What She Left Behind (4 page)

“You’re welcome,” Ruth said. Then, without another word, she picked up her spoon and started eating again, her pearl-drop earrings swinging beside her pale neck.

The veins in Clara’s neck throbbed as if about to burst. So this was how it was going to be. They were going to take one look at Bruno and make a decision about him. Was it because of his clothes, his job, or his accent and bronzed skin? She clenched her hands in her lap, digging her fingernails into her palms.

Clara had told Bruno that her father would be impressed by his quick climb up the ladder, even if it was only at the local seaport. She thought her father would be surprised that Bruno had already saved enough money to lease an apartment. He was saving toward investments too, hoping to buy into the stock market. She had said Henry would be happy to advise him, to give him tips and possibly the name of a trustworthy investor to steer him in the right direction. Now, she berated herself for being so stupid and blind. What was she thinking, bringing Bruno here?

Her mind raced, trying to come up with a way to escape, to put an early end to this disastrous dinner. She pretended to eat her soup, her stomach churning. She wondered what Bruno was thinking. Could he see that she was distraught? Did he know that if she’d had any idea her parents would react this way, she never would have asked him to come? Or does he think it was all a setup? She could feel her chest and neck getting hotter and hotter, her cheeks starting to burn. Then, suddenly, her father spoke.

“I’m trying to understand something,” he said, looking directly at Bruno for the first time. He paused and rested his arm on the table, one finger pointing at Bruno. “What is your last name, by the way?”

“It’s Moretti, sir,” Bruno said. “Bruno Moretti. I was named after my late father.”

“Hmm,” Henry said, lifting his chin. “And what did your father do in Italy?”

“He was a shoemaker. A very good one, sir.”

“I see,” Henry said. “So your father was a shoemaker, and you work down on the docks? Down at the South Street Seaport?”

“Yes, sir,” Bruno said, the slightest hint of a smile playing at his lips.

Clara felt her heart lift just the tiniest of degrees. She inhaled, her first deep breath since Bruno had appeared at their door. Her father was talking to Bruno. It was the first step.

“And how much do you make working down on the docks?” Henry said.

“Father!” Clara said. “You always said it’s impolite to ask people about their personal finances.”

Henry considered Clara, frowning. “I’m assuming Bruno is here because he’s interested in courting my daughter,” he said. “In which case, I have a right to ask whatever I want.”

“It’s all right,” Bruno said to Clara. He smiled and directed his attention to Henry. “I make enough to have my own apartment, Mr. Cartwright. And I’ve already been promoted to foreman.”

“And where is this apartment?” Henry said.

“On Mulberry Street, sir,” Bruno said.

“In Little Italy?” Henry said.

“Yes, sir,” Bruno said.

Henry muttered under his breath, then wiped a hand over his mustache. “My daughter is used to fine things,” he said. “Do you really think you’d be able to take care of her properly on a longshoreman’s salary?”

“Maybe not yet, sir,” Bruno said. “But I’m working my way up and—”

“Working your way up to what? Do you aspire to be a shoemaker like your father? My daughter can’t live on my charity forever, you know. I hope that’s not what you were counting on.”

Clara gaped at Bruno, her heart dropping like an anvil in her chest. Bruno’s face fell and he stared at the table, his temples working in and out. But he averted his eyes for only a second. Without missing a beat, he lifted his chin and looked her father in the eye.

“With all due respect, sir, your daughter told me that before you went into the banking business, you sold shoes for a living. Quite possibly the very shoes my father is famous for. Moretti Salvatore?”

To Clara’s surprise, her father blanched. He sat back and cleared his throat. “I’ve never heard the name.”

“Could that be because they only sold the lower-end shoes where you worked, sir?” Bruno said. “My father’s shoes are only sold in expensive specialty boutiques.”

Clara bit down on her lip, trying to suppress her laughter. She’d never seen anyone make her father flustered. But her amusement was short-lived. She should have known no one could embarrass Henry Cartwright and get away with it.

“If your father was a famous shoe designer,” Henry said, “what are you doing here, in America, working on the docks for your supper?”

Bruno pressed his lips together, his cheeks turning red. Then he cleared his throat and said, “My father passed away last year. My uncle and older brother took over the business. Unfortunately, there is much truth to the saying that business and family don’t mix. My brother and I did not get along. To keep the peace, I left. Besides, I’ve always dreamed of living in America. I came here to prove myself. I know I can make it on my own because I’m strong and determined, just like my father.”

Henry leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. “Well then,” he said. “I think you should prove it to yourself first, before you try to come here and prove it to me. Because so far, I’m not impressed.”

Claire dropped her spoon in her bowl, the heavy silver clanking against the gold-rimmed china. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m sorry, Bruno,” she said. “Forgive me for putting you through this. I had no idea my parents were this closed-minded. If I had, I never would have tried to introduce you to them. We should have had dinner at your apartment, like we normally do on Friday nights.”

Ruth gasped, the color draining from her cheeks. She put a hand to her throat, her lips working like a dying fish.

“It’s all right,” Bruno said. “I understand. Your father has concerns . . .”

“No,” Clara said. “Trust me, it’s too late for any kind of understanding. Please, let’s just go.”

Bruno stood and Clara went around the table to take his hand. Without looking back, she led him out of the dining room. Behind them, Henry shouted and cursed, telling her to turn around and come back that very second. Clara ignored him.

That was nearly a month ago. Three days later, her parents told her about the arranged marriage to James. She hadn’t been allowed out of the house since. She had no idea if Bruno had come looking for her, because she hadn’t been allowed to answer the door or the phone, and the help had been instructed to not tell her who had come to call. Now, in the study, her mother stared at her.

“Please show me the proper respect,” Ruth said. “You know I’ve always wanted nothing but the best for you. I want you to marry James because he’s a good man.”

“But he’s not! He’s—”

“He’ll take care of you and keep you fed and clothed, living in a nice house,” Ruth said. “He’ll give you the kind of life you’re accustomed to!”

“Believe it or not, Mother,” Clara said, failing to hide her disgust, “not everyone marries for money. Some people marry for love.”

“Do not speak to your mother that way!” Henry said, his jowls shaking.

But it was too late. Something had come undone in Clara’s brain. Once she started speaking her mind, she couldn’t stop. It was as if years of frustration and anger came boiling out all at once. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” she said to Ruth. “You’d rather have jewelry and a nice house than your family together and happy.”

“That’s not true!” Ruth said, a wounded look in her eyes. “How can you be so mean and hurtful when you know what I’ve been through? Your brother would have never spoken to me this way! No wonder he left. He was probably afraid of sharing the business with you.”

“He didn’t leave because of me!” Clara said. “He left because Father fired him and you didn’t stand up for him. I’m sorry, but sometimes I think you’d step over your dead son to pick up a dollar on the street.”

Henry charged around the desk, his hands in fists. “You apologize, young lady!” he said, his lips twitching. “You’re marrying James in September and that’s the end of it!”

Clara felt something shift inside her head, something solid and final, like the closing of a heavy door. For years she’d stood by and let them run her life, from telling her what to wear, to what courses she should take in school. Her mother instructed the maid to perform weekly checks of Clara’s room, to make sure she wasn’t hiding cigarettes or alcohol. Henry took away “inappropriate” library books and wouldn’t allow Clara to take piano lessons because it was improper. He told her how to spend her allowance, returning dresses he didn’t approve of. Clara wasn’t sure if it was a mother’s instinct kicking in or something else, but she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why?” she cried. “Why do you want to marry me off so bad? Is it because James’s family is rich and you won’t have to support me any longer? Or is it to secure the business, to make sure James’s father will always be your partner?”

Henry grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his thick fingers digging into her flesh. “You can’t talk to me like that!” he said, his eyes blazing with fury. Clara could tell he was struggling, trying not to throw her across the room.

She glared at her mother. “How can you just stand there and let him do this to me?” she said. “How can you choose your husband over your children? I know this is what he did to William! I know he beat up his own son. And you did nothing!”

“Don’t you dare bring William into this!” her mother said.

“Why not?” Clara said. “You let Father ruin him, why not me?”

Ruth put her thin wrist to her forehead and fell into the settee. Henry released his grip and rushed over to his wife, kneeling at her side.

“Look what you’ve done!” he said, giving Clara a scorching look. “You made your mother cry!”

Clara stared at her parents, years of suppressed anger swelling in her chest. “William did everything for you,” she said. “He worked day and night, by your side, for years. He gave up everything just to prove himself. But it was never enough, was it? You could never give him your approval because it meant you’d have to give him what he deserved!”

With that, her father stood, charged across the room, and slapped Clara across the face. She reeled sideways, found her footing, and put a hand to her throbbing cheek, blinking through her tears.

“What did he do?” she snarled, holding her father’s stare. “What did he do that was so horrible to make you stop loving him?”

“I’m warning you,” her father said. “One more word and I’ll—”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. “You thought you owned him because he worked for you. You treated him like a slave while you raked in the money. He finally had enough and stood up for himself. But you couldn’t handle it, so you threw him out on the street!” She glared at her mother. “And you let him do it! You never asked William’s side of the story. You didn’t even bother to find out if he had a place to live, if he had anything to eat!”

“Stop talking, right now!” Henry bellowed. “Before you regret it!”

“I don’t regret anything,” Clara said. “The only thing I regret is not seeing the truth about you sooner.”

Henry hurried back around his desk, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed. He stared at his crying wife, waiting for the other end to pick up, his face crimson, his jowls trembling. The light from the chandelier reflected in the sweat on his forehead. Clara turned to leave. If she left, she’d be penniless. If she stayed, she’d be trapped. There was no other answer. She put her hand on the door handle.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” her father said into the phone. “This is Henry Cartwright. I need you to send someone over here right away. I’m afraid we have a situation on our hands.” Clara paused at the door, waiting to hear what her father said next. “It’s my daughter, Clara. We believe she’s having some kind of episode.”

Clara yanked open the door and ran out of the room.

CHAPTER 3

I
ZZY

 

Izzy carried her backpack slung over one shoulder, her thumb hooked through the thick strap, trying to find the senior class homeroom. The hallways of her new school were crowded and the other students hurried past in their haste to get to their lockers, listening to Walkmans, laughing and talking with their friends. Like all schools, the halls smelled like a strange mixture of sweat, bubble gum, and pencil shavings. Lakeshore High was one of the smallest schools she’d ever attended, with only seven hundred and sixty-five students in ninth through twelfth grades. She wondered if a small school would be easier, or harder, to fit into.

That morning, she’d dressed in a black, long-sleeved T-shirt with jean shorts and black Converse. Now, she noticed that nearly all the girls were in ripped jeans and heels, or miniskirts and Doc Marten boots. She looked at the forms in her hand, her stomach in knots. Was she supposed to give the paper with her name and information to her homeroom teacher, or the school nurse? Or maybe the one with her foster parents’ names and numbers was supposed to go to the school nurse. And was she supposed to give the one with her class schedule to her teacher or keep it for herself? She couldn’t remember.

Finally, she saw the name “Mr. Hudson” on a door and headed toward it, trying not to bump into anyone. Just then, someone shouted and two guys ran through the crowd, one in a Doors T-shirt, the other with braces and red hair. The redhead bumped into her, nearly knocking her into the lockers. She spun around and dropped her information forms, her hair flying over her eyes, her backpack slipping from her shoulder. The redhead laughed, said he was sorry, and hurried away. She pushed her hair out of her face and searched the tiled floor, where her papers were being torn and crumpled beneath sneakers and sandals and heels.

Finally, there was an opening in the crowd. Izzy stepped in front of a group of kids and knelt to snatch the papers from between rushing feet, trying not to get stepped on. When she reached for the last form, someone picked it up. She stood, ready for a chase.

“Hey!” she said.

“Just trying to help,” a guy said, handing her the paper. His light blue eyes were nearly silver, his hair the purplish black of a raven.

“Thanks,” she said, feeling blood warm her cheeks.

“No problem,” he said, smiling. He was hanging on to his girlfriend’s hand, even though she was still moving. Then his girlfriend stopped and laughed, glancing over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Her hair was blond and long, her legs smooth and tanned. She looked cool and pretty and amused, the kind of girl, Izzy knew, she herself would never be. Raven Boy’s girlfriend glanced at Izzy with little interest, then yanked on his hand, pulling him forward. He shrugged and disappeared into the crowd.

Izzy smoothed the wrinkled papers with her fingers, trying not to smudge the ink. She found the one she needed, shoved the others in her backpack, and followed the other students into homeroom. Stuffed and mounted animal skins lined the walls: beaver, rabbits, a fox, a muskrat, a crow, and a pheasant. Jars filled with pig embryos lined the shelves above the windows, and a faint hint of formaldehyde filled the air. Mr. Hudson sat reading a book at his desk while the students talked and laughed, sitting on desks and the backs of chairs. A group of kids with black hair, black clothes, tattoos, and multiple piercings sat near the rear of the room. The boys who bumped into Izzy earlier were dropping water balloons out the windows. A group of jocks and cheerleaders sat near the windows, their arms draped around each other.

Izzy grit her teeth and walked over to Mr. Hudson’s desk, her stomach doing flip-flops. She didn’t understand why she was so nervous. She’d been the new kid before. Four times, as a matter of fact. After her mother was put in jail, she moved to another town to live with her grandmother, where she had to start over in a new school. Three years later, after her grandmother died, Izzy was put into foster care and had to change schools going into fifth grade. Two years after that, her foster father put his wife in the hospital after a drunken argument. That night, Izzy was moved to a different foster home. The next day she had to start seventh grade at a new school. When her second set of foster parents moved to another state, she was moved yet again, going into her freshman year, this time to a home with an alcoholic mother. For three years, Izzy did her best to take care of the two other kids, one the biological seven-year-old son, the other a ten-year-old girl in the system. When their foster mother was too drunk to function, Izzy cooked and made sure the other kids had clean clothes to wear to school. The day before Izzy finished her junior year, her foster mother drove the family minivan into a lake and drowned. A week later, Izzy was sent to Peg and Harry’s. So, when it came to being the new kid, she knew the drill.

But this year was different for a number of reasons. Fitting in would be tougher than usual because most kids in a senior class have been together since junior high. At least on her first day at her last school, she’d been a new freshman like everyone else. Being the new kid in a senior class felt like crashing a private party.

Now, she held out the form from the office, waiting for Mr. Hudson to look up and take it. She felt the other students glancing curiously toward the front of the room, then nudging each other, pointing and staring. The teacher kept his head down, reading his book. Little by little, the laughing and conversation faded.

“Hey, nice backpack!” a male voice yelled. “You going hiking?”

Everyone laughed. Izzy felt her face growing hot. What was wrong with her backpack? She cleared her throat to get Mr. Hudson’s attention. Just then, a wrapped condom hit her in the head and fell to the floor. She looked at her new classmates. A group of girls giggled and turned away. One of the girls was Raven Boy’s girlfriend. Raven Boy stared at her, searching her face. Was that coldness or pity in his eyes? It was hard to tell. Izzy put her information on the desk, picked the condom up off the floor, and held it out to the teacher. He finally looked up.

“I think this is for you,” Izzy said. Everyone laughed.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Mr. Hudson said, his forehead furrowed.

“No,” Izzy said. “I was just standing here waiting to give you my papers, and someone threw this at you. They hit me with it instead.”

Mr. Hudson took the condom, threw it in the garbage, and stood. “Okay, everybody,” he said. “Settle down and take your seats.” He took the paper from Izzy, read it, then addressed the class. “This is Isabelle Stone. Make her feel welcome, please.” He looked at Izzy. “Sit wherever you’d like.”

Izzy scanned the room for a seat. The only empty desk was in the back corner, on the far end of the classroom. She slid her backpack from her shoulder and headed toward the windows, intending to walk along the edge of the desks instead of through the middle. Then she realized that, to get to the empty seat, she had to walk past Raven Boy and his girlfriend. For a second, she thought about turning around and going the other way. But it would have been too obvious. She kept going. Halfway down the aisle, she passed Raven Boy and his girlfriend. Then, one of the guys put his sneakered foot on the windowsill, blocking her way.

“Excuse me,” she said, forcing a smile.

“What’s your name again?” the guy said. He was good looking, with clear skin and thick, blond bangs pushed to one side above blue eyes.

“Isabelle,” she said, trying to sound friendly. “But everyone calls me Izzy.”

“Izzy?” the guy said. “Like Izzy Pop?”

“No,” Izzy said. “That’s Iggy Pop.”

“Mr. Anderson!” Mr. Hudson barked from the front of the room. “Is this how we’re going to start the year?”

“I’m just introducing myself,” the guy said. “Making Izzy Pop feel welcome, like you said.”

Everyone laughed. Izzy felt her neck and chest welting up.

“Don’t be a jerk, Luke,” someone said behind her.

Izzy turned to see who had spoken. It was Raven Boy.

“Let her by,” he said to Luke. Raven Boy’s girlfriend slapped his arm, scowling at him. He ignored her.

Luke let his foot drop and winked at Izzy. “If you need someone to show you around,” he said, smirking, “I’m your man.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said, and went to her desk.

This is starting out well,
she thought, sliding into her seat.
And I’ve been here, what, five minutes?

During roll call, Izzy learned Raven Boy’s name was Ethan Black, and his girlfriend’s name was Shannon Mackenzie. Izzy surveyed the other kids while Mr. Hudson talked about fund-raisers, prom committees, and class elections. One of the girls sitting next to Shannon—her name was Crystal—glanced back at Izzy, then leaned over and whispered something in Shannon’s ear. They looked over their shoulders and laughed. When another girl—if Izzy remembered correctly, her name was Nicole—looked at Shannon with questioning eyes, Shannon whispered in her ear. The three of them stared back at Izzy, grinning as if sharing a private joke.

Izzy dug her nails into her palms, fighting the urge to flip them off. There was always one group in every school—a clique of mean girls who made the other girls’ lives a living hell. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who the mean girls were in this school. She knew the best thing to do was ignore them, and hope they never found out her mother was doing time in a maximum-security prison for shooting her father. But it wouldn’t be easy in this small class. Just then, a memory came to her: two girls in her last school calling her “psycho” in the hall, asking if she still had her mother’s gun. She could almost taste the coppery blood in her mouth from biting her lip to keep herself from clawing their eyes out.

Now, she tugged on her sleeves, making sure they were pulled all the way down. The scars on her forearms were finally getting lighter, and she’d vowed never to cut herself again, no matter what. A month ago she’d thrown away her razor blades, and she wasn’t going to let these idiotic girls make her go back on the promise she’d made to herself.

The first time she cut herself, the night after her grandmother died, she’d gone into the bathroom of her grandmother’s old farmhouse to get the miniature glass man full of her dead grandfather’s razor blades out of the medicine cabinet. She shook a blade out of the glass man’s head—a barber with black hair and a blue shirt—then sat on the toilet and made a one-inch incision in her forearm. Then she passed out cold. A few minutes later, she woke up on the bathroom floor and clamped a hand over her arm, unable to look at the fresh wound. That was when she realized physical pain made emotional pain disappear for a few minutes, and the sight of her own blood made her faint. Over the next seven years, she cut herself to erase her anger, frustration, and pain, but she did it without looking.

After moving in with Peg and Harry, she began to realize cutting herself was crazy. And if nothing else, she was determined not to be like her mother. Becoming mentally ill was her greatest fear. If she could just control her emotions, more specifically her anger, maybe she wouldn’t snap.

Now, near the front of the classroom, another girl sat at her desk, facing forward, her slick, black hair like a velvet cape down her back. She scribbled in her notebook, oblivious to the chaos around her, except for the occasional quick, cool glance at the other students. Izzy had known girls like her too. She was probably dating a college guy and didn’t have time for her classmates’ shenanigans. Either that, or she was the leader of the mean-girl pack.

Finally, the bell rang and the students clamored out of their desks, heading toward first-period class. No one else had a backpack. Izzy took her time gathering her things, purposely waiting for everyone else to file out of the room first. When she reached the door, Mr. Hudson called out to her. She turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Hudson?”

“You gave me the wrong form,” he said. “This one is for the nurse.”

“Oh.” Izzy went to his desk and took the paper, then rummaged around in her backpack for the right one. “Sorry about that.”

“Listen,” Mr. Hudson said. “This is a small school and this class has been together since junior high. It’s been a couple years since they’ve had a new classmate.”

Izzy shrugged. “Okay,” she said.

“The best thing to do if anyone tries to egg you on is ignore them.”

Easy for you to say,
she thought. “Okay,” she said again. “Thanks.”

After homeroom, the girl with the black hair approached Izzy at her locker.

“Hey,” the girl said. “Welcome to hell.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said, shoving her empty backpack into her locker.

“No one uses a backpack here,” the girl said. “The school is so small everyone goes to their locker between classes.”

“I noticed,” Izzy said. The girl had a slight lisp, but other than that she looked like she could fit right in with the mean girls—perfect figure, perfect makeup, perfect clothes. What was she doing talking to Izzy?

“My name’s Alexandra,” the girl said. “Alex for short.”

Izzy shut her locker and held her math book to her chest. “Izzy, short for Isabelle.”

“I like it,” Alex said, smiling. “It fits you. Listen, Shannon and her friends are trouble. The best thing to do is ignore them and try to stay out of their way.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that.”

“Because it’s true,” Alex said.

Izzy shrugged. “They don’t bother me.”

Alex smiled. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I doubt you’ve dealt with anyone like Shannon before.”

“What could she have against me?” Izzy said. “I just got here.”

Alex frowned. “Her boyfriend stuck up for you, for one thing,” she said. “That’s one strike.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Izzy said.

“I know,” she said. “But the last girl Shannon saw as a threat to her and Ethan had to transfer to another school.”