Читать книгу Favourite Daughter - Kaira Rouda Sturdivant - Страница 15

My foghorn alarm blares and jars me out of bed. I scamper to the bathroom to turn it off. Shaking fingers jab at my phone. This routine happens every morning. Normal people have a soothing alarm, not this blaring foghorn. But I’m not normal. I’m special. Even though the sound scares me to death every morning. It works, though. I’m awake.

I grab my toothbrush and turn on the water, quickly dampen it before turning the water off again. I’m not worried about California’s perpetual drought. After what happened last year, I’ve developed a fear of water, especially the vast, deep ocean surrounding us. Did you know water covers 71 percent of the surface of the earth? Oceans hold 96.5 percent of the earth’s water. The Pacific Ocean, my view, is the deepest ocean, reaching more than six and one-half miles deep. The California Current moves south along the west coast of North America. I shudder as I tap my toothbrush on the edge of the sink. I learned from the coroner’s office that if you drop something into the ocean north of here, it always drifts this way, even a body.

From the bathroom I glance at David’s empty, cold side of the bed. He’s left for work extra early this morning. But that’s fine. Today’s our coming-out party and he probably has to knock out some things before he can focus all of his attention on me, and Betsy and our remembrance for Mary.

I study my reflection in the mirror above my sink. Not bad. I’m sort of like an actress who’s been on sabbatical and is offered a part: she reluctantly takes it and wins an Oscar. There is work to be done but I can see the beautiful me in there. I slept in yesterday’s makeup. It’s mostly faded away, rubbed off on my pillow, most likely. Dark smudges hang under my eyes from worn-away mascara, but what’s new and a little alarming is the deepening web of wrinkles beside each of my eyes. Botox will get rid of those in an instant.

In the closet, I slip off my T-shirt and stare approvingly at my own body in the full-length mirror. I look a little thin, but you can never be too rich or too skinny. Mom loved to repeat that one. My stomach is flat, a feature that only departed from my physique about three months into my pregnancy with Betsy, and returned shortly after her delivery. And of course, my surgically enhanced breasts are exactly right, a little larger than necessary, but hey, go big or go home. If David and I were to go on one of those island vacations he loves, I could rock a bikini for old times’ sake. I try to imagine it, us, on vacation again. Me in a floppy hat, white bikini, skin warm from the sun, and David unable to keep his longing eyes off my body. He grabs me as we walk into our casita, whispering “gorgeous” in my ear as he pulls me to the bed. Yes, we’ll do that again, soon, perhaps in the new house.

I check the time. I need to hurry to be ready for my coffee date with Elizabeth. Once I’m showered, I enjoy putting on full makeup for the first time in a while. I take my time, and I’m pleased with the results. I pull on jeans—they’re baggy, but they’ll do for this morning’s activities—and a flattering white blouse.

I wait for Betsy in the kitchen, hoping for more mother-daughter time like we had last night. Sometimes I’m lucky and I catch her in the morning when she’s hungry or needs a water bottle to take to school. Most days, though, she exits through her bedroom door and rushes through the courtyard to her car before I even realize she’s gone, like her dad, the other mouse running from momma cat.

I can’t blame her. She doesn’t think about me, or my needs. I remember acting the same way with my own mother when I was ten. It’s a selfish phase most girls go through, and Betsy and I are enjoying an extra long, extra trying phase. It balances the fact Mary and I never had one. Sure, we had our disagreements, but not the ongoing war of disappointment and misunderstanding that Betsy and I seem to be locked in.

Last week, David walked into a huge fight between my daughter and me. It was after 11:00 p.m., far too late for Betsy to be out on a school night. I waited for her in a chair, outside in the dark, sacrificing my own comfort. I care about her and her curfews. When Betsy had finally walked into the courtyard, I had confronted her before she could sneak downstairs via the outdoor steps.

“Stop right there.” I stood up. I scared her and that made me smile.

“Oh my God,” Betsy yelled. “You would be out here like a freak. Leave me alone.”

“You smell like smoke. Where have you been?”

“I told Dad I had a bonfire tonight. You can’t keep treating me like I’m a child. I’m eighteen. Besides, if you had taken the time to have an actual conversation with Dad, he could have told you where I was.” Betsy backed away, heading toward the outside stairs, trying to escape to her room to get away from me, her mother: the person who gave birth to her, the person who gave her life.

“Who were you with? I want to know your friends.” The fact was Betsy never brought her friends home. I knew all of Mary’s high school friends, for years, and they all seemed to like me. Some of the boys liked talking to me more than they did Mary. But with Betsy, I only knew Amy, from middle school. After Amy moved away, Betsy didn’t bring anyone else home, no matter how often I pushed to meet her “group.”

Mary had told me when she was a senior, and Betsy was a junior, that Betsy was in a totally different crowd. Mom, we don’t overlap friends, not at all. I can’t really tell you more. That’s why I had to surprise her in the courtyard. I have to catch her when I can. She’s sneaky, my Betsy.

Last week in the courtyard, Betsy wasn’t just sneaky, she was mean. Her voice was cold, firm. “Your snooping is freaking me out. You need to cool it. I’m going to bed—don’t follow me.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, young lady!” I had yelled. Too loud. We’re all too close together here at The Cove. I can’t believe I raised my voice.

David stepped through the door from the garage at that moment. Mortified by my outburst.

“Jane, honestly. I heard you from inside the garage. What will the neighbors think?” He was mad at me, not worried about what Betsy had said or done. David still cares about the neighbors, still has friends in the neighborhood. Clients, too.

Betsy saw her chance for an exit. “Welcome home, Dad. Good night.” She smiled as he walked to her side.

“Good night, honey.” They hugged and she was gone.

I am very tired of this treatment. Instead of backing me up, supporting my good parenting, David had walked past me into the house, leaving me alone in the courtyard staring up at the stars piercing through the night sky like laser beams. Just then one of the palm trees in our courtyard shed its hull, something that happens at least once a year. The heavy wooden canoe-shaped beast landed with a bang a foot away from where I’d been sitting. I could have died.

But I’m a survivor. And I always win. Something Elizabeth will discover in ten minutes, the palm trees later this morning.