19

Amanda lay on her bed, reading. It was after dinner, a Thursday night, two weeks after their arrival. Peter was in New York. Emma, Amanda and Tess were alone in the house. Amanda was stretched out on the white bedspread with all her clothes on, including her sneakers, which was against the rules.

Amanda did not look up at the knock on the door. “Who is it?”

“Me.” Tess peered in. “Can I come in?”

“Okay,” Amanda said, “but I’m reading. You can come in but don’t go banging around.”

“I’m not going to go banging around,” Tess said, and slipped inside. She closed the door behind her, eyes roving around the room. Amanda ignored her. Tess stepped away from the door, rocking, heel and toe, her feet stiff. She stood in front of Amanda’s bureau, staring greedily.

The two girls shared a bathroom, but Amanda kept everything interesting, all her private things—bottles, tubes, jars—in here, on her bureau. Tess glanced at her in the mirror, but Amanda did not look up. Tess began to browse among the cosmetics, delicately picking up each jar. Frowning, she read each label, unscrewed each top and carefully sniffed the contents. She squeezed a tube, receiving a pink viscous curl on her fingertip. Glancing again at Amanda, who was still reading, Tess transferred the curl to the tip of her nose. She regarded herself in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. Her face was smooth, slightly tanned, with pallid freckles along her cheekbones. Her upper lip rose into two small peaks. Her green eyes, like her mother’s, slanted down. Tess puckered her mouth self-consciously. Amanda, in the background, looked up. Tess waved ingratiatingly at her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Don’t,” said Amanda.

“What?”

“Don’t go through my stuff.”

“I’m just looking at it,” said Tess.

“You’re using it.”

“Just this. What is it?” She held up the tube.

“It’s for my zits,” said Amanda.

“Oh,” said Tess, respectful. She looked again at her decorated nose in the mirror. “What are zits?”

“Pimples,” said Amanda. “You don’t have any.”

“Oh,” said Tess, gratified. She looked at herself again, then back at Amanda. “You don’t either.”

“I do sometimes,” said Amanda. In a falsetto voice she added, “I’m a teenager!”

Tess held up a bottle of pale blue lotion. “What’s this?” she asked.

“A kind of mousse,” said Amanda. “Don’t put it on your nose. It’s for after you’ve washed your hair.”

“Just a little,” said Tess, dabbing an oozy dot on her nose. “I’m starting a collection here.”

Amanda shook her head and went back to her book.

Tess held up a black plastic cylinder. “What’s this?”

“Mascara,” said Amanda. “It goes on your nose.”

When she had finished sampling the cosmetics, Tess wandered over to the bed. She sat down quietly next to Amanda’s feet. Amanda did not look up. Tess put her hand out, palm flat, over Amanda’s bare calf, not quite touching the skin. She held it there in an experimental way, as though she were testing for warmth. She looked frequently at Amanda, who ignored her. Tess ran her hand, like a small pinkish hovercraft, slowly up and down Amanda’s leg. Amanda did not shave her legs, and Tess’s palm grazed the furry hair.

“Quit it,” said Amanda, without looking up.

“What?” Tess said, innocent.

“Quit what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re touching my leg,” Amanda said, looking up.

“I’m not,” said Tess. “You can’t feel it. I’m only touching the hair, not your leg.”

“Don’t tell me I can’t feel it, I can feel it. Now cut it out.” Her voice was fierce.

Tess removed her hand and made a face that Amanda could not see. She sat on her hands and bounced twice on the bed, hard, in protest.

“Quit,” said Amanda, not looking up.

Tess stopped. She sat for a moment, restless. She twisted her shoulders violently, then peered at Amanda’s magazine.

“What are you reading?”

Amanda held it up: People.

“Yuck,” Tess said.

“You don’t have to read it,” said Amanda.

Tess bounced again. She saw the paperback on the bedside table.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Look at it,” said Amanda, without raising her head. Tess picked it up.

“What’s it about?”

“A murderer.”

There was a pause. “Is it good?”

“Really good.”

Tess examined the cover. “Can I read it?”

Amanda looked up. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know?” Tess said.

“You’ll get scared.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll get scared and go running into your mom’s room in the middle of the night, and I’ll get in trouble.”

Tess put her hands in her lap and shook her head.

“Yes,” said Amanda, reading.

“No,” Tess said. “I won’t, Amanda. Don’t tell me what I’ll do.”

There was a silence. Amanda turned the page.

“Amanda!”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me I’ll get scared.”

“Okay, fine, you won’t get scared,” said Amanda.

There was another pause.

“So,” Tess said cautiously, “can I read it?”

Amanda looked up. “Are you going to go running into your mom’s room in the middle of the night and get me in trouble?”

Tess shook her head slowly, frowning.

“Okay,” said Amanda, looking back at her magazine. “Take it. There’s a whole bunch of them on the shelf. They’re all scary.”

But Tess was suddenly distracted. She leaned toward Amanda.

“Amanda,” she said, “are you chewing gum?”

Amanda glanced up, indifferent. “Want some?”

“We’re not allowed,” said Tess.

“Do you want some?” Amanda repeated.

There was a pause. Slowly Tess nodded.

Amanda stood up at once. The gum was in the bureau. She held it out, offering Tess an open pack.

They heard Emma’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Tess!” Emma called. “Are you ready for bed? I’ll come in and read to you, if you’re ready.”

“I am,” said Tess loudly. This was not true; she was still completely dressed. “I’m in Amanda’s room. I just have to brush my teeth.”

She took a stick of gum from the pack and vanished into the shared bathroom.

When Amanda finished her magazine, she tossed it onto the floor. She lay still for a moment. Tess finished brushing her teeth, and through the wall Amanda heard Emma begin to read. The drone of her voice rose and fell. Tess was too old for this but neither she nor Emma seemed to know it. They would go on interminably; Amanda picked up a paperback and began reading again.

Finally the reading voice stopped, and Emma and Tess began to talk. Their voices were quick and uneven, interrupted often by laughter. Apart from Tess and Emma talking, the house was silent. Amanda could hear their voices, but she could not make out the words through the wall. The voices went on and on, intimate and mysterious. It was as though Amanda were listening to a foreign language, as though Tess and Emma spoke their own private tongue.

Amanda lay on her side, one hand propping up her head. She was reading a Stephen King novel. It was one she had read before; she had read all his books. She would rather read one Stephen King over and over and over, forever, than read, even once, one of the books Emma had left for her. These stood, a bright gaily colored row of hints, in the bookcase near Amanda’s bed.

When Amanda had first arrived at the house, Emma, helping her settle in, had made a fuss over these books. “I’ve chosen these for you, I hope you like them,” she’d said. “I know you’ll like this one, it’s really wonderful. I envy you for not having read it.” Emma gave the book a twinkly look, as though she and the books belonged to a wonderful little club, where they all wore pink and hugged each other. Amanda did not want to join Emma’s club. Emma gave Amanda books year after year, for Christmas and birthdays. Amanda never read them, she never opened them, she never even read the titles.

Now, through the wall, Amanda could hear a different note in Emma’s voice, premonitory. This signaled Emma’s departure, the closure of Tess’s evening. Emma’s voice began to rise slightly. As soon as this happened, Tess’s voice became wheedling, and she pleaded for Emma to stay longer.

Amanda heard the final words clearly. “Okay, good night, now, Tessie.” It was repeated several times. The voice was louder; Emma was leaving, and was near Tess’s door. When Tess’s last-minute pleadings were exhausted the door was shut, though not completely. Tess was afraid of the dark, and her room had a crack of light all night. Even so, she had nightmares, and when she was small, used to appear, terrified, in Emma’s bed.

Emma’s footsteps now sounded briefly in the hall. Amanda tucked one sneakered foot more safely under her ankle and settled herself more deeply into the mattress, as though preparing for a high wind. She heard Emma in her doorway, but did not look up until Emma spoke.

“Amanda? May I come in?”

Emma’s voice had changed again. When she talked to Amanda, there was something hard in it. It was like a bird’s, shrill, unanswerable. Her face looked different, too: guarded and wary, her queer slanted eyes watchful.

Amanda looked up as though she hadn’t noticed Emma’s arrival. At Emma’s question she raised her eyebrows, as though she could not imagine a reason for Emma to come in her room.

“Sure,” Amanda said, her voice indifferent. Amanda had no choice about Emma’s coming into her room, night after night, about Emma pretending they were friends.

Emma advanced, smiling stiffly. “So, how are you?” she asked. She was barefoot, in jeans and a dark red turtleneck. The turtleneck hung loose, just grazing the top of her jeans. She wore no belt. Her new haircut showed her ears. She stood in the middle of the room, her bare feet together, her arms folded, her shoulders hunched.

“Fine,” said Amanda. She saw Emma’s gaze rest briefly on her sneakers, nestled dirtily against the white bedspread. Every night Emma reminded Amanda of the no-shoes-on-beds rule. Every night Amanda ignored it. Tonight she waited, her own gaze locked on Emma’s face. She saw Emma’s gaze pause, move on. Amanda did not move her feet. Emma smiled at her brightly.

“What are you reading?” Emma asked.

Without speaking, Amanda held up her book for Emma’s inspection.

“Stephen King,” said Emma.

Amanda did not respond.

“Do you like him?”

“He’s my favorite author,” said Amanda.

Emma nodded slowly. “What is it you like about him?”

“The violence,” said Amanda. “I love violence. And being frightened.”

There was a long pause.

“Oh,” said Emma. She glanced at the books she had put on Amanda’s shelf. “Well.”

Amanda waited for her to leave.

“Well,” said Emma again, “I just came in to say good night.”

“Good night,” said Amanda. She smiled for Emma.

Emma did not move. It seemed as though she wanted something else to happen. Amanda stared steadily at her.

“Well,” said Emma, and stopped again. She took a breath. “You know, Amanda, if you’d like to have a party or something, have some friends over for dinner—a cookout, or something like that—I’d be glad to do it with you. We could rent a movie, or something.” She drifted into silence.

“A party,” Amanda repeated. She would never invite anyone here, to her stepmother’s house. Finally Amanda made herself smile. “Thanks,” she said.

There was a pause. Emma seemed to be waiting for more, but Amanda was finished. At last Emma took a breath.

“Well, I just wanted to let you think about it. Or if you have another idea, we could do that. Something on the beach. Or have a bunch of girls here for the night.”

“Thanks,” Amanda said.

“I hope you’re having a good time here,” Emma said. “I hope you like the other kids. I know it’s hard to move into a new place at your age.”

“It’s fine,” Amanda said, and waited.

The girls here were blond, lithe, cheerful, with thin thighs. When they smiled, their braces glittered, their smooth straight hair sliding off their shoulders. They had invited Amanda to the beach club for sandwiches. Amanda had refused. She had nothing to say to them, girls in neat bright clothes, girls who still believed that rules were there to protect their world. And the boys were jerks, horsing around goofily on their bikes, yelling. They did not talk to Amanda, none of them had even looked at her. She despised them. The kids here made Amanda feel somber, urban, heavy. They were from a different tribe, one without doubts. They were fools.

She said nothing to Emma.

Emma waited, her arms folded across her chest.

Go, Amanda told her stepmother silently.

“Well,” Emma said finally, “you can think about it.”

“Okay,” said Amanda, forcing another smile.

“Good night, Nanna,” Emma said.

Nanna was the nickname her father used. Only he was to use it, and her mother.

Emma bent down to kiss her, putting her hand on Amanda’s shoulder. Her touch was light and jittery. Amanda heard the sound of a kiss, in the air by her ear. Emma straightened, her hand still on Amanda’s shoulder. She gave Amanda two little pats.

“Sleep tight,” Emma said, smiling.

“I will,” said Amanda, smiling back. “Good night.” Go, she thought, go.

Emma turned to leave, but at the door she stopped. “Shall I open the window for you?” She asked this each night.

Amanda shook her head.

“Do you want the door shut?” Emma now asked.

“I don’t care,” Amanda said. Go.

Emma smiled at her. “Am I driving you crazy?” she asked.

“No,” Amanda said, giving her a vague smile. Yes.

“Okay, well, good night,” said Emma. “I’m finally going to go.” She was still smiling, as though she and Amanda were having fun together.

“Good night,” said Amanda. Two more weeks. Emma turned away, and Amanda raised her eyes. She heard her stepmother go down the hall, into her own room. She heard Emma’s door shut.

The house finally silent around her, Amanda took a long breath. She settled herself comfortably against the bed. She still had to wait until Emma had finished reading and turned out her light, but she would wait in peace. No one would come into her room again. She read on in her novel, absorbed: the terrified woman, the chilling signs of pursuit, the growing horror.

Toward eleven, Amanda heard Emma’s footsteps, then the rush of the plumbing. Amanda waited for a moment, then got up quietly. Standing in her doorway, looking down the hall, she watched the strip of light under Emma’s door. When it went dark, Amanda turned silently back into her room and closed her door. Her own night had finally begun.

She knelt on the rug beside her bed and slid her arm deep between the box spring and the mattress, between the flowered blanket cover and the white dust ruffle. From this secret interior Amanda withdrew a plastic bag containing a flattened box of Marlboro Lights, a cheap yellow cigarette lighter, a metallic pink ashtray, and another, smaller plastic bag. This was folded over and over on itself, and held her stash, about a dozen limp hand-rolled joints. She smoked these sparingly; they had to last the month.

Amanda now opened her window, though she hated the damp cellary air that crept in from the ocean, and the banging of the dry furry moths against the screen. She had to open it, because of the smoke. She sat on her bed and put on her Walkman, setting the charmed arch of metal over her head as though its deep sound would insulate her from the whole rest of the world. At least she wouldn’t hear the moths.

Amanda kicked off her sneakers, set the ashtray down on the bedside table and lit a flattened Marlboro Light. She drew in a long breath of hot smoke and closed her eyes. She felt the burn, rough and delicious against her throat.

Now, alone, Amanda was herself. Around her was silence. Safe in her own room, surrounded by her own music, her own smoke, her own breath, Amanda was living her own life. She leaned against the flowered headboard and blew out the first soothing bloom of smoke, a warm hazy current that drifted intricately, in silence, into the air of her room, like the slow fluid movements at the bottom of the ocean.

Some nights, after the Marlboro, she smoked a joint, or part of one. Some nights she wanted that hot stoked feeling, of being secretly in charge of everything, or at least knowing secretly how funny everything was. Some nights she smoked only the Marlboros, sometimes putting the cigarette to her mouth and pulling that deep invasion inside her, sometimes just sitting with the cigarette burning between her fingers, letting it grow shorter and shorter as she turned the pages of her book. She liked letting the cigarette burn, letting the luxuriant smoke from it move softly through space.

The nights were long, in her father’s house. Amanda could not sleep in this house; she did not try. She lay on her bed, smoking and reading, sometimes all night, until the outside light took over from the inside. Sometimes she finished a whole book in one night, the black hours passing unnoticed. Sometimes she listened to tape after tape, the plastic cases littering her bedspread as she moved from one musical world to another. Some nights she only wanted one tape, and played the same music over and over. The music and the night surrounded and sheltered her. She could feel the house silent. She could feel the whole island silent. She could feel the Atlantic Ocean, lapping along its shores, silent. It was four o’clock in the morning, and Amanda was the only person awake, real. She drew her own private smoke into her lungs, deep, and slowly blew it out, a peace.

What she felt was sadness, and she let herself at last sink slowly into it. It was a relief. All during the bright excruciating day, with its jittering talk, its interference, she waited for this moment, at night, when she was alone, surrounded by darkness. Now she could let go, and descend into this deep space she yearned for, this place where she knew she belonged, silent, vast; this deep lake of sadness.

In the morning Emma knocked on her door.

“Eight o’clock.”

Amanda did not answer. Her head was still dark and full of smoke, and her brain would not move.

“Amanda?” Emma said. “Time to get up. It’s eight o’clock.”

Amanda cleared her throat. She had to say something or Emma would come into the room.

“Okay,” she said. Her voice was strange in her ears, low, and somehow split.

“Amanda?” Emma said again.

“Okay,” Amanda called, summoning all her energy.

“See you downstairs,” Emma said.

Amanda lay without moving. She had not yet opened her eyes. Her face was plowed deep into the core of her pillow. She had to get up. Her clinic was at nine, and she would have to leave at ten of, on her bike. If she was late Emma would drive her, which she could not risk.

Amanda pulled herself up, her eyes still shut. Her limbs were dead. She still felt stoned, her mind sequestered in another place. She stood unsteadily, keeping her eyes shut against the room, which would now be garishly bright and full of salt air. She took a step, staggering slightly, and cracked her eyes open onto the unkind blare of yellow flower-sprigged wallpaper. She closed them again and groped her way to her bureau. She felt in the top drawer for socks, the heavy tennis underpants. She had no clean socks. She could not remember where anything was: her tennis shoes, her racquet, her skirt. She moved slowly, concentrating. She found things one by one: the skirt on the floor in the closet, under a T-shirt, a pair of dirty socks at the bottom of the wicker laundry hamper. Dressed, Amanda stared at herself in the mirror. There were dark half-moons under her eyes. She brushed her matte black hair briefly and shoved it behind her ears. The idea of water on her face seemed too challenging, and she decided against washing her face or brushing her teeth.

Emma was down in the kitchen, dressed and cheerful. She was on the phone, leaning against the white counter. When she saw Amanda she smiled and blinked at her, then held up one finger to show how much longer she’d be. Amanda stood, waiting.

“Now I have to go,” Emma said loudly, her voice warm. “Amanda has just come in and I have to get breakfast into her before she goes to tennis.” There was a pause and she smiled again at Amanda, nodding. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell her. Okay, bye.”

Emma hung up and turned to Amanda. “Mrs. Cartwright says hi.”

Amanda said nothing. Mrs. Cartwright was an old friend of her mother’s and father’s, who had now become a friend of Emma’s. Amanda didn’t like hearing her mother’s friend talking to Emma. It seemed to her as though Emma were greedily trying to take over everything, not just Amanda’s father but as much of his life as she could, including things that were really Caroline’s.

“Now, you sit down and I’ll bring you what you want,” Emma said, and Amanda sat down at the scrubbed pine table. There were three places set, with oval straw mats, folded white napkins and deep blue glasses. The silverware had bamboo-shaped handles. Amanda knew the straw mats: they were from before. Maeve used to use them for Amanda’s breakfast. The mats were not Emma’s, she had no right to them, thought Amanda. There were other things here, too, that she remembered from before. These things belonged not to Emma but to Amanda’s mother. Even the new things, the things that had been bought just for this house, like the bamboo-handled silverware, all these things should really have been Caroline’s. Everything in the house should have been Caroline’s: everything in this life Peter was leading should have been Caroline’s, and Amanda’s. It should have been their life. Nothing at all should have been in this house, it should not exist.

“Talley Cartwright is in the clinic with you, isn’t she?” Emma asked. She was at the sink, filling the kettle.

“I don’t know,” Amanda said.

Emma turned to look at her. “You don’t know?” She frowned, but Amanda shook her head indifferently. “Well, maybe Talley’s a bit younger. But I thought you were the same age. How do they divide you at the clinic, by age or by ability?”

“Age,” said Amanda, guessing.

“Well, then,” said Emma, “that’s why.” She began opening cupboards. “What would you like? Toast? Cereal? Grapefruit? I’ve just got some pink grapefruit for your father. Would you like one of those?”

“I don’t like grapefruit,” Amanda said. She hated grapefruit. Her mother knew this. Maeve had known it. Peter knew it, and so did Tess.

“Oh, you don’t?” Emma’s back was turned, she was peering into the refrigerator. “I thought you did.”

“I hate it. I’ve always hated it,” said Amanda. The sour smell, the biting taste, the treacherous spurts from the little glistening wedges.

At Amanda’s tone, Emma turned to look at her.

“Have you?” Emma said. She closed the refrigerator. Now she talked fast. “I can’t keep everyone straight. Peter loves grapefruit, Tess hates strawberries, you hate grapefruit—I can’t keep it all in my head.”

Amanda said nothing. Emma had no trouble keeping Tess’s tastes in her head, or Peter’s.

“So, what would you like?” Emma asked. “Toast? Cereal? Yogurt?”

At home, Amanda had whatever she felt like for breakfast. Often she had nothing. Here, Emma made her eat something, and it could never be anything sweet, like doughnuts or cinnamon rolls, which Amanda loved. Also Emma wouldn’t let her drink coffee. This was all supposedly for Amanda’s good, but if Emma was so concerned about Amanda and her good, why didn’t she remember what Amanda liked? Amanda had spent weekends with Emma since she was seven. Emma pretended to be such a great mother, but why did she remember everyone’s likes and dislikes except hers? Emma’s lapse, her nervous response to it, seemed revealing to Amanda, important. Amanda felt suddenly powerful.

“Amanda? It’s twenty of nine. Tell me what you’d like.”

“I don’t really want anything to eat,” said Amanda. “I think I’ll just have coffee.”

Emma frowned. “Coffee! Don’t have coffee, Amanda.”

Amanda shrugged and stood up. “Okay, then,” she said. “I won’t have anything. I’m not hungry. I’ll see you later.”

“No, wait,” Emma said. “You should eat something, especially if you’re going to play tennis.”

“All I want is coffee,” said Amanda.

There was a silence.

“Does your mother let you drink it?” asked Emma.

“I drink it at school,” Amanda said, impassive.

“Well,” Emma said, “you’re awfully young to get in the habit. It’s really not good for you.”

“Whatever,” Amanda said. “I’m not hungry.”

She turned to go before Emma could answer. Amanda wanted to be gone from here, really gone, elsewhere. She would have liked to twist a glowing dial and find herself three weeks from now.

“I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. Bye,” Amanda said, her voice loud. She picked up her sweatshirt and left the kitchen. She went through the back way, the laundry and the mudroom. Speed was crucial, or Emma would say something, try to stop her.

Amanda got out onto the back deck without stopping, the screen door slammed lightly behind her. She picked up her bike from where it lay on the driveway and swung her leg over the saddle, standing up on the pedals and pushing off hard. She bumped heavily along the driveway, the wheels grinding through the gravel, to the edge of the road. Still no voice from the house. One more push on the pedals and she had left the gravel. Now she was out of the shrubbery, onto the dark smooth paved road. She had made it.

At first the road rose slowly in front of her, and Amanda stood up on the pedals with each push, feeling the bike sway lightly back and forth between her legs. At the top of the little rise the road curved to the right, and Amanda sat down on the saddle. She coasted silently through the long green tunnel: high privet on either side, summer-thick maples overhead. The landscape was summer lush; the fields were full of tall grass, and the trees shimmering with green. The lanes were overgrown, and the houses hidden from the road by trees and hedges. The island was full of small hills, and the roads twisted mildly up and down, revealing brief verdant views at each turn.

Past the little store and the cluster of buildings around it, a few slow cars, past the small open green, and the road became emptier again. Amanda turned onto a smaller lane, then coasted down a brief wooded slope, pedaled fast through an S-turn. She turned off the road into a sandy farm track that led to an open field. There the bike slowed, and Amanda stood again with each push, the sand dragging at her tires. The field itself was long sweet grass, now in high feathery plumes. Around its circumference was a rose hedge, huge, impenetrable. Amanda had never found anyone else here. She rode bumpily along the edge of the field to the far corner, where she laid her bicycle on its side. As she set it down, she realized she had forgotten her tennis racquet. She wondered where it was, if Emma would notice. It was too late to go back; she would tell Emma she had borrowed someone else’s.

Amanda had laid her bike down by a rough circle of flattened grass. Taking her sweatshirt from her basket, she folded it into a bundle. She lay down on the flattened grass, setting the sweatshirt under her head like a pillow. She pulled one sleeve loose and laid it over her eyes. It was still early, the sun was not yet hot. She would be able to sleep here for two hours, until the sun was overhead and blazing. She pulled her knees up close to her chest. Around her were the dim rustlings of the long grass in the wind, insects. The sunlight was blotted out, and a dark peace came over her. She was alone; she had vanished. No one in the world knew where she was at that moment. She was free.

Amanda felt herself expand into the air, as though she had blissfully dissolved, like the curling gray smoke vanishing into the air of her room, only she was expanding into the warm summer sky. She slept.