The Muse Page 12

  My stomach cramps with another wave of nausea.

  “I don’t feel good,” I mumble. “Don’t think I can drive.”

  “Okay, baby, come here.”

  She helps me to my feet, then guides me around the car to the passenger side. Once I’m inside with my seatbelt on, she gets behind the wheel.

  “What about the other car?” I ask.

  “Phillip came with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you need right now, baby? Anything? Or just home?”

  James…

  “Just home, please.”

  I drop my head back and close my eyes.

  18. dissonance

  I sleep hard for ten hours. No nightmares or dreams at all. When I wake up the next morning, my mind is clear and sharp. I have breakfast downstairs, and for the first time this week, feel present in my family. Phillip and Victoria bicker about her curfew; she concedes defeat with an eye roll so exaggerated that I smile behind my coffee mug.

  Mom serves delicious, misshapen blueberry pancakes. My appetite makes an appearance and I eat a stack of them, plus a pile of strawberries. After, I help with the dishes while outside, Phillip waters rosebushes and upstairs, Victoria blasts pop music in her room.

  Closing the loaded dishwasher, I turn to my mom. “What time do we need to leave?”

  “The service is at two, so around noon.” She pauses, brushing pale bangs from her eyes. “If you’re not feeling up to—”

  “I’m going, mom,” I interject gently. “And I feel okay. A little weirded out, but honestly, kind of relieved.” Sighing, I stare out the kitchen window at the backyard. “I’ve always felt like something was off. Wrong with me. Something more than just Derrick’s death, the accident… At least now it has a name. And I think that doctor was right about it being a blessing. To not remember.”

  Tears spill down her cheeks as she walks to me and takes my face in her hands. “You’re the strongest person I know, Iris. I’ve always been in awe of you.”

  “I feel the same away about you, mom,” I whisper, even as memory of James’ voice filters through my mind.

  Your mother was the one who had the affair. It tore their marriage apart.

  My stomach sinking, I gently extricate myself and grab my coffee mug. “I’m going to take a shower and maybe write for a bit, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” she says gently.

  Escaping to the guest room, I take a luxuriously long shower. As water beats on the back of my head and neck, intermittent thoughts splash in my mind like paint on a blank canvas. Memories of my father, cast in a new light by James.

  Waking up in the hospital to see him sleeping in a chair at my bedside. Returning hundreds of letters from him unopened. Listening to his sobs at Derrick’s funeral. And after, turning away as he pounded on the car window begging me to talk to him.

  I remember other things, too.

  In my freshman year at UW, I heard about a girl who was raped at an off-campus party. I remember the rumors, the scandal. The trial by public opinion. She was drunk, dressed inappropriately. She had a reputation as a party girl. I remember feeling sorry for her.

  I also remember Claire telling me when, months after the assault, the girl dropped out and moved home. She never pressed charges. As far as I know, the boy who raped her went on to complete his degree, never suffering any consequences for his actions.

  Colombia Law, graduated 2013.

  The thought of Will Cabot practicing law ignites a sour blend of disgust and old, stale fear. Is he married? Does he have children? Is he happy?

  I shiver under the hot water and finally turn off the spray. With a glance at the wall clock, I shelve writing time and get ready for the funeral. Black pants, black blouse, black flats. I carefully do my makeup, covering the shadows beneath my eyes and rubbing color into my pale cheeks. Mascara makes my eyes huge, their darkness even more pronounced.

  Selkie-dark.

  “Which means you have the eyes of a seal,” I tell my reflection. “Not exactly romantic.”

  Except it was. And is.

  Leaving my hair to air dry into its natural waves, I grab my small purse and head downstairs. The sound of voices grows more pronounced as I walk toward the living room, and as though my thoughts conjured him, I hear James’ dulcet tones.

  I pause on the threshold, heart pounding, and gaze across the room at him. He doesn’t see me, his face angled toward my smiling mother. For a moment, longing steals my breath.

  Then I remember his betrayal—past and future.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I rasp.

  “Iris,” gasps my mother, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment. “That’s no way to speak to your professor!”

  James, looking at me now, cocks a brow. An irreverent smile teases his lips. “Iris, you look lovely. I’m here because your mother agreed to speak with me about her marriage to Richard. Since I’m attending the funeral today and only in town for the weekend, she invited me to accompany you both.”

  I grip the doorframe, gaze bouncing between them before zeroing in on my mom. “Are you seriously considering this?” I ask bluntly.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she asks with surprise. “Your father had a colorful life and I think it’s worth telling. Especially by a writer as talented as James.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kirkpatrick,” says James.

  I sputter, “But you don’t know… he thinks you—Gah!”

  Spinning, I stalk from the room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Following a winding path up a small elevation to the pool, I sink onto a padded chaise.

  Seconds later, a shadow falls over my legs. “I lied again,” he murmurs. “I can easily interview your mother over the telephone. But I wanted to see you.”

  “You have serious mental problems.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Not bothering to ask for permission, James sits on the lounge, forcing me to jerk my legs to one side. In the mellow sunlight, the flecks of yellow and blue in his eyes seem to dance. He’s too close. Not close enough.

  “You’re like a pimple I can’t get rid of,” I grumble.

  He laughs. “Oh, Iris, how I adore your sass.”

  Shading my eyes with a hand, I glare at him. “I’m not forgiving you, James. I don’t trust you. From the moment we met, you’ve been lying straight to my face. About knowing who I was, about my accident, about your relationship with my father…” I tilt my head at a sudden thought. “Did you request me as your TA?”

  “No,” he says softly. “That was the universe having a laugh.” He reaches for my other hand, resting near my hip. I snatch it away and he sighs. “Not being upfront with you was a massive error of judgement. The closer we grew, the deeper I seemed to dig myself. And then I couldn’t handle the prospect of you loathing me, as I knew you would if you found out about the book.”

  “Did you come to UW because of me?”

  He shakes his head. “Another happy accident, I suppose. Unless you believe in fate.”

  “I don’t,” I say quickly.

  “I’m not surprised.” He smiles softly. “If you want me to leave, I’ll make excuses to your mother.”

  I study his earnest face. “Are you really going to be impartial? What if she says there was no affair?”

  He nods thoughtfully. “It had occurred to me. Honestly, I’m not sure how I’d handle that yet, except to present both sides. And anyway, the book isn’t focused on his marriage. Or you. It’s about him. His childhood in Scotland, his young adult life, and his long career.”

  I swallow heavily. “You’re still not forgiven. Those post-its…” I trail off, unable to articulate the massive shock of reading them.

  “I know. It breaks my heart, thinking of the pain you must have felt when you saw them. Will you let me clarify one thing?”

  “What?” I ask tensely.

  He takes my hand, and this time I don’t resist. Trailing fingers along my wrist, he slowly pushes up the sleeve of m
y blouse to expose several faded white lines.

  “These,” he says, tracing the scars with his index finger, “are a language of perseverance written on your body. They are indescribably beautiful to me. What you saw on that note—when I wrote that I wondered why you refused cosmetic surgery to lessen their visibility, I hadn’t met you. I knew only your father’s impressions from after your accident, when your injuries were severe. I’m glad you have them. They’re a part of you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say harshly. But it does. Goddamnit, but his words melt a frozen place inside me.

  James slowly lowers my sleeve but doesn’t release my hand. Lifting it to his lips, he presses a kiss to my knuckles, then to my palm.

  “Please, please forgive me,” he whispers. “I tried to ignore my desire for you. God, I tried. But I can’t help how I feel, and I think—I hope—you feel the same way.”

  From the back door, my mother calls, “Iris? It’s time to go.”

  “Coming!” I say, then pull my hand away and swing my legs to the ground opposite him. I can feel the heat of his body on my spine. Too close. Not close enough.

  And I tell him, “I can’t be who you want me to be, James. At sixteen years old, I was broken down to the foundation of my being, and the person who grew up isn’t… well.”

  “That’s not true,” he says urgently. “You’re a kind, sensitive, funny, brilliant woman. There’s not a bloody thing wrong with you. I’ve known you six weeks and I’m already—God, you make me feel alive in ways I’ve never experienced.”

  I glance back, meeting his stare with effort. “It’s just good sex, James. You’ll get over it.”

  He laughs shortly, a burst of aggravation. “Oh, love, you really have no clue. It’s not sex with us. And good doesn’t even scrape the surface of what it is.”

  I suck in air past a spike of misplaced rage. “You’re right. I have no clue, seeing as I lost my virginity to rape and I’m the queen of three-week relationships.” I jerk to my feet, ignoring his appalled expression. “Come on, we don’t want to be late to my wonderful father’s funeral!”

  I stalk toward the house. James catches me halfway across the lawn with a hand on my shoulder.

  “Stop, Iris. I won’t let you do this!”

  I whirl and try to shove him, but something misfires in my brain and instead, I find myself grabbing his hair and dragging his face to mine. As our mouths collide, he groans in abject relief, arms locking around me to lift me up and closer.

  In the following seconds, nothing exists but the two of us. Our beating hearts, our gasping breaths. The yearning of our bodies and minds, manifesting in the savagery of our kiss.

  Then my mother gasps, “Iris! What are you doing?”

  I lurch away from James, fingers flying to my swollen lips. He stares at me, hands clenched at his sides, chest heaving.

  Broken broken broken.

  “I kissed him,” I say quickly, turning to face my mom. “It’s not his fault.”

  She nods shortly. “I know, I saw it from the kitchen.” Her eyes narrow on James, sparking with maternal indignation. “I saw well enough. Tread carefully, Mr. Beckett. I see how you look at her. And I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch you do to her what Richard did to me.”

  Surprise blooms on his features. He says softly, “I care for your daughter a great deal, Alexandria.”

  “James,” I snap.

  My mother’s face goes ashen and her gaze swings to me. “Are you in a relationship with your professor? Tell me the truth right now, Iris Mae.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She turns her iciest glare on James. “Perhaps you should travel to the funeral separately, Mr. Beckett.” After he nods, she storms inside.

  “Now do you believe there are two sides to the story?”

  After a small pause, he replies, “Yes.”

  19. (end) scene

  Claire and Griffen pick me up from the airport Sunday night. Emotionally bankrupt from the last few days, I answer their well-meaning questions with monosyllables until they give up trying to reach me.

  Once home, I thank them for the ride and escape to my room. And later, alone in bed, I stare sleeplessly at the shadows on the ceiling. I think about my mother, who sobbed while the ashes were scattered yesterday, but mostly I think about the untold story of Richard and Alexandria Eliot.

  I know they met in his senior year and her sophomore one at UC Berkeley. He saw her dancing in a university production. He fell in love. Or lust. Either way, he doggedly pursued her over the following year, until she at last succumbed to his charms. Despite his proposal six months later, she made him wait until she graduated to get married.

  His poems about her, compiled in the book Alexandria, capture a vast range of emotion. Obsession and desire. Love and comfort. They’re in turns darkly arresting, gut-wrenching, and achingly sweet. Every one of them is unquestionably masterful.

  My mother was an attentive, joyful caretaker to my brother and me. Not once did either of us feel a lack of love. And yet, she’s always been a private person; to this day, there are depths to her that I’ve never dared explore. Memories that remain puzzling. Finding a locked box in her nightstand. Hearing her crying softly in her bedroom while my father was on a book tour.

  There was a moment in the car on the way back from the funeral that I almost asked if she’d had an affair. But her pain was so obvious, I couldn’t bring myself to add to it. Over the course of the drive, my need became secondary to the blossoming acceptance that whatever happened between her and my father, she loved him as much as he loved her.

  And suddenly, I have to know.

  Pulling my phone from the nightstand, I call James before I can talk myself out of it. It rings twice.

  “Iris,” he says softly.

  My heart pounding, I ask, “Did she really have an affair?”

  He’s quiet for several moments. “According to Richard, when Derrick was four and you were one, Alexandria asked your grandmother over one morning to watch you while she ran errands. It wasn’t uncommon, but that day she left the house and didn’t return. When Richard came home, it was to his worried mother-in-law. As the night wore on, he became more distraught. He drove for hours looking for her but couldn’t find her. He called every hospital in the area and even reported her missing. Two days later, she returned. She wouldn’t tell him where she’d been and acted like nothing was amiss.”

  “God,” I whisper.

  He sighs sadly. “Shortly afterward, Richard found letters in a locked box in her nightstand. They were from her high school sweetheart, and it was clear the man still had feelings for her. Richard confronted her about them, about that weekend. She never denied his accusations. But she never admitted an affair, either.”

  I don’t say anything.

  I can’t.

  Because suddenly, I see the past in a new light. The years of her polite, emotional distance from him at the dinner table. His impassioned bouts of temper behind closed doors. Her eventually move to the guest room. His growing habit of staying overnight near the university before finally, a friend of my mother’s had spotted him with the first of many young women.

  Rubbing my forehead, I say, “I wanted to ask her Saturday. But I just… couldn’t.”

  He hums in understanding. “I don’t blame you, love.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I say tiredly.

  “Iris…”

  So much longing in the word.

  I hang up.

  I spend Thanksgiving with Claire’s family, who live north of Seattle in Everett. This isn’t the first holiday meal I’ve crashed—more like the tenth—but her parents and kid brother love me.

  In their cluttered, warm home, I find something I’ve always wanted and lacked: a cohesive, loving, and honest rapport. No family is perfect, of course, and I’ve witnessed enough petty fights to know the McHenry’s aren’t the Cleavers, but at the end of the day, they belong to each other. They’re a real family.
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  Before dinner, as I’m helping pour gravy into boats, Claire’s mom, Marsha, asks why I didn’t fly home. The only response I can think of is, “Too much work with finals approaching.”

  It’s not really true, as I haven’t been doing anything besides schoolwork, but I’m sane enough to know the truth is a little too muddled for polite conversation.

  “You need to stop working so hard,” says Griffen amiably. “It’s making the rest of us look bad.”

  I smirk. “I’m coming for you, 4.0.”

  He chuckles. “I should have volunteered to have Beckett be my proofreader on the first day of class.”

  I nod, my smile edging toward brittle. “It’s a blessing and a curse, really. He shreds everything I give him to pieces, but my skin’s thicker now.” I shrug. “He’s made me a better writer, so it’s been worth it.”

  As Marsha leaves the room with a bowl of salad, Griffen clears his throat. “Are you… doing okay with that? Working with him?”

  I shrug. “It’s a little weird, but since we got back from the funeral he’s been the consummate professional. And no offense, but I think he grades me harder than anyone.”

  Griffen nods, smiling brightly. “Oh, I know. You’re the best writer of the bunch, and everything you turn in comes back with way more red scribbles than anyone else’s. Now that I think of it, I take back my earlier statement. I’m really glad he’s not my proofreader.”

  A knot of tension I wasn’t aware of unravels at his words. “Thanks for noticing and for the complement, but I don’t think it’s true. You’re an exceptional writer.”

  Claire enters the room from the dining room. “Sounds like a love fest in here. I like it.” She wraps her arms around Griffen’s waist. “Dinner’s ready, kids. Oh, and be prepared for Jeremy to rant about animal cruelty while dad carves the turkey. Vegetarianism is his new thing. Just smile and nod.”

  Laughing, I grab my glass of champagne and follow them to the dining room.

  Jeremy’s spiel is as entertaining as expected, especially when he finds out that Griffen was raised on a functioning farm, complete with slaughterhouse. Although sixteen-year-old Jeremy probably has no clue, the rest of us can’t help noticing the admiring gleam in his eye as Griffen shares about farm life.