Chapter Seven
. . . Bedlam . . .
.
.
.
"Am I going to be happy here?"
8 Ball says: Outlook so-so.
"Is Mom going to change her mind about the divorce?"
8 Ball says: Don't count on it.
"What's wrong with me?"
8 Ball says: Ask again later.
. . .
In June, Mom moved away from us to Florida with Phil, the man she's apparently been seeing off-and-on for years. She said they're in love, that she didn't plan on it happening this way, but that she'd been fighting it for so long that it must have driven her straight to Bedlam City. Or to some place called Johns Lake, I guess.
You left us!
How could you leave us? Why don't you care about us—about Edward—anymore?
I listen to her with my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth to keep from screaming the words.
"I want you to come see me," she kept repeating. "You'll love it here. There's a lake, and a pool, and a live-in cook." My hair was a mess from shaking my head no. I didn't care if she lived in the middle of a cotton candy cloud; I'd rather eat a can of lima beans without anything to drink, or get a tooth filled at the dentist, or be thrown into a snake pit than to see her with a man who wasn't Dad.
"I've got the Wildcats this summer," I'd told her. "I think this'll be my last year on the team."
So I can't come, I wanted to say. Never, ever, EVER, not in a million billion TRILLION years.
"But I miss you," she'd said and started to cry. And I still shook my head no, because I didn't believe her anymore, but she wouldn't stop crying.
"Okay. I'll come."
Dad was furious, but Mom had already paid for my ticket. "Selfish little—when is she going to remember that she has two kids!"
"I'd never go anyway," Edward said, and my heart broke at the stiff look on his face. "So you might as well go, if you want to. But you don't have to." And then: "Don't go."
But something inside made me think that I had to. So, I did.
. . .
Orlando is sticky and hot, but clean as a dentist's toothpick. I've never seen such tidy looking streets, or such neatly trimmed trees and grass. Mom says it's all due to Disney World-the happiest place in the world-because people who come here want to see perfection, and apparently happy equals perfection. With her newly highlighted hair and wardrobe, I guess this happy, perfect looking place is where she wants to be now.
She's so excited I'm here that she's almost vibrating in her skin, and she tells me things she's already told me twice before. "We'll have to go to Disney and spend a few days there—maybe a whole week—and Phil has a sailboat so we can go sailing. Did you know that we live right on a lake? It's called Johns Lake."
It seems odd for her to have this level of excitement when I consider how down she was on the phone just hours ago. Dad told us that she's been diagnosed as a manic depressive, which means she can be very energetic and happy one minute, and totally in the dumps the next. Even worse, it's hereditary. Every mood swing I have makes me afraid that I'm just steps away from being hospitalized.
I text Edward. I'm here. It's so hot, my sweat has sweat.
His answer makes me smile. You must really smell then. Make sure you give Phil a big hug.
Phil isn't what I expect at all. He's taller than Dad, but blond and skinny and about ten years younger than Mom. I hate him on sight.
"So I hear you're on a softball team," he says.
"Phil plays in a summer baseball league," Mom says all proud, like he's a pet or something. My heart shrinks at least two sizes.
"Not anymore," I say. "I quit."
"Since when?" Mom asks.
"Since last week," I sniff and lie. I don't want to have anything in common with him.
"Oh, well maybe we can play catch anyway," Phil says. "Maybe hit some balls at the park?"
I shrug and turn away. I feel like a brat, but I'm not going to make this easy for him.
Mom walks with me up a wide, curving staircase and down a long hallway to my room. It's huge, a pale green and cream-painted cavern with a high ceiling, an en-suite bathroom and a balcony that's twice as large as my room back home. The whole house is huge and beautiful and alien, and I don't belong here. Not even a little.
But when I look at Mom, she just smiles and pulls me into another hug. Her scent isn't the same anymore—she smells sweet and peppery, like one of Mrs. McCarty's hundred dollar bottles of perfume. I feel gross when I'm pressed against her, because my sweat soaked into my clothes, which are now damp against my skin.
"I'm going to take a shower," I say.
"Okay," Mom says. "Whatever you want, honey. We'll be downstairs. But hurry; I want to take you down to the marina for lunch."
But I'm not hungry.
I'm never going to eat again if the knot in my throat doesn't go away.
. . .
My new thing lately is burning candles. I have a blueberry and a maple spice candle going now, and it smells like blueberry pancakes.
Dad would have never allowed me to burn one candle in my bedroom, let alone two, but Mom wants to win me over so badly that she's pretty much allowing me to do whatever I want. Of course, what I really want is for her to call Dad and say she's made a horrible mistake. And then she and I would fly back home, leaving Phil in the dust. Which there's not a lot of here in this big, gaudy house because people come every week to clean it and the pool. I think it's crazy to have a pool when your house sits right next to the lake, but what do I know? There's a lawn service for the front and back yards, someone to polish all of the windows, and someone to cook if no one else feels like it. I don't even have to do my own laundry, but I do, because no one is touching my panties or bras.
Phil is a trust fund baby. He doesn't even have to work. Part of me wonders if that's why Mom is with him, and if he suddenly lost his money, would she go back to Dad?
I lose myself for a few minutes as I imagine someone robbing the bank that has all of Phil's money in it.
Mom is determined to entertain me, but also determined that Phil be included. She doesn't get that I want him gone, that I don't want his attention. There's always somewhere to go or something to do. They take me to Universal Studios, which is really cool and I could totally go again, and to Disney World, which I was less impressed with, but that's probably because I ate too much and got sick before we'd ever left the park. But sailing? Definitely cool. Unfortunately.
Phil has a sailboat. It's tethered to the dock at bottom of his property, along with a rowboat he calls Little John. It makes me roll my eyes, because he lives at Johns Lake on Johns Point Drive and calls his piece of the water Johns Cove. Even more original, he's named his boat The Boat. Could he possibly be more stupid?
Mom and I climb aboard while Phil releases the boat ties. I sit as far away from them as I can get, which means I'm up at the front. The engine sparks to life, and I watch the dock recede. Holy cow, the sun is almost blinding against the water, so I tug the brim of my cap down. It's good, because then I also can't see Phil's face. As the boat eases out into the little cove, I close my eyes. It feels like we're hardly moving; I have to open my eyes again just to make sure.
After we're out far enough in the lake, Phil cuts the engine and unfurls the sail with a snap. Then, except for the wind whipping, it's peacefully quiet. Too bad he has to ruin it all by speaking.
"What do you think, Bella?"
That you're an idiot. You highlight your hair. And you have no imagination.
"It's cool," I say.
Mom giggles and leans over to kiss his cheek. I roll my eyes and turn to look back the way we came. The lake is wide, calm but invigorating, and I feel like jumping in the water. But Mom won't let me because she says the water is dirty, and besides, "We have a beautiful pool that you can swim in any ole time you want!"
I'm not sticking a toe in that pool, though. I remember the McCarty's rule about never swimming alone, and I have no interest in hanging out with Mom and Phil more than I already have to. Watching them make goo-goo eyes at each other makes my heart ache. Plus, it makes me want to barf.
Everything just seems so perfect for them. For Mom. It's like Dad and Edward never even existed.
. . .
I don't know who she is anymore, I text Edward. She's acting like she's my best friend.
He doesn't respond until almost an hour later, probably off having fun, which I hope he is, but by then I'm pacing across the balcony outside my room, and I'm almost in tears.
That's better than fighting with her, right? I'm sorry, Bella. Come home.
My heart jumps. I want to. Oh, how I want to. It's only been a week, though.
Doesn't matter, he writes. If you're ready to come back, you're ready. Forget her.
But I can't.
I go all around the world but always remain in the corner, he writes. What am I?
Fievel, I write. The mouse.
I almost drop my phone over the side of the balcony when his face suddenly appears, and my phone rings.
"Hey. So things aren't going so well?"
"That's not it," I sigh. It's so good to hear his voice, familiar and warm and concerned for me. "Things are . . . too perfect. It's like they're putting on a show or something. They're too happy, they laugh too much. It's annoying."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I say.
"And don't say you're fine."
"Well, I am. That's just it. I'm not really anything. How's Dad?"
"The same. Been working a lot."
"What about you? What were you doing when you got my message?"
He hesitates when he speaks, but his voice is all smiles. "Swimming at Emmett's with the dog. Mrs. McCarty was pissed, you should have seen her. She tried to get Dooby out of the pool and fell in. I think Emmett kind of pushed her, though."
"Bet he's in trouble."
"Grounded. For life."
We laugh. "Is that where you are now? At the pool?"
"No! Emmett's grounded. They made me go home."
"Sorry." I want to hear him keep talking. "So what are you doing? What did you do last night? Have you seen Rose and Alice? Tell me everything."
"Well, right now I'm making a sandwich. On white bread. Oscar-Mayer ham, Sargento swiss cheese-"
"Not that kind of everything," I say and laugh.
There's a shrug in his voice when he answers. "I watched a movie last night with Dad. There's really not that much to tell. It . . . it's not the same without you, Bella. The house is too quiet."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "I don't know if Mom would pay for a plane ticket home this soon yet."
"She doesn't have to. Dad would fork over a kidney if he had to."
Relief washes through my entire body. It helps to know that I have a way home if I need one. It helps knowing I'm not a case of out of sight, out of mind.
"I'll stay for a bit longer. It's . . . nice here. I'm going out on the rowboat later. Just me."
"Just you? Is that safe?"
"Sure. I have to stay in the inlet, in sight of the house. I've done it before," I say with a note of pride.
"Wish I could see it."
I squeeze my eyes shut at the naked pain in his voice. If we were face-to-face, he'd have never let me hear how much this is hurting him.
"I'll send you a photo," I whisper.
I send him lots, everything from a close-up of The Boat, to the fancy clear glass sink in my bathroom, to my rippling reflection in the lake.
. . .
A few nights later, we're at the Wine and Canvas shop when the glass Mom's been drinking from falls to the floor and splatters across the feet of the woman next to her. I jump in surprise, and my paintbrush jerks a white line across two of the stars on my artwork.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," Mom cries and drops to her knees in front of the flabbergasted lady, furiously wiping the hem of her apron against the woman's white sneakers. Or, um, what used to be white.
The woman backs away from Mom with a scowl on her face, bumps into the canvas behind her, and swears. "Dammit! Look what you made me do," she howls at Mom. "This is a silk shirt."
"Well, I'm sorry, but why would you wear a silk shirt if you knew you'd be painting?" Mom asks shrilly.
Mom and the lady ignore the Wine and Canvas girl's attempt to calm them. Both of their faces are red and mean looking, and oh my god, if looks could kill . . . no one's getting out of here alive.
I'm hoping the floor swallows me whole.
"How dare you! This is your fault."
"I said I was sorry. I'll pay you for the shoes, but it's not my fault you're a klutz and backed into your own painting."
Which is kind of true, but Mom really shouldn't have said that because Blue Silk Shirt's expression morphs from Just Pissed to Seriously Enraged, and she swings her arm out and cracks Mom against the face.
Everything goes still for about two seconds—it's like all sound and fury has been sucked dry from the room, and there's just nothing left but our gaping fish faces. And then?
Bedlam.
Mom charges Silk Shirt and they crash to the floor with warrior yells and paint flying. I sink to my knees and watch as they try to take each other apart. There's hair pulling, shirts tearing, and language bad enough to make me flush. They look like Picasso paintings come to life.
The cops arrive. Both Mom and the lady are cited for disturbing the peace and have to attend anger management courses.
Wine and Canvas girl, whose name is Esme, gives me a hug. "You poor thing," she says. I want to hide in her apron pocket.
Mom is eerily silent on the drive back to Johns Cove, and totally ignores me. When Phil sees her blue-and-green paint splattered body and hears about it, he can't stop laughing. Only then does she seem to come back to life. I'm standing right next to her in the living room when she attacks him, kissing him like crazy, running her hands all up and down his chest. It's like I'm not even there.
I've never felt so lost.
She is a stranger.
. . .
It's early on Saturday morning when I decide I'm going to go farther than the inlet this time. I've gotten pretty good at rowing, and I know the inlet backwards and forwards now. It's time to explore Johns Lake.
Waving at the house at the top of the hill, I say my goodbyes and head for the mouth of Deer Island. Just beyond that is Turkey Island, my destination. I don't know how they got there, because turkeys can't fly. And really, they're kind of ugly, but I'm hoping I'll see at least one of them.
I lose myself as I dip my paddles into the water. Plop, swish. Grrrrr. Already, I can tell that I've gotten so much stronger as I stroke and pull. It's exhilarating, and I don't even mind the fishy smell of the lake anymore. Even though there are quite a few other boats out—there always is—it's still so peaceful. Just me and the water. Just me and the paddles.
I'm not sure how long it's been, but I'm not even halfway to Turkey Island when I notice that the skin of my arms feels tight. I forgot to put on sunblock, and now I'm getting a farmer's sunburn. Great.
So I turn the boat around and row myself back. By the time I wrap the dock line around the cleat, my skin is prickling hot. Ow.
I trudge back up to Phil's concrete and glass mansion. The sun is high in the sky, so it must be at least noon. My stomach agrees. I wonder what Kate, the cook, has made for lunch, and I hope it's more of her egg salad. I wave to old Quil as I pass through the back yard. He's forever weeding the place and I feel sorry for him, old as he is, having to work in the sun like a slave.
No sooner have I stepped inside the door than I am knocked suddenly and forcefully to the floor.
"You, young lady, are grounded forever from the boat."
I hold my hand against my stinging face and look up at Mom incredulously. She hit me? She's never hit me before.
"Get up and go to your room," she yells. "Now!"
I scramble to my feet, wincing at the ache in my shoulder from where I fell against the door frame, and race up the stairs like hell is at my heels.
My whole body hurts, but it's nothing compared to the pain inside.
. . .
I wake up hours later, and it's dark and my face and arms are burning. When I look at myself in the mirror, my face is bright red and my left cheek has a tiny bruise. I feel like a wreck that's been fried. Even worse, I realize that Mom never even came up to check on me.
"Bella?"
"Edward," I sob.
He loses the easy tone of his voice. "What's wrong? What is it?"
I try to talk and can't. All that comes out is she and boat and sunburn.
"You have a sunburn?"
"Yes," I wail. "It hurts."
"It must if you're crying." Now he sounds a little amused.
"She hit me!" I yell.
"What? Who, Mom?"
"No, the boogieman. Yes, Mom. She hit me!"
"Shit. What happened?"
And so I tell him in between hiccups about my boat adventure, my sunburn, and then Mom.
"Now don't get mad at me," he begins.
Too late. I'm mad already because he isn't.
"But I thought you weren't allowed out past the inlet."
"But I waved. I told her I was going," I insist.
"Bella, I'm sorry. She shouldn't have hit you."
"I know!"
"Are you okay?"
"No! I feel so alone. I want to come home now. Will you ask Dad? Plea—"
My bedroom door opens and Mom comes in. Her eyes are red and her hair is all ratty like she's been tugging at it with her hands. She stops when she sees I'm talking on my phone, but then she gets a good look at my face.
"Yes," Edward says. "I'll ask him right—"
"Oh no, Bella. I'm so sorry, honey. I didn't mean to hit you that hard."
She takes my stiff body in her arms and rocks me back and forth so hard that I drop my phone. "Mom!"
But she's crying, wailing actually, like I was moments ago, and she isn't listening to me. She's also not letting me escape her embrace.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cries and gets my cheek all wet with her tears.
"Mom, please," I say, but she just tightens her arms around me.
"Tell me you forgive me. Please tell me you forgive me."
I don't, not yet, maybe not ever, but I don't think she's going to let me go unless I tell her that I forgive her. So with bitter gall in my stomach, I do. She releases me immediately and then cradles my face in her hands.
"You missed lunch. Are you hungry?"
"No," I say. "I don't feel well. Can I just stay in my room for the rest of the night?"
"I'll bring you up a tray," she says and kisses my bruise.
Then she's gone and I'm looking at my bedroom door, which she left open. I walk over quietly, then close and lock it.
I back away and wonder where Phil is.
And then my phone rings. I bend over and pick it up.
"What the hell was that?"
"I don't know," I say, and I don't know who's more scared right now: me or Edward.
. . .
Edward wants me to ask Phil if Mom is taking medication for her condition.
I don't find him alone until lunch the next day, and it's awkward with just him and I sitting at that big table. He says Mom is still in bed and that we should probably let her sleep because she had a bad night.
It takes me almost the entire meal before I get the courage to ask. "Does she . . . you know . . . take medicine?" I ask. God, I wish I wasn't the one who had to do this.
Phil's confused. "Medicine? For like a headache, you mean?"
"No. I mean medicine . . . for her problem."
He puts his fork down. "Her problem? What are you talking about, Bella?"
"Her . . . er, her . . . condition. My Dad told me she's a manic depressive. And my brother wanted to know if she's taking medicine for that."
He tilts his head back and laughs long and hard. "Ohhhh," he says once he gets his breath. "That's a good one."
I have no idea what he thinks is so funny. "What do you mean?"
"Your mom isn't a manic depressive, Bella." He lets out a big breath, then gives me a look like I'm not going to like what he's going to say. "I'm sorry, but I think that's just something your Dad may have made up."
"What?" I try to act like he's not rocking my world. "My Dad wouldn't do that. He doesn't make things up."
He stands and carries his plate to the sink, where he deposits it with a clang. Then he comes and rests his hand on my shoulder.
"Bella. Your mom is not a manic depressive. She's just . . . female," he grins.
. . .
Answer to Edward's riddle for Bella: a stamp.