Back Where She Belongs(7)

“I waited for you. We hafta do the pro...gram for the fun’ral. What was going on in there?”

“I was hosting a web meeting with one of my clients.”

“Yes. You have clients.”

Was she being sarcastic?

“Faye says you’re very...pro...fezzhional.”

No. That sounded sincere.

“I try to be. I’m doing well, especially in this economy and—” She stopped, realizing her mother had bigger concerns. “What’s up, Mom? What’s going on?”

“You’ll have to drive me to the hozzpital. Joseph’s going too early and my car...my car...see...it’s still—”

“At the mechanic’s. I remember. No problem. I’m happy to drive.”

Abruptly her mother grabbed Tara’s forearm, her fingers digging in, her eyes fierce and desperate. “Is she suffering? I can’t stand to think...that I... That my little girl...is in pain...”

“No, Mom. She’s not suffering. Rita told me coma patients fidget when they’re hurting. And Faye doesn’t move at all.” She’s as still as death.

“You wouldn’t lie to me?” Then her mother gave a small smile. “Not you. You’re honest to a fault.” That was a jab, but her mother’s behavior was so troubling that Tara was relieved by the normalcy of the dig. Her mother noticed the photograph Tara held. “Wha’s the pic...ture for?”

“To tape up for Faye to look at. What do you think?” She showed it to her mother, who blinked, as if to clear her vision, then studied it. “This was that trip we took before Faye got married.”

“Yeah. Sunset Crater. We were talking about it and you said let’s go so we did.” It had been a rare instance of spontaneity from their mother, and Tara had loved it. As they set off, her mother had actually squeezed Tara’s hand in excitement.

With so little reaction from her parents, Tara had learned to interpret the smallest gesture or postural shift. In a way, that had led to her skill with people. She knew well the way her mother’s eyebrows lifted whenever Tara spoke, as if she expected Tara to be loud or wrong. She knew the sour lip twist when Tara’s manners failed and the huffed breath when Tara bumped a chair, the relieved exhale when Tara left the room, the quick stiffening when she entered.

Her father had hardly seemed aware Tara existed. His neglect somehow hurt less, maybe because he neglected her mother, too, as far as Tara could see. When he was home, he was in his study or reading. His books, their places marked, were scattered throughout the house. Only Faye made him light up. Tara had been happy for Faye, but she’d also ached with envy.

“That was a fine trip.” Her mother smiled, running her finger over the glass.

They’d parked on the lookout and asked a tourist to take their photo. They stood with the crater behind them, Tara and their mother on either side of Faye, who sat on the hood of their mother’s sky-blue Mercedes, her heel braced in the heart-shaped dent in the fender their father had refused to fix. Her mother was notoriously bad at parking and her father had gotten fed up with all the bodywork charges.

“Faye looks so happy,” Tara said. Her sister practically glowed with joy.

“Faye was always happy.” Unlike you. Her mother claimed Tara had been a colicky baby, a cranky child and an impossible teenager.

“But this is more. You can see she’s in love.” At the time, Tara had dismissed that, insisting that Faye owed it to herself to go after her dream, to study art. Love can wait, she’d said.

Tara cringed at her nerve. The trouble was that Tara had never been in love. Not real, adult love. The thing with Dylan didn’t qualify. She didn’t understand love. Worse, in the back of her mind lurked the deep and painful truth that Dylan had blurted when they had that terrible fight:

You don’t know how to love anyone, not even yourself.

Still, still that thought made her gasp as if from a stomach punch and left her feeling empty and aching inside.

Tara should have rejoiced that Faye had found love, that she was happy. Instead she’d harassed her about it, sounding eerily like her mother when Tara said she was going to NAU with Dylan. Her mother had said it was puppy love.

Tara had been just as thoughtless. It was the Wharton Effect—the feeling of being both lost and trapped because of growing up where everyone knew them and their family, and had opinions about everything they said or did.

Unlike Tara, Faye had shaved off her corners to fit Wharton’s round hole, and Tara had thought she had to wake up Faye to what she’d sacrificed. Faye loved her life here. Tara knew that deep down. Faye loved Joseph. And she loved Wharton Electronics. Only Tara was the misfit.

“She shouldn’t have been in that car,” her mother wailed suddenly, turning the picture facedown on the counter, her face raw with pain. “Why would he do that to her?”

The prickling sensation came again. “You mean why did Dad ask Faye to drive? Is that it?”

Her mother just shook her head, looking down at the counter.

“Do you think Dad got drunk playing poker? Is that why Faye was driving?”

Her mother raised her gaze. “Abbott drinks iced tea in a highball glass...pretends iz whiz-key.... For a clear head... He hates to lose.”

That made sense to Tara. Her father had always been competitive.

“But...that night...” her mother said. “Maybe...he did drink...” Her mother stared at Tara, urgent again. “Do you think if they were quick...er?” Her mother was really slurring now. “The E...M...Ts? Bill said it was quick. But if they were quicker, maybe she wouldn’t be—”

“Who’s Bill?”

“Bill Fallon.”

“The police chief?” Tara had been in his office several times for lectures about how she was killing her mother by staging protests, drinking, driving too fast, or smoking pot. “So someone called 911 and he came? Wait, doesn’t he play poker with Dad?”

“He missed poker. He wazz pazzing by.” Her mother turned her glass with both hands, miserable. “Bill swore the helicopter was quick. He watches out for us, Bill does.”

“He’s a first responder, Mom. It’s his job to help when there’s an accident.” Goose bumps rose on her arms. Her mother seemed worried, too. Something was amiss. “What else, Mom?”

There was a long, long silence. Tara could hear the grandfather clock ticking. Her pulse seemed to thrum in time.

“We quarreled,” her mother said so softly Tara almost didn’t hear her. “Faye and I. I lost my temper. If I could take it all back, I would.” She seemed to be pleading with Tara.

“What did you fight about?”

Her mother shook her head, not willing to say.

“People say things they don’t mean out of anger. Faye knows that. Faye’s a forgiving person,” she said to make her mother feel better. Meanwhile, her mind raced. So the police chief had missed poker, but seen the crash somehow. That alone seemed strange. “Who else played poker that night?”

“I don’t know. Jim Crowley, Mitch Bender, Paul Robins, Gary Hicks. Why?”

“Maybe they know why Faye was in the car.”

“Oh, no.” Her mother blinked at her. “Your father did not tell tales.”

What the hell did that mean? Tara would find a way to talk to one of the men. Maybe at the funeral.

“If Faye dies...I can’t go on,” her mother said in a choked voice. Tara had never heard her mother sound so desperate.

“Mom...” Tara put a tentative hand on her mother’s back.

Her mother tensed, then sat up straight, as if Tara’s touch had been a warning. “I’m not myself. I apologize.” She cleared her throat. “We’ll discuss the program tomorrow. It must be perfect.” Her mother’s voice cracked. “Everyone loved your father.”

She pushed up to her feet. She started away, then turned back and leveled her gaze at Tara. “Your father loved you. Don’t forget that.” With a sharp nod, her mother walked away, moving stiffly, the way people pretending not to be drunk walked.

Her mother was so formal, so strict. She wouldn’t even allow herself a comforting pat. Tara hoped it wasn’t that she couldn’t allow herself a comforting pat from Tara.

No. Don’t think like that. You’re here to make peace. You can’t look for ways to be hurt.

It might be easier if her mother gave any sign she wanted peace with Tara. She might be better off just leaving it alone, but she couldn’t do it. She had to try to fix this, to make it right. Her whole career was about healing wounds between employees and managers. Shouldn’t she be able to do that with her own mother?

Tara sat in the silent kitchen, feeling deflated and sad.

Your father loved you, her mother had said.

Yeah, right. That was her first reaction. She forced herself to be more positive. He loved you in his own way.