Lemon Reef (10 page)

“Oh no,” I said. “I find Margaret far more intimidating than Sanders.”

Bea chuckled. “Good point. Okay, I'll review the record and let you know what I decide.”

We hung up just as another call was coming in.

“Where are you?” Gail demanded.

“We're in your parking lot. Where are
you
?”

“I'm here.” She was clearly irritated. “In my apartment.” There was a brief pause as she realized, “Oh, uh, I've been in the bathroom. I guess I lost track of the time.”

“You were in the bathroom all this time?” Katie's eyes popped open. “We're coming in.” Classic, I thought. She thinks
we're
keeping
her
waiting.

I hung up the phone and looked at my watch. “Over an hour.” To Katie, “What the fuck was she doing in there?”

Our sudden outburst of laughter was disproportionate to the instance at hand. We were laughing about a lifetime of situations similar to this one. Gail behaved like an infant when it came to the demands of time or to necessary frustrations—that is, she just ignored them. Saturday morning soccer games were when we felt it most. Eight a.m. at the regular meeting place, all present and accounted for, except for Gail. The next leg of the journey invariably involved climbing into the van and driving to Gail's house to find her still asleep, or in the middle of breakfast and unwilling to hurry, or in the bathroom. As we waited, eyes rolled and sarcastic remarks flew in rapid succession, swiping every topic from how much she was eating to her preoccupation with masturbation.

Del and I would sit next to each other, playing some word game or delighting in some inside joke, surfers slipped casually under the seat, bare feet furtively touching, the contact either making up for the feeling of having been separated all night or acknowledging having been together all night. The coach, usually in a huff, stormed the front door, and Gail emerged in various stages of dress, dropping a sock here and a cleat there, exaggerating her oohing and aahing as she stepped lightly to protect the overly tender undersides of her bare feet from small, smooth pebbles and overnight-cooled cement.

*

Gail opened the door. My eyes rested easily and appreciatively upon her mousey brown hair and squat figure.

“Glad to see you still have both legs,” I said, referring to the mole. I entered the house as if it were my own, tossed my stuff down on the floor in the living room, and went to get a glass of water. She followed me with a deliberate gaze, more welcoming than not.

The kitchen was small but well appointed, with granite countertops and new appliances. On the refrigerator was a photo of Gail, Katie, and me. We must have been twelve or thirteen. We were on the pool deck at my parents' motel. We were sitting on lounge chairs like ladies, a soccer ball nestled into the space between us, our skin reddish-brown from the sun. Our pubescent bodies were angular and taut, with our bikinis and flat chests, our feathered hair and smirks for smiles. I left the photo and went in search of a water glass. Gail entered the kitchen and found me one.

Filling the cup, I asked, “What took you so long?”

With an impish grin, she said, “When?”

“Before, in the bathroom?”

Katie was standing by the kitchen pass-through. She ran her hand through her hair, her facial expression and body language strongly conveying she didn't want to hear the answer to that question.

“It's my condition,” Gail said.

“What condition?”

“Dry tip.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“I'm serious,” Gail said. “Milk makes the tips of my shit dry.”

Katie and I exchanged looks, simultaneously abandoned all attempts at holding back, and laughed until we cried. When the laughter subsided, I became concerned with being held hostage to Gail's bodily preoccupations all week and demanded, “I want a key!” Katie, in sympathy with me, laughed harder. This was us at fourteen all over again—finding the harshest things about each other the most hilarious. Then the laughter subsided, as if we all suddenly remembered why I was there, and the room filled with an awkward silence that drew us to attention.

Katie helped herself to a Diet Coke from Gail's fridge and tried to get us to focus. “What do we do now? I feel like we should do something.”

We moved to the living room, a rectangular space decorated in shades of mauve and gray with a sloped ceiling. The room was furnished with a matching leather couch and chair, a chrome-and-glass coffee table, and a big-screen television with a bookshelf built around it. One wall was sliding glass doors that led out to a patio.

I looked first at Katie and then at Gail. “If you guys are really worried about Khila, I should go see Del's family.”

Gail had taken a seat at the dining room table. She nodded agreeably, and then, as if suddenly realizing I'd said something different than what she thought I'd said, stared blankly at me. “Their house? Are you kid…?” She paused, thought about it. Plainly, she said, “You can't go to
their
house
.”

I met her eyes challengingly, lifted my hands, palms up, to say there weren't a lot of options.

Gail insisted, “Jenna, you can't just go talk to them. You can't go to that house.”

“Why not?” Without giving her a chance to answer, I said, “What were you expecting would happen when you called me about Khila? I need to talk to Del's family.” I said this emphatically, while privately recalling the shotgun Pascale had greeted me with in our last encounter. I pushed the image from my mind. “If you want me to go to the police or Child Protective Services and make some kind of case for them to investigate whether Talon's a suitable parent, then I need more information.”

“You can't go to Pascale's house,” Gail said, she and Katie exchanging a look I didn't understand. “You're not welcome there.” Gail was sitting in a straight-back chair, leaning her broad shoulders and large breasts forward. “I'm serious, Jenna. They'll hurt you.” Her hands pushed down on the air for emphasis.

“I've never understood why,” Katie said more calmly, “but Pascale always blamed you for Del's problems.”

My head jolted in her direction. “What?” I was nodding slowly and trying not to spiral into a fury. “So was I the problem before or after Pascale's daily binges and beatings?”

*

The first time I was present for one of these binge-and-beat episodes, the fight had started over then nine-year-old Nicole not liking her dinner. It was enough—aided by several beers—to tilt the already-leaning Pascale over some invisible edge and send her into an injured rage. Ida and Nicole disappeared into their room, while Del, only fourteen years old, placed herself between her mother and the fleeing girls and tried to tell Pascale there wasn't anything to get so angry about. When reason failed, Del resorted to provocation to ignite Pascale to get whatever this was over with. Stepping in this way was not exactly a conscious thing on Del's part—no more so than the use of one's blinker while driving, or the placement of one's fingers on the piano keys while playing a well-practiced piece.

“Mom, you're drunk.” Del moved her body sideways to prevent Pascale from entering the hallway in the direction of Ida and Nicole's room. Twenty-two-month-old Sid was screaming from his high chair. Del glanced in my direction and said, “Can you get him?”

As I lifted Sid from his chair, I heard Pascale, her tone one of thinning restraint, her accent accentuated from rage. “Move. Get out of my way, Del. Get out of my fucking way.” Pascale's thin, muscular figure angled to get past, her focus set on Nicole's bedroom door. “No matter what I do for you kids, it's not enough.”

I held Sid and rocked him, and he quieted some.

Del nodded her head and steadied her eyes. Her expression impassive, she said, “Why do you have to drink? This is why my father left you—and us.” I backed up from where I was standing, tripping over one of Sid's toys as I butted up against the television set. Sid was watching Del and his mother, his black eyes still and frightened.

Silence, as if Pascale was translating for herself what Del had just said to her, then an explosion: “That son of a bitch didn't leave me. I threw
him
out.” Pascale lunged, seized hold of a fistful of Del's hair, and yanked. Del's head seemed momentarily detached and flying through space, arching up and over, the rest of her body dangling like the string from an accidentally let-loose helium balloon. I was stunned and then repulsed by the sickeningly comical nature of the image. Sid started screaming again.

Pascale slammed Del into the wall, yelling threats in Spanish, French, and English—whichever language came quickest to her. She punched and slapped at Del's head and face repeatedly. Del yelled for her to stop and tried pushing Pascale away, resorting finally to crouching down to the floor and folding over in order to protect her face and body from the salvo of flying fists and clawing nails. Pascale came to an abrupt halt, as if she'd forgotten what she was doing. She had a disoriented look and she was breathing hard; she was trying to catch her breath.

Del was curled up against the wall with her arms covering her head. The sudden stillness drew Del out; she peeked up to see if it was over. Pascale said something in French under her breath. Del covered her face again as Pascal cranked back her leg, the image of the cranking leg mimicked—caricatured—by its shadow, cast against the near wall. I could see coming what Del could not, yelled, “No,” as Pascale uncoiled, ramming the pointed toe of her shoe into Del's side. Del folded in on herself and howled. Sid screamed.

Pascale looked around, as if to see where the noise was coming from. When she saw my face and Sid's her own sobered momentarily, as if she'd forgotten we were there. I couldn't tell if it was regret or maybe shame at having behaved this way in front of a guest or at all, or just exhaustion, but Pascale suddenly turned and said, “Fuck it. I don't need any of you.” She stumbled about for her keys, her departure underscored by the sound of a slamming door. The cold December air rushed in and then evaporated.

I was standing there, stunned as much by the rapidity of the scene as the violence. Del lay doubled over on the floor, back to the wall, hair in tangles, nose running, face soaked with tears and snot and spit—and blood. She was sobbing, holding her side and making these small noises that struck me as similar to the noises she made when I fondled her. As I told myself this was one of those times when you're supposed to comfort someone, I was struck by the disgust I felt toward Del in that moment. Holding Sid tighter, I inched closer to where she lay. Del stood up, ignored us, threw her frazzled hair back, and disappeared into the hallway. Sid reached after her, still crying. The bathroom door closed emphatically behind her, the light emanating from the bathroom shrinking to black behind the sound as it shut.

Some moments later, Del's silhouette reemerged with her composure restored. She opened the door to the younger kids' room and, without looking in, announced lightly, “She's gone.”

Del came out to the living room. I could tell by her uneasy expression and downcast eyes she was dreading having to face me. But when she saw me she recognized
me
, and I sensed she regained hope and felt relieved to have me there with her.

Rather than comfort or reassure Del, I yelled. “Why did you provoke her like that?”

Del's face fell. She backed away into the hallway and said, “Just go home.” She disappeared into her room and closed the door.

I tried to go in behind her, but the door was locked. I put Sid down and knocked. “Del,” I said, “open it. Open the door.” I knocked more.

Sid had his hand on my leg and was peeking at Del's door from behind me. Ida and Nicole came out of their room. Nicole disappeared toward the kitchen and reappeared with a paper clip she had untwisted into a piece of straight metal. She pushed me out of the way and slipped the metal into a little hole at the center of the doorknob. A quick click sounded and the door opened. Del lay on her back on her bed, a tissue inside her nose red from new blood. Sid ran to the bed to see her. Ida ran behind him, scooped him up and took him out.

Del sat up, wincing at the pain in her side. “Get out.” I stared at her. “Get out of here.” She began pounding her feet on her bed and crying harder, the blood gushing more. She looked at me and screamed, “I don't want you to see me like this.”

The gouges in her face, the blood running onto her lips, the swelling already noticeable under her eye, all I could think to do was what she asked me to do. I backed up and closed her door.

The plan had been for me to sleep over as I usually did on weekends. We spent our nights at Del's house, because her father was gone more and more and Pascale was either working at a night job or so plastered by midnight that the house could've burned down and she wouldn't know it. Del was reluctant to sleep out; she didn't want to leave her sisters and brother alone. Having no intention of leaving Del alone, I joined Ida, Nicole, and Sid in the living room. The girls and I played cards for a long time. Sid played with his trucks, moving them around and making
rrr, rrr
sounds. At some point, the four of us fell asleep on the living room floor watching an Elvis movie that was mostly static and snow because the reception was poor. Sometime around one or two, I woke up and went to Del's room. She was in bed reading. She didn't say anything to me, but she did move closer to the wall to make room for me beside her.

I was lying on my side staring at her pinup of Robert Plant when Del finally started talking to me.

“It wasn't always like this,” she said softly. “My mother has a kind of amazing history. Did you know that Pascale is part Canadian Indian? Her tribe was Cree. Crazy Horse is her great-grandfather.”

“What?” I turned over and looked at her. “Was she drinking when she told you that?”