Crystal Caves (8 page)

“And you sound like a broken record. You used to say that to me when I came to Greece, and you’re saying it now. You simply do not appreciate what I do for you.”

I cross my arms. It feels like I’m holding the pain inside so that it won’t crush me. “What do you do for me?”

She tilts her head, as if I’ve asked her a question in a foreign language. “Look at how you’re dressed,” she says, then raises her eyebrows a little. “Well, that’s probably not a good example, since you clearly haven’t been listening. But you don’t want for anything. You’re in the best school in the country—and believe you me, it cost a fortune to get you in there. Everyone in this city would love to live like you do.
Everyone
. I don’t even question your expenditures like I question the boys’.”

(She doesn’t question the boys’ expenditures. I know she doesn’t. I’ve talked about it with E and Danny and Fabe and Gordon.)

“You are now being raised in complete privilege, instead of some filthy mountaintop with delusional people who procreate like rabbits. Your life is so much better now than it ever was.”

She crosses her arms too. I know we look alike. Everyone says so, and for once, I can see it in our posture. It makes me want to drop my arms, but I don’t. I want her to see it. I want her to know she’s connected to me, whether she wants to be or not.

“No, my life isn’t better,” I say. “It’s worse. I want to go home.”

“I’d love to send you there, but your family doesn’t use modern technology. I can’t call your father and I can’t reach anyone else I’ve met in Greece.” Mother sighs, as if it’s all my fault. “I tried to talk with Megan about this, but she says that we’re not to have contact with those people until the winter holidays. In other words, she won’t facilitate it. Owen’s had his staff try to find a way to contact them as well, but your family is off the grid. So, we’re stuck with each other until then.”

Your family. Stuck. Stuck. Your family.

The words swirl in my head, along with other words, words I can’t seem to get enough air to say.

Something about
family
—her family,
your
family—and the fact that I call her Mother, because we supposedly have a relationship. Because…

“Why did you even have me?” I ask. I’m not talking about bringing me here. I’m talking about giving birth to me. It seems that the nine-month commitment she made to carry me was the longest commitment she ever made to me.

She uncrosses her arms. Then she wipes the fingers of her right hand over her mouth, and looks down. I’ve never seen her unsure of herself before, but suddenly she is.

“Don’t ask me that,” she says softly.

“I
am
asking,” I say. “I’ve
already
asked.”

She raises her head. That angry expression is gone from her face. Instead, there’s something else, something…scared? Vulnerable? I suddenly realize I don’t know her well enough to tell what, exactly, that emotion is.

“Your father insisted,” she says.

“
What?
” The only story I heard was that he showed up in the delivery room because I’d turned it back into a womb the moment I was born. Like he hadn’t been there at all before that moment.

“Your father showed up at my first appointment, where I asked the doctor to get rid…I mean, I asked how much it would cost to…”

She isn’t finishing her sentences, but I know what she means. She was asking how much it would cost to abort me.

“Your dad barged in. He wasn’t there and then he was, and he told the doctor that no one would mess with me. Then he pulled me outside, and he said if I ever tried anything like that again, he’d lock me up in a room like he’d done to one of his other girlfriends.” She looks pale. “I believed him.”

Daddy made her have me? Why would he do that?

“That womb story? It’s not true?”

“I don’t know if it’s true,” she snaps. “I was hallucinating after you were born. It was a good story to tell in Greece, when all those other mothers had weird stories. I saw a womb, and I think the doctors humored me. But that’s not why I gave you to your father.”

“You were planning to all along,” I whisper.

“You’re his, not mine,” she says. “And it’s time you understand that.”

SIX

MY LEGS WON’T hold me anymore. I manage two steps off the rug and sink onto a couch that’s as uncomfortable as it looks. Every part of me aches.

I know she doesn’t want me, so why does her actually saying it hurt so much? Because she cares so very little about me that it doesn’t matter how she talks to me?

Because she’s being honest?

“I could have told you that if you’d only consulted with me before volunteering me for this awful program you and your therapist designed,” Mother continues, apparently oblivious to my reaction. “I could have told you there was no point in coming here. I did tell Megan, after things got underway, but she said that I would learn to appreciate you.”

Mother laughs. She
laughs
, like this is all one big joke.

“No one appreciates teenage girls,” she says. “I could have told Megan that, and probably should have, but she was a teenage girl once. She should have remembered what it was like.”

My mouth is dry, but my eyes are wet. I pick at my skirt, head bent.

“So I told myself that I could at least teach you what the real world is like,” Mother says. “I can do that much. We are related, after all. And I figured it wouldn’t hurt the boys to learn they have a sister.”

I am not going to wipe at my face. I’m not. But I can’t look up at her either.

“But you don’t like me,” Mother says, “and I’m not that fond of you.”

The words slice into me. I can’t look at her. I’m afraid she’ll see how I’m feeling.

I didn’t want things to go this way. I
didn’t
. I had hopes…

I swallow hard, but don’t say anything. Mother is doing all the talking.

“So,” she continues without changing her tone, “now that we have our cards on the table, let us agree that we will get through these next few months and then go on our separate ways, all right?”

I’m dizzy. Lightheaded and dizzy. Maybe I’m not breathing. I make myself focus. In. Out. Yes, I’m breathing. But I’m still dizzy.

“
Crystal
.” Mother’s voice sounds like the snap of a towel. “Let’s make an agreement—”

“I heard you the first time,” I say, and dammit, I sound tearful and miserable. I don’t want to, and if I still had my magic, I’d spell my voice so that it would sound normal.

Hell, I wouldn’t do that. I’d turn my mother into—what? What was the worst thing she could be?

I let out a sound. I don’t even know her well enough to know what kind of shape-shift would horrify her the most.

“Oh.” Mother breathes that word out, and she sounds disappointed, like I’ve done something wrong. I find it ironic that I recognize that tone in her voice already.

She sighs heavily, like I’ve put her out or something. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

People mean that when they say it, and they sound concerned. She doesn’t sound concerned. She sounds annoyed. I’ve put her out by being “upset.”

“I know we agree here,” she says, “and I’m sorry if I’m being too blunt, but—”

“How do you know we agree?” I’ve raised my head. Something runs down my left cheek, but I’m not going to swipe at it. “I actually thought we had a relationship—”

“We do, darling,” Mother says. “I’m your mother.”

“You’re not my mother,” I snap. “I’ve seen dogs be better mothers than you. You’ve turned me away at every chance. Why? Because I’m a girl?”

She tilts her head. “I forget sometimes how young you are.”

But of course she hasn’t, because she just accused me of being a difficult teenage girl.

She sighs again. I’m beginning to hate that sound.

“My sons, Crystal, come from love. They’re a part of a great relationship, and even though Ethan’s father is no longer in the picture, I adored him when we made Ethan. You’ll understand that one day—”

“So I’m worthless because you didn’t love my father?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.” She’s frowning. “You’re twisting my words in quite an ugly fashion.”

“You did say that.” I stand up. “Repeatedly. I’m not a person to you. I’m a mistake, a burden, something you don’t want, and have repeatedly rejected. I get the message. No matter how hard you try to get rid of me, you can’t. So why don’t I just move out and save you the burden of dealing with me?”

“And do what, Crystal?” Her voice is dry, her expression flat. “You have no idea how to survive in this city, and I’m legally responsible for you.”

“You just said you weren’t.” I’m trying not to sound desperate or confused or even angry, but I’m failing at all of it.

“Actually, I am,” she says. “I’ve given you a home here, and we’ve made certain your identification lists me as your parent, and I’m on your birth certificate, after all. The City of New York would look askance if I let you live on your own, with your level of knowledge and your ability to survive in the real world.”

“You mean the paparazzi and the press would have a field day,” I say.

She inclines her head. “That too.”

“Maybe I should go to them and just tell them everything.” I know that threat has worked in every movie I’ve ever seen.

But Mother doesn’t look too concerned. “Darling, they’ll just think you crazy. You’ll be the crazy child of the Wright family, and then the rumors will start that no one has seen you because you’ve been institutionalized, and when they try to track you down, they won’t be able to find anything about you, so that’ll lend credence to the institutionalization story, and then Owen and I will get all kinds of credit for trying to socialize you. It won’t work to your advantage at all.”

I stare at her. I’ve been around powerful, self-involved people my entire life, and I understand how they threaten. Some, like my father, are full of bluster and bluntness. But many, like my father’s wife Hera, are subtler. They say things that sound perfectly reasonable, but you know they’re a real threat.

My mother, the woman who is supposed to love and cherish me (if movies are to be believed), just threatened to tell the press that I’ve been in an institution all my life, and if I tell anyone about my real upbringing, she will see to it that I’m institutionalized “again.”

At least until the winter holidays.

And I’ve seen the movies, like
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
and
Girl, Interrupted
, and
Twelve Monkeys,
and I don’t ever, ever, ever want to go into those institutions.

“You’d do that,” I say softly.

“Do what, darling?” she asks.

“Institutionalize me,” I say.

She gives me a patronizing look. “See, this is why you’re not doing well in my world. I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.” My voice is flat, even though another tear escapes from my left eye. “I got the message.”

Her eyes lower for just a moment, taking in the droplets hanging off my chin, and then her gaze meets mine.

“Good,” she says. And in that one word, all of the pretend has vanished. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

I won’t break from that gaze. I want her to look away first, but she’s not. She’s just staring at me.

Finally, she gives me a tiny smile. It doesn’t move her frozen cheeks at all.

“The winter holidays aren’t that far away,” she says. “We can put up with each other for that long.”

“And then we’re done,” I say.

“Yes,” she replies calmly. “And then we’re done.”

SEVEN

I WALKED OUT of that room first, down the hall, and into the dining room. I ate dinner, even though I don’t remember what I ate, although I do remember the way E looked at me, like he was trying to figure me out or something.

Danny and Fabe dominated the conversation, and Owen chimed in once or twice, but Mother didn’t say anything.

She didn’t look at me either.

I couldn’t look at the city or stare at my reflection in the windows. I just had to get through the meal, and I did.

Then I went to my room.

Where I am now, heart pounding. Part of me still feels like running, but Mother’s right. What’ll happen next? At least in this city. She and Owen are big deals here, and that could backfire on me.

Tiff says I never consider the consequences, but I am right now.

And I’m done. I’ve had it with everything.

I glance at the bed that’s always been too big for me, the room that is more than I need, the bathroom that is some kind of religious experience, and I realize I can do a bunch of things.

I can collapse in tears on the bed, sobbing because Mother treated me badly. But then, where would that get me? She’s always treated me badly. It’s my fault for expecting her to be something other than what she always is.