I joke.

  “Brat.” Granddad laughs as he claps Connor on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you to keep an eye on her, Connor.”

  “I will, sir.” Connor’s face is inscrutable. Like he didn’t have more than his eyes on me Saturday night.

  “All right then. I’ll leave the two of you to figure out how you’ll divide the work. Ivy’s very good at reading Dorothea’s handwriting. It can take some getting used to, but I’m sure you’ll manage.” Granddad gives Connor an encouraging smile. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room with Grace.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I promise.

  We??
?re quiet as he leaves. I can hear the jingle of some cartoon from the other room. I crouch and pick up the first journal, the one from 1942 when Dorothea was only sixteen. Her mother and little sisters had just been killed, and her father was off fighting in the Pacific. She was terrified that Robert Moudowney was going to drop out of school and enlist, and a year later he did. He lied about his age to join the marines and was wounded at Iwo Jima. It’s all detailed in the next two journals.

  When I stand, I meet Connor’s gaze.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.” I offer a shy smile.

  “Did you really do that? Spill iced tea on one of the journals?” he asks.

  I sigh. “Granddad is never going to let me live that down. I was fourteen. I swear to God, I’ll be super careful this time.”

  “He’s right, you know. He could hire grad students.” Connor stares at the journal in his hand like it could grow fangs and bite him.

  “Yeah, but he’d have to import them from someplace else. We’re right here, and we’re cheap labor.” I plop down in Granddad’s leather recliner and cross my legs. “It’s a good deal for him.”

  Connor’s eyes land on my legs, but only for a second. “It’s a good deal for me.” For a second, my heart soars like a seagull because I hope he means working with me, but then he continues: “After I graduate, I want to get my MFA in poetry. This is the kind of thing that could really set me apart from other applicants.” He takes a breath, running his hand over the back of his neck. He’s nervous.

  And it’s not about being in the same room as me.

  My heart drops like a wounded bird.

  It wasn’t me he was trying to impress with the coffee.

  Connor puts the journal back before picking up his iced coffee and taking a sip. He leans against the desk. “This job is really important to me, Ivy. I don’t want to screw it up.”

  I glance over my shoulder, making sure we’re still alone. “Screw it up how? By making out with your professor’s granddaughter?”

  Connor’s pretty eyes go wide. “No. Well, uh…maybe.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I had an incredible time the other night, but—”