Sweet Waters Read online

  Mom laughs. “Have fun with it, Camille. Just teach me to use it, and the project is yours.”

  Camille pecks Mom’s cheek, squeezes her tight, then dashes off toward a flock of girlfriends flirting with the DJ.

  Mel looks more amused than bothered by Mom’s announcement, yet before she can express herself, our Uncle Joe trots over and pulls her onto the dance floor. I ignore her eye roll as Uncle puts on his disco moves to “Play That Funky Music.”

  Mother takes a quiet step toward me and reaches for my hand. “Tara, I’m depending on you to watch over the girls for me while I’m gone.”

  When haven’t I?

  “My things are already at Derrick’s, and I hope you won’t mind, but you’ll need to call back the rental agency. Tell them you’ll be needing something smaller, now that there’ll just be the two of you. Tara dear, you are always so responsible with the rent and your sisters, but I need you to promise me something else.”

  All I can do is nod.

  “Don’t let bitterness guide you, Tara. Forgive and move on, and you’ll be set free. Make a point to love your life, dear one.”

  Trent. Now why did she have to bring him into this? He was supposed to be here today, but it would have been pretty awkward considering how much I long to key his car.

  Okay, not really. I’d never do anything so . . . so rash. Anyway, this isn’t about my ex-fiancé. It’s about my mother abandoning me and the rest of our family. And it’s about how at peace she looks doing it.

  Weddings often bring on tears, but not usually after the vows have already been said and the customary chicken dance long over. So I fight back mine, and straighten my shoulders in an attempt to lure air into my lungs. Derrick pulls Mom toward a group of friends who are set to leave, and she squeezes my hand before turning away from me.

  Mel joins me again and purses her lips before letting out a long, low sigh. “What was that you were saying about Mom needing us?”

  Camille returns, throwing herself into my arms. “What am I going to do without Mom for a whole year?”

  I haven’t the slightest. Trent left me for good yesterday—I gulp back that sting of bitterness—and now Mom’s running away with her young husband for a year of dusty hostels and mosquito bites. They say that things happen in threes, and maybe the cursed they are on to something. For the past two weeks, in between filling Ball jars with homemade bath soap dubbed “Marilee and Derrick’s Green Tea & Me Scrub” to give as wedding favors, I’ve been cleaning out my office at the auto parts store where I’ve hung my sweater since I graduated high school. Poor Woody, my boss and the owner of the company, died of a heart attack while out picking up a pack of stamps. His sons, Ed and Phil, sold the place quick as they could, and the new owners have brought in their own staff. Thankfully they gave me a nice severance package, but I’m still bothered over how easy it was for Woody’s sons to forget everything their father built.

  I hang on to Camille and glance across the lawn, vaguely aware that Mom left her bridal bouquet, teeming with mini-roses, on a chair near the DJ. Someone really should gather everyone around before all the single women have gone. Little Katie wanders over and reaches for the blossoms, the image sending my mind even further away to my vaguely recognizable past.

  I’m five or so, and my father guides my hand into clear, cool water to touch the tentacles of a green sea anemone that’s stuck to the side of a craggy rock. “Go ahead, Tara. Just be gentle. It won’t bite.” I brush my fingers across the swaying limbs of the flower-like creature, their softness tickling me. Apparently believing I’m lunch, the anemone attempts to adhere itself to my fingertips and I pull back, laughing as I tumble bottom-first into a shallow basin of sea water. Joy and laughter and fearlessness wash over me.

  Mel cuts into my drifting memory. “Aren’t you going to go over there and slap that kid’s hand? For heaven’s sake, Tara, you’re losing your touch.”

  She’s right, except I already lost it. Long ago. In Mel’s eyes I see mockery and disappointment, maybe even some disdain mixed in. Such a shame. “Maybe you’re right, Mel.”

  “All right then, go on over there and set things right. Make that girl cry.”

  I take a step back and an unexplainable sense of peace, like budding freedom, washes over me. Is this what Mom’s feeling? Is this the awareness Dad alluded to in those last pain-filled days of his life? Isn’t this what Eliza would do? As if of their own volition, words spill from my mouth. “Can’t do that. I’ve got packing to do.”

  Mel loses the pinched expression. “What? Where’re you going?”

  “To California.”

  Chapter Three

  Mel stands in my bedroom, arms crossed in front of her chest. “I know we’ve been over this, but tell me again what made you suddenly decide to throw out all logic and head west. Were you digging through Dad’s old Beach Boys records or something?”

  “Beach Boys! Thanks so much for the reminder, Mel-Mel. We should download some of those old songs to your iPod for good luck.” I fold my fourteenth pair of underwear. The rest of our things can be shipped later—we’re putting them into storage—but at least I’ll be prepared for the first couple of weeks. I don’t mention that I too am wondering about the sanity of this decision to move.

  “My iPod? You can’t be serious. Don’t you know my motto—let no one come between me and my iPod? Besides, our music tastes clash. Beyonce and all those American Idol contestants you listen to cannot coexist. Frightening thought.”

  I know she’s trying to dissuade me, and it’s rather ironic. I’m usually the one trying to convince her of this and that. But once I made up my mind to break free from the questions plaguing me since our father’s death, endorphins kicked in like I’d just had a double chocolate malt over at Steak ’n Shake. It was exhilarating. From that moment, I knew this decision, out of character as it might seem to her, was right. At least I hope so.

  Anyway, Daddy wanted this for us a long time ago. I slow my packing just enough to catch my sister’s eye. “Come with me.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “Right. I have two solid job interviews lined up this week—in the other direction.”

  I tie a ribbon around my stack of blouses and set them into the deepest part of my suitcase. “You can storm Manhattan later.”

  Silence.

  I look up. “Isn’t that true?”

  “What does it matter where the interviews are?”

  I pause. “I thought working in Manhattan is what you’ve always wanted.”

  “What I want is to get out of here.” Mel looks away, and all packing comes to a halt. “So I’m not exactly headed to Manhattan for the interviews.”

  I lean my head to one side. “Where then?”

  “Near Manhattan.”

  “Is that like off-Broadway?”

  She hesitates before finally continuing. “More like Brooklyn.”

  I place a handful of hairpins and claws into my suitcase, then sink into the quilt stretched across my bed, carefully plotting out what to say next to my strong-willed sister. I’ve no intention of leaving without my sisters but am at a loss over how exactly to convince them to come. Still . . . I’m a leader; I can do this. They both thought Daddy was delirious at the end . . . I wondered sometimes too. “I’m sure it’s a good starter job, Mel, but not your dream, right? There’ll be other jobs. Better ones. So why waste time on these? Come with us. You’ll love being in California again.”

  “What makes you think that? All I remember of the California coast is the cold wind and Mom’s tears.” She picks up a ceramic lighthouse from my dresser and scowls at it. “I’ve never even thought of going back there.”

  My chin snaps up. “Really? Never? I think about it all the time.” I pause, a catch forming at the base of my throat. “Obviously, my memories of our life back then are very different from yours.”

  Mel sets the lighthouse down with a thunk, nearly knocking over my autographed photo of Eli
za Carlton, and sending my deck of Hearst Castle cards tumbling. She turns and flips a lock of hair behind one shoulder. “Which makes you right and me wrong.”

  Why did she always accuse me of insulting her? “I didn’t say that. All I meant was that I remember how happy Dad was when we lived there. Remember how he used to take us down to the tide pools all the time and point out sea stars and urchins and everything?”

  “Barely.”

  “Well, I do. I want that feeling again—to smell that salty air and feel the bite of cool when we’re at the beach.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d better stay out of that water or you’ll be feeling the bite of something else.”

  I exhale a tiny laugh.

  She sighs. “Does this have anything to do with your breakup with Trent? Maybe you should stick around and defrag awhile, so you can figure out the right way to patch up the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “That hurt.”

  “Sorry. It just sounds like you’re in denial. Why else would you be running off in search of this far-fetched serendipity? Really, Tara, take my advice and stay around to face your life.”

  Frustration, like bile, rises up, clawing at my nerve endings. For most of my life I’ve done little else but deal with situations that no one else wanted to face. Every family holiday, for instance, Mom has said, “Plan whatever you like, Tara. I’m easy to please.” Sure, she’s easy—as is everyone else when they’re not saddled with the tasks involved in putting together a dinner for a dozen relatives and their stray invitees.

  I swallow my annoyance, the taste bordering on bitterness as it goes down. Yet I’m not about to allow my sister’s poisonous attitude to ruin my new start. “I’ve never felt so free in my life,” I tell Mel, “and I’m cherishing the moment. Besides, we have no reason to stay here now—no Mom, no job . . . no house. This is the perfect time to make a change, and frankly, I don’t want us to miss out.” I rub my hand over the soft quilted squares beneath me. “And another thing, maybe you remember Mom crying because she didn’t want to leave. I know I didn’t. Have you thought of that?”

  Mel does that staring thing, code for “I’m thinking.” She calmly draws in a breath before answering me. “How do you propose to talk Camille into this anyway? You didn’t plan on leaving our baby cousin here, did you? If you think it’s tough to convince me to take your little romanticized trip to the Pacific Ocean, you know she’ll give you a hard time. That girl dreams about Friday nights at the IHOP, and losing that might just send her over the edge.”

  It’s just not right to make fun of people, but Mel has something there. Camille’s world revolves around her social life, and to question whether she’s ever thought of setting her petite tootsies outside of our Dexton, well I’d say the answer would have to be “no way.”

  Actually it’s her friends who’ll suffer most when we leave. For the baby of the family who has no problem acting the part, when it comes to her many friends, she’s more of a leader. She wants to go skating on Saturday afternoon? They go. Ice cream after dark? Sure thing. Back-to-back chick flicks? Let’s.

  I wind my hair into a ponytail, hold it on top of my head with one hand, and lean back, trying to shut out Mel’s obvious skepticism. “I know it seems like this is a snap decision on my part, but I’ve been longing to rediscover our old life again for some time. Just never thought Mom could bear to see us go, so I always put the thoughts aside. As for Camille, she’s been so aimless lately. How long can you hang out in your high school friend’s garage without looking like you’ll never amount to anything?”

  Mel gasps. “That’s harsh.”

  “Sorry. Just the way I see it.”

  “Actually, I agree with you—imagine that. Let me ask you, though, why move? Why not go for a couple of weeks, see some sights, then come on home to Missouri? Moving there, that’s mighty adventurous for my big sister—my well-organized, logical, big sister.”

  “A year. Mom and Derrick will be gone that long, so I figured we could go . . . on an extended vacation. I’ve got enough savings to last at least a month, and then, if, well, then I’ll find work.” I don’t mention the small trust fund Dad set up for each one of us girls.

  “So even you’re not convinced this will be permanent.”

  I hate it when she reads me. My enthusiasm’s quickly ebbing away, and I consider just giving up on her. Might be easier on me, but I give it one more try. “We can fly to Los Angeles first, take a quick drive down Sunset Boulevard, see the Hollywood sign, do some ‘star’ watching. You’re always saying what a city girl at heart you are, so you’d love this. I’m sure of it. Will you come?”

  That divide between her brows grows deeper. I hold my breath. Finally, she looks up. “Sorry.” Her voice has an uncharacteristic crack in it. “I’ve got my dreams too, and I guess it’s time to follow them. Anyway. I’m glad you’ll be watching over Camille. She needs your . . .”

  Go ahead, say it. Mel thinks I’m bossy and has never let any opportunity to tell me so pass her by.

  “Guidance.”

  Disappointed, I let go of my hair and crash onto the bed.

  WE TOUCH DOWN AT LAX at precisely 9:02 a.m. California time, our pilot earning another point in his on-time record. I release my grip on the armrest, and glance over at Camille who had been reading old text messages on and off for hours. When not fiddling with her cell phone, she spent the duration of our airtime flirting with an attendant named Blaise, tapping her ergonomic crochet hook, and tearing cute clothing ads out of the in-flight magazine. Now that we’re landing, her head bobs against the seat rest as we taxi along the runway, while one ear bud dangles against her forearm. Her snores are masked by the rush of rubber against pavement.

  Claire, the woman I’ve sat next to for the past three and a half hours, stares out the window at the haze. I’d booked the two end seats, hoping that no one would occupy the middle chair, but the plan backfired when the airline began taking standbys. Instead of making Claire, a writer from the Midwest, sit between Camille and me, I offered her the window. Not sure why I bothered since she seemed fixated on me for most of the flight. My life story will probably show up in one of her novels.

  She turns to me as we sit on the runway, waiting for clearance to our gate. “Are you excited? Quite an adventure you are about to embark on.”

  I lean back, resigned to the wait, an unexpected thrill rippling through my chest. We’re finally here. Well, almost. I didn’t want to fly on a small plane, so we’ll be renting a car in Los Angeles and heading north. But really, we’re almost, nearly, finally here. “I’m more excited than I realized I would ever be.”

  “I will be praying for you and your cousin, dear. I hope it’s everything you’ve dreamed.”

  Her tone causes me to sit and question her with a look. “Oh, it will be. I’ve no doubt.”

  “And what if it isn’t?” She pauses. “What then?”

  “Well, for one thing, I don’t let that thought enter my mind. I believe that thinking positively really can affect the outcome of our situations.” Hence, the reason I’ve blocked every pain-filled thought of Trent from my head and heart.

  She’s quiet, so I continue. “It’s like Eliza always says . . .”

  Claire frowns. “Eliza?”

  “Carlton. Eliza Carlton. You know, from the soap Quartz Point?” I smile at the confused look on her face. “Okay, I admit it. I’m slightly addicted to Soaps Weekly Digest on the Internet, but everybody has some vice. I don’t drink much, and I’ve never lit up any kind of smoke, but I catch up on my favorite soaps every night. Don’t judge me.”

  My seatmate laughs, the hearty sound doing what the noise of wheels landing on tarmac could not seem to manage: wake Camille. Claire and I look over at my groggy cousin, and Claire has the grace not to mention the trail of drool staining Camille’s chin.

  “I wouldn’t think of judging you! That would invite all sorts of trouble, now wouldn’t it?” She laughs again. “Jesus says I’d have to
take the plank out of my own eye first!”

  I shrug. “If you say so.”

  The voice of our pilot alerting the flight attendants that we’re about to taxi to our gate slices the air above us. Silence settles over us as the plane’s belly rumbles beneath our feet. Soon that familiar bell rings to let us know that we’ve arrived, setting off a cacophony of sounds: clicking metal, the crank of overhead bins being opened, children asking a myriad questions, a lone baby’s cry.

  As I roust Camille, Claire touches my arm. “I’ve enjoyed your company, Tara. Very much. Have a blessed trip together, you and that precious cousin of yours.”

  Camille stifles a burp as she yawns. She hunches her shoulders and gives me a guilty grimace.

  “Thanks, Claire.” I smile at her, as she gathers up a stack of books she never had a chance to read. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you too.”

  Outside I breathe in the smoggy LA air, its smoky haze a sign that we’re just a few short hours from our destination. I settle my sights on the concrete garages stacked like government housing. They hold cars for thousands of people just like me, people traveling to far-off places in search of something better or a long ago memory, or just something else. Like I imagine them to feel, I can’t wait to see what lies at the end of this road.

  Chapter Four

  Nothing has changed. Well, almost nothing. More inns than I remember line the meandering road that abuts the beach, and I don’t recall ever seeing that sculpture of frolicking otters nestled in among the pines as we entered Otter Bay—you’d think that as a six-year-old I would have taken note of such a thing—and the area appears much smaller than I had envisioned it . . .

  But otherwise, nothing has changed.

  It’s Sunday morning, and the ocean beyond me rolls and stretches as if it slept in late too. Camille still slumbers beneath a pile of blankets in our cozy room at the inn, but I couldn’t wait and headed out for a walk at the first burst of light. The air surprises me with its sharp chill, and yet mingled scents of pine and scrub and ocean wrap themselves around me like a welcome-back hug, comforting me. I stop and rest against a wooden railing, the only thing standing between me and a rocky cliff hanging over the sea.