Lizzie Page 18

  “Soon, I hope.” I sweep my hand toward the bed. “Until then, please make yourself comfortable. If you’re hungry, I made a fresh meat loaf last night. There are leftovers in the kitchen.”

  Uncle John nods curtly. “I remember you being quite good in the kitchen.” Despite myself, a shy smile creeps onto my face. Bridget keeps telling me to get “back in the saddle”—this is the first meat loaf I’ve made since the food poisoning incident. My blood thrums with nervous energy. “Your mother always enjoyed watching you cook,” he says. “She’d be pleased to see you haven’t given that up. How would you describe this meat loaf of yours?”

  My cheeks burn. “It’s killer.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Uncle John’s shadow enters the kitchen before he does. It’s bigger, more menacing in some ways, than my father’s, and a sharp reminder of my mother, who always made a grand entrance. Her smile could light up a room.

  My father used to call her Sunshine, back when he used terms of endearment to charm his family instead of his backhand or wallet. Sunshine. Before she died, Mom started calling me Moonbeam, her beacon of light in the inky dark of her illness. I doubt somehow that Uncle John would understand.

  Unlike my mother, my uncle doesn’t come into the room with a smile. His perpetual frown precedes him, and it at once erases thoughts of my mother. I refuse to further taint her memories with the darkness of my here and now.

  The scent of freshly baked lemon loaf fills the space, but even it can’t evaporate the smell of disdain that lingers so close to my mouth I can taste it, bitter like citrus rind. Uncle John’s cologne—so familiar from my youth—is overbearing, and the hair in my nostrils curls in revolt.

  “You mentioned there were some leftovers,” he says, by way of greeting.

  I nod, immediately walking toward the fridge, where I pull out the leftover meat loaf. There’s lots, since Abigail refuses to eat it now, which suits me just fine. If I make it into Le Cordon Bleu, this will be my signature dish, and by the time I step onto campus, I want it to be perfect.

  As I move around the kitchen, Uncle John studies his surroundings.

  Does he notice the subtle changes in the atmosphere? The walls are the color of grapefruit, except for one, where I’ve left the floral wallpaper my mother painstakingly applied herself while six months pregnant with me. It’s silly to believe in spirits, but sometimes that wall is the only thing that staves off the loneliness her dying has left behind.

  Antique pots and utensils hang from hooks screwed into dark-wood hanging shelves piled with cookbooks, recipe card holders, and Mom’s collection of salt and pepper shakers that shimmer under the overhead fluorescents. Bridget dusts them weekly, commenting on each with a humor that leaves my stomach sore from giggling.

  Uncle John doesn’t smile when he stares at them.

  “I gave all those to your mother,” he says.

  Not all. The bride and groom Mom bought herself at a shop in Maine, where she and Father spent a week honeymooning, back when I think they loved each other. “If you want to take a seat in the dining room, I’ll bring it out to you once it’s heated,” I say, willing my uncle to leave. His presence is unnerving. He’s unpredictable. Cagey. The kind of guy who always has an ace—or a trick—up his sleeve.

  “I hate that place,” he says.

  I can’t imagine he likes anything about this house, but it makes sense he’d avoid the dining room, the last place he saw my mother alive. I know he blames my father, this house, this town, for Mom’s death, but Father never laid a hand on her—ironic, perhaps—and she loved Fall River maybe more than she loved my father. More than she loved anyone, even me.

  “I can bring it to your room if you prefer.”

  “I’d rather eat here,” he says. “It’s marginally cleaner.”

  He takes a seat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, settling into Bridget’s spot. I want to tell him to leave, that the seat is reserved, but the last person I want Uncle John to know about is Bridget.

  I sneak a glance toward the window, grateful, for once, that she isn’t home.

  Carefully unwrapping the meat loaf, I put a generous chunk in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes. As I wait for it to heat up, I busy myself with things that don’t allow me to make eye contact. Thinking of my uncle as family fills me with disgust, so I pretend he’s a stranger. I pull down a dish from the cupboard—one of Abigail’s finest in hopes he breaks it—and fill a glass with cool water. I drop a lemon wedge in the top and set the drink in front of him—the stranger—without actually looking at him. Condensation from the glass coats my fingers. I wipe them on a dishrag, head down.

  The buzzer on the stove chimes, a welcome reminder to take out the lemon loaf. It’s then that I smile. The top is light brown, and the lemon peels I sprinkled over a bed of light sugar have curled into perfect arcs.

  Pride swells in my chest, and for a second I forget how uncomfortable I am in my uncle’s presence and remind myself that the kitchen is my sanctuary. I set the meat loaf in front of him.

  “I’ll have a slice of that loaf, too,” he says without looking up.

  My heart falls into my stomach. “This is for a special occasion.”

  He gives me a wolfish grin. “What could be more special than a visit from your uncle?”

  I begrudgingly lop off a chunk and set it on a napkin. “You sure waited long enough,” I mutter under my breath. The fact that Uncle John never even tried to make contact after Mom died still stings.

  I wait while he takes a bite of his dinner, anticipation simmering beneath my unease. I shouldn’t want his approval, his praise . . . and yet . . . In this way, I am perhaps most of all like my mother. Despite his flaws, he was her hero, and I long for that kind of a connection with a father figure.

  Uncle John chews without comment. I tuck my hands behind my back and rock on my heels.

  “You’re just like your mother,” he says with a grunt. “Fidgety. That woman never could keep her hands still.”

  I lean against the kitchen counter. My elbow rubs against a stack of photographs from Bridget’s camera—not the pictures from Boston, because something happened to the camera and none of them turned out. My stomach twists with fresh disappointment. Bridget says we’ll have more adventures, more memories, but I’ll always cherish the first. I skimmed through the selfies last night, searching each image for something not quite right. Bridget told me to look closer, deeper, but I don’t get what she’s trying to say. The only thing I keep seeing is me—an alternate version of me. Relaxed, happy . . . free.

  What could possibly be wrong about that?

  I continue tidying my work space as the silence between me and my uncle stretches on. I take my notebook out from the kitchen drawer—the pages fresh and crisp, a new journal that’s hardly been used—and skim the menu I’ve planned for a week at the B and B. Meat loaf on Monday, of course, because the new guests expect it. Burgers on Tuesday, with as much garlic as I can get away with. On Wednesday, we’ll have pasta, a special ode to Bridget and her Italian adventures. But by Thursday, I’m stuck.

  “You look like your mother too,” Uncle John says. My chest convulses with a pang of sadness. Slowly I turn around, expecting a sneer. But Uncle John looks thoughtful, a little sad, as though being here has dredged up memories, and he’s realized not all of them are so bad. “I wondered how much of her I’d see in you.”

  “You could have come sooner,” I say, no longer able to contain how I feel. I was so young when we lost her, and Father . . . he went to a dark place. Emma tries—tried—but we’ve all had to deal with our grief. I needed you.

  “I tried.” Uncle John sets down his fork and takes a sip of water. His tongue swipes across his top teeth. “Your father wouldn’t have it. My letters were returned unopened, my phone calls unanswered.”

  A cavernous hole opens up inside me, and from it spews a fluttering of emotions. “My father never told me any of that. . . .�
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  Uncle John snorts. “And risk losing you?”

  My eyes go wide. “Losing me?”

  He pushes his plate aside and dabs the corner of his mouth with the edge of the linen napkin. His mannerisms are so like my mother’s that I get sucked back into her world. I miss her. Him. The family we once were.

  “A few years back, I came to the B and B, Lizzie. I had every intention of taking you and your sister home with me.” His eyes shimmer. “My sister would have wanted that.” He looks away. “Your father refused to let you go. Said you needed to stay here . . .”

  Trapped.

  “. . . close to your mother’s memories and things.” Uncle John sighs. “And at the time, I guess it made sense. I don’t know, maybe I should have tried harder. Should have gotten you out of here.”

  My heart thrums like a hummingbird. “Yes,” I say simply. “You should have.”

  Because now I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to leave.

  CHAPTER

  32

  My father’s voice reverberates through the thin wall that separates the dining area from the lobby, where I’ve been sitting, hands under my butt, for the past hour. It’s strategic that my father is hosting the meeting in that room, the very room Uncle John abhors. Both will use whatever advantages they can. Which is perhaps why Father didn’t bother acknowledging Uncle John last night, prolonging the inevitable blowout that is happening now.

  Their insults ping-pong back and forth until I can’t tell who’s ahead, only that I despise them both the same. I tuck my head between my knees to block the sound, but their voices carry over the constant buzzing.

  “You killed her,” my uncle shouts, for what may be the tenth time.

  There’s a loud crash, a shattering of glass. I squeeze my eyes shut. Swipe. “I never laid a hand on her,” my father yells back.

  That much is true. For all my father’s faults, his love for my mother was concrete. But Uncle John isn’t far off the mark either. Mom had found an experimental treatment, a medical procedure that wouldn’t grant her immortality but would prolong her years with us—with me—by a half dozen. Maybe more.

  Father refused to pay for it.

  Too big a risk.

  Too expensive.

  Too public.

  End of story.

  There is another bang from the dining room. A guttural scream that makes me flinch.

  “You’ve always been a cheap son of a bitch,” Uncle John says.

  “You dare insult me in my own home?”

  I picture Father standing over my uncle, hands on his hips, trying to use his considerable height to his advantage. My uncle’s no pushover, though—he’s shorter, but stocky, with arms that resemble tree trunks.

  “My sister’s estate should have been divided between us,” Uncle John says. “The remainder to her children.” He grunts with disgust. “Not wasted on this piece-of-shit business. My suite is filthy. Infested with spiders, for God’s sake.”

  That is a lie. It has to be.

  Bridget is terrified of spiders. Those I haven’t killed, she’s massacred with insect repellant and a strict cleaning regimen that begins with batting at loose cobwebs with a broom that’s stretched as far away from her body as possible. That bedroom might not have fresh paint and newly replaced rugs, but it could pass a white glove test. That I know for sure.

  “The children will have this B and B when I’m gone,” my father bellows. Another lie, given what I know of his plans to sell it. “Do you think it’s cheap to run?” He launches into a list of things he must care for: maintenance, upgrades, staff wages, paint, gardening supplies, heat, power, Internet. All lies. We haven’t had Wi-Fi since Emma left for college, and the only thing my father has lifted in the past two years is his hand.

  “If your sister had been more frugal . . .”

  Another crash; this time I’m sure it’s the china cabinet. A noise overhead lets me know someone else heard it too. Abigail? Bridget?

  “My sister?” Uncle John gasps, and I can imagine steam rolling off the top of his head, his face red with rage. “You need to rein in that selfish bitch you married. At least then you’d have some money to turn this place into something decent. Something Sarah would be proud of.”

  My chest tightens at my mother’s name. Insulting Abigail won’t go well for my uncle. A similar comment from me would have ended in a solid backhand. I don’t know if my father loves her, but he won’t stand for anyone insulting her either. Not even when it’s the truth.

  My father explodes with anger. “You ever talk about my wife that way again and—”

  Uncle John has clearly had enough. “Don’t you threaten me, you arrogant bastard.”

  “Or what? You’ll take me to court?” My father huffs. “Go ahead.”

  There’s a dramatic pause where I know my uncle is calculating his response. It’s an argument that continues to swirl in a vicious circle. Nobody knows what my mom wanted—she died before finishing her will. Something else Uncle John blames on Father. And probably another truth.

  A thump overhead makes my back go stiff. The dragon lady is crawling out of her dungeon, and for this matchup, I refuse to cower in the corner like some damsel in distress. For once, this isn’t my fight.

  I creep to the end of the hallway. Peer into the dining room, heart racing. Broken glass litters the carpet. Two of the dining chairs are upended, the leg from one wedged into the wall. My father and uncle face off across the table, light from the chandelier casting shadow on one face, brightening the other. It’s the illusion of yin and yang when they’re far too much alike.

  Abigail swoops into the room, the tail of her silk robe dragging like a wedding train. White fur circles the cuffs, her neck. Uncle John barely acknowledges her entrance.

  “You should see yourself to the door, John,” she says.

  My uncle’s stare never leaves Father’s face. “I’ll leave when I damn well get what’s coming to me.”

  Father’s hands clench into fists. He holds his arms at his sides, the veins on his neck tightening into thick cords. He’s a volcano set to erupt. I should back away.

  I don’t.

  Abigail moves closer to my father. “Really, John, you need to leave. Andrew is—”

  “A pussy,” Uncle John spits.

  My mouth drops open in shock.

  “Get out, or I’ll call the police,” Abigail says. I’m almost impressed with how calm she remains. Her chest heaves, pushing her boobs up so high I’m sure they’ll pop right out of the red nightgown underneath her robe.

  “I’m going,” Uncle John says, his eyes still on my father. “But this isn’t over. You’ll pay for this. If it’s the last thing I ever do . . .”

  The threat trails off at my father’s raised voice. He stands taller, thicker, fueled by adrenaline—I know this look well. He points a finger at my uncle’s chest. “Go. Now. I’ll have Lizbeth gather your things. I never want to see your face again.”

  “Mark my words,” Uncle John says with surprising calm. His breath seethes from between his teeth. “The only way I’ll set foot in this house again is to kill you myself.”

  I gasp.

  “Should I take that as a threat?”

  Uncle John sneers. “Consider it fair warning.” He moves toward the door, pausing at the threshold, so close I can almost feel the vibrations of his shaking body. I’ve never seen, felt, so much hatred. “If not for my sister’s memory, I would have put you out of your misery sooner. Don’t tempt me, Andrew. My patience has worn out.”

  Taking my cue, I scramble back to the lobby, waiting for my father’s instructions to gather Uncle John’s things. But there is a whirlwind of activity as my uncle stomps from the dining area to the guest suite. A dresser drawer pounds closed. The door shuts with a resounding slam. Thump, thump, thump down the stairs.

  I am sick with the thought of a confrontation.

  Uncle John storms into the lobby, his hand gripped around the suitcase handle tigh
t enough to turn his knuckles white. The expression on his face twists my stomach into knots. I know without a shadow of a doubt that this will be the last time I ever see this man, and I’m overcome with an inexplicable sadness. He’s all that’s left of my mother’s family, my last blood link to her. She wouldn’t want this.

  “Lizbeth,” he says, his voice soft. Almost kind.

  I blink away a tear.

  His mouth opens. Closes. A heavy sigh erupts from somewhere deep in his chest. He yanks open the front door and pauses, his hand clutching the knob. “You’re not safe here,” he says without turning. “Your father is a dangerous man. Get out. Leave before he hurts you—or worse.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  I stare at the wooden door that leads into my father’s study, willing it to open on its own, to save me from knocking, disturbing, losing the courage I’ve built up in the hours since Uncle John left.

  Bridget continues to slip away, lengthening the distance between us, and the only way I can stanch it, to stop her from going forever, is to get us both far away from Fall River, this house, my parents. It’s also the only way I can contain the madness that makes me do, say, feel, unspeakable things.

  Things are different now.

  I’m different.

  My fingers close tight around the wrinkled envelope in my pocket, and my heart skips a full beat with excitement. I did it—got accepted at Le Cordon Bleu! Father will be angry at first, but he’ll come around. He’ll see that I’ll be better off at school, like Emma. He has to.

  With Bridget at my side, I can do this. Control it. Beat it. Find out who I am.

  My entire body trembles, but it’s more than just nerves. I touch my finger to my lips, still swollen from Bridget’s kisses. Our mouths are in tandem, but something isn’t right with our hearts. A sliver of doubt has put a notch in our passion, and I’m willing to do anything to stitch the wound closed, before it festers with an infection that can’t be cured.