When You Go Away (17 page)

     "Your father is staying with your grandma, and he wants to see you.  He called me as soon as he got into town.  I think--I think you need to give him this chance."  He pushed air into the words, hoping to give them a buoyancy he didn't feel.

     "Yeah, right."  Ryan pushed away from the table and went to the study, slamming the door, again, in his own form of teenaged communication.  Carl figured this slam meant
I'm pissed, but I'll pack up.  Asshole. 

     Carly sat still, rubbing her thumbs together.  "Kiddo," Carl said, putting his hand on her head.  Her hair had the same thin silkiness of Peri's, though darker, the feel of his granddaughter's skull bringing him back to the days when Peri would sit by him at the kitchen counter at the old house, sneaking pretzels.  Janice would be jabbering in the background, pulling a casserole out of the oven, Noel in the living room reading, but Peri was with him.  Always.  Even when he'd left home, he could still feel his daughter’s head
just under his hand.  How had he let that go?  "It'll be a visit.  That's all.  I'll come get you as soon as I can."

     He felt her nod, her hair slick between his fingers.  And then Garnet's Mercedes sedan pulled up, idled for a second, and then stopped.  Carly was looking down at the table and didn't see her father yet, but Carl watched, saw Garnet's mouth moving, her hands emphasizing a point, probably the same wisdom that
Preston
had:
Be nice.  Be good.  Then the world will be yours.

     Graham seemed to agree with his mother, leaning into her, almost exactly as Carly had leaned into Carl seconds ago.  Garnet patted his shoulder, and they pulled apart, opened car doors, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, Graham smoothing the creases from his pants.  Carl bent down to Carly and saw that she had been looking out the window, too, her eyes peering from between her bangs.  This one didn't miss a trick.

     "Here goes.”  They were so close he could almost feel her girlness, the afternoon smell of a child, long ago morning soap, school and lunch and desks, the grit of asphalt playing surfaces, loneliness. 

     "Grandpa," she said, turning swiftly and hugging him around his neck so hard he had the urge to pull back.  But he couldn't, not again, not from this one, and he leaned in even as Graham and Garnet walked to the front door and rang the bell, looking in the window at them both.

     Ryan slunk out of his room, carrying his backpack stuffed with his clothes, his eyes on the floor, his free hand balled in his pocket.  Carly was still clutching Carl, but they were standing now, Graham, Garnet, the kids and he making a half-circle in the living room.

     "Would you like to sit down?"  Carl asked.  Graham shook his head, but then Garnet brought a hand out to stop him.

     "That would be nice.  They all need some time to get reacquainted."  She smiled, her lips in a perfect red bow.  Garnet was like the women he used to walk past in Union Square during lunch, cashmere sweater sets and wool pants, leather shoes, pearls, hair dyed to youthful colors and styled back, pushed away from surgically rejuvenated faces.  As he strode around them and their Neiman Marcus and Macy’s bags, he’d wonder what they looked like at night, without the fancy makeup and fine clothing.  What would protect them then?

    Carl tried to smile back and then gently pulled Carly to a chair and cocked his head toward the other chair, urging Ryan to do this one thing.  Ryan sighed and sat, his backpack still hanging on his shoulder.

     "This has been tough, kids," Graham began, sitting with his elbows on his knees.  "I'm really sorry I didn't . . . ."

     "What?"  Ryan said.

     Graham looked at his son and sucked in a cheek, just like Garnet often did.  "Well.  For not being here.  But I want that to change now."

     Carl looked at his former son-in-law and remembered back to the time when he'd trusted him.  At Graham’s and Peri's wedding, Carl had believed the vows they had written and recited, the smiles on their faces, the classy way they'd carefully fed each other cake, not smearing a bit of frosting.  When Ryan and then Carly were born, Graham filmed every bloody minute, holding all three of his children seconds after each birth, making sure all the grandparents saw the videos.  For years, Graham had been the one to give Carl the school photos--Carly and Ryan with fresh haircuts and missing teeth—that he put on his refrigerator.  Graham had also been the one to call about soccer matches and dance recitals, glad to have Carl to whisper to during the Cinderella ballet, nudging him and hissing, “I can’t tell which ones are the
ugly
sisters.”

     How could that father have turned into this one, sitting here like a bad dog with its tail between its legs, begging for his children's love?  Was it just Brooke?  Or Peri?  Or the full plate of responsibilities that drove him off?  Why had he stopped sending money?  Or had he?  Maybe in her illness, Peri had stopped knowing how to take care of anything, the bank as foreign and upsetting to her as her own child’s body.  Carl shook his head.  He'd never understand family the way he was supposed to, how one stayed and lived through it despite everything.

     "I want to stay with Grandpa," Carly said suddenly.  Carl could feel her fingernails in his forearm.

     "Oh, Carly,” Garnet said quickly, as if her voice could erase Carly’s words.  “You love staying at my house.  You'll have your regular room.  Ryan, too."

     "What about Brooke?"  Carly asked.  "She needs to live with us.  I help take care of her."

     "What about Brooke?"  Carl asked.  "What is your plan for her?"

     "You know there isn't a plan yet," Graham said, the soft pleading look on his face hardening into anger.  "Let's not get into that here."

    
Play nice
, Carl thought. 
Don't make waves
.

     "So, shall we go?"  Garnet stood up, clutching her purse.  "Maritza is making a lasagna.  I know you'll love it."

     Carl's tongue flicked with comebacks about how much Maritza must love cooking for the mistress of the house, but he heard Preston's voice in his ear again and imagined Peri strapped in her hospital bed and pumped full of drugs, regarding him with anxious eyes.  This second of reticence was for his daughter, and he swallowed back his sarcasm.  

     "Okay, kids.  Time to go.  You'll have a good time," he said, and he squeezed Carly's arm, trying to tell her he'd be with her, even in Garnet's echoing house, even in her dreams.

     "Grandpa," Carly pleaded.

     "Come on, now.  It's just your Dad."

     Graham threw him a suspicious but grateful glance and stood up, taking both children by the arm.  Carl could see Ryan bend away, but Graham held on, walked to the front door, and out with the children he'd left a year ago.

     "Thank you, Carl.  They’ll be fine," Garnet said, her eyes soft, too, asking him for things he didn’t want to give her.

     He folded his arms and nodded.  "That they will.  I'll guarantee it."

     Garnet pinched her lips and walked out to the porch and toward her car.  Carl closed the door, unable to watch, not even from the spy hole.  He couldn't bear any of it, but most of all he feared the smooth grace of Carly's head, they way she held it high even as Graham took her by the arm.  Carl closed his eyes, feeling a child on either side of him, Carly and the ghost of the girl named Peri who sat next to him at the kitchen counter, laughing.

That night, if she'd been able to turn off the light with her mind, Carly would have done it, just so she didn't have to look at her father, see what she knew were tears in his eyes.  She didn't believe his tears were honest, though, and that's why it would be way better to lie here in bed and listen to him in the darkness, whispering to herself,
It's not true.  None of it's true
.  Instead, she stared at his eyebrows.  They were the palest brown and curved over his eyes like Ryan's did, smooth moons of hair.  If Ryan would let her, she would love to rub her fingers on them like she used to do to her dad.  But now there was no one.

     "Carly?  Are you listening to me?"

     "Yes."

     "Well?  Do you know what it would mean if I got custody of you?"

     "We'd live down in
Arizona
where it's hot and I don't know anyone?"

     Her father wiped his eyes and sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling and the crystal light fixture Grandma Mackenzie always warned her about, saying, "It's an antique.  Don't ever throw anything in this room."  How had her father gotten through his entire childhood without breaking it with a baseball or bat or something?  For a second, she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure she knew how to talk to her father without hating him.

     "Carly."

     "What?"

     "That's not all it would mean.  It would mean that you wouldn't be living with your mother.  You might see her only a couple of times a year."

     "Uh huh."  She pulled into her blankets, covering her face, familiar in her own smells.  A while ago, before they moved, she used to check herself in that place every night for her period.  Alicia got it one day when they were at the zoo on a field trip, and Carly was sure any day she would have it and turn into a woman.  At least, that's what her mother had told her it meant back when she was ten and they had "the talk."  But Carly had forgotten to check lately, and she couldn't do it now with her father on the other side of the blanket.  If she got her period, she would really be a woman.  She could tell her dad that she didn't want to go with him anywhere or live with him because he didn't want her.  Because he didn't want Brooke.  He hadn't even gone to the hospital when she mentioned it after dinner.  She hated him.  She really did.

     "Are you paying attention to me?"

     "Yeah."

     "Come out from under the blankets, please."

     Carly pulled her head out and shook back her hair.  "What?"

     "Do you want to live with me?"

     For a second, Carly heard her mother say, "Be nice."  She had been so polite to people lately, saying "Thank you" or "Excuse me," the way Grandma Mackenzie especially
always wanted.  She wasn't like Ryan who swore and stomped around.  But as she looked at her father, she knew he hadn't seen what she had, hadn't taken care of Brooke in so long, didn't know about the hole in her throat.  She sat up and hugged her knees.  "No.  I don't want to live with you.  I want to live with Mom and Ryan and Brooke.  And you can't make me go down there.  Ever."

     She tucked her head tight against her body, flinching when she felt his hand on her shoulder.  "It won't be so bad," he said, but he was a liar.  That's all he'd ever done--lied.

     "You said that before when you left the first time.  And it was really bad."

     Her father didn't say anything, so she looked up over her knees, the smooth thin flannel of her pajamas rubbing against her forehead and nose.

      "It was that bad."  He wasn't asking a question, but she had to answer him.  He couldn’t walk around here one more minute without knowing about Brooke and the red spots and her mother under the covers and Ryan in and out and in and out, the dank smell of pot in the air, and only her, only Carly, paying any attention at all.

     "Don't you get it?" she said, looking up.  "Don't you even see?  I had to take care of her.  I didn't even know your phone number.  I didn't even know what street you lived on!"

     "Calm down.  Don't yell."

     "Why?  Why shouldn't I yell?  Would you pay attention this time?"

     He leaned toward her, his hand out.  Even after all he did, Carly remembered how it felt to be next to him.  How it would be to let go and move close to him?

     "What's going on in here?"  Her grandmother pushed open the door, her hair pulled back for sleeping, her lips still red.

     "Mom, it's okay.  We're just talking."  Her father moved back into his chair and then stood up.  "I was telling Carly about what will happen."

     "Oh.  Now isn't that wonderful,” her grandmother said brightly, her teeth so white against her lips.  “I can't wait to begin having vacations in
Arizona
.  And then who knows?  You all may move up here soon."

     "Mom."

     Her grandmother smoothed imaginary hair off her face and pursed her lips.  Carly could see a glint of gray roots at her temples.  "In any case, I think it's just the thing.  Don't you, Carly?"

     "No.  I don't," she said, feeling herself empty out and flatten against the mattress as her words hit her grandmother's stare.

     "Carly!"

     "I don't.  I don't at all.  I'm not going."  She didn't dare look up, but she stared at her grandmother's nightgown, a pale gray, shiny, falling in folds at her fluffy slippers.  Her mother never looked like that at bedtime.  Mostly, she just fell on the bed still wearing the clothes she’d put on in the morning or even the night before, her T-shirt or sweatshirt
covered with Brooke's formula and medicines, swishes of red and pink like a first-grade
finger-paint
.