Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [51]
“Do you mind?” she hissed. “This is supposed to be a private conversation.”
I backpedaled. I’d only made it to the first step down from the landing when I felt the door slam reverberate through the floor.
At the table now, hunched over her coffee, Angel sighs and kneads her temples. Jewel comes down the stairs, her face wet, but composed, and doesn’t look at us as she heads for the living room to flip on the television.
“I should have gone to school. Now they’ll have to rehearse without me. That’s irresponsible of me, to affect everyone else because Dylan decided to be a jerk.”
I say nothing, listening for Michael to come down.
She continues, “I need the practice, too. I’m supposed to be off-book by Monday.”
I venture, not looking directly at her, “I could run lines with you.”
“Shut up and go call your boyfriend.” She stands up and adds, “Then go write about what a bitch I am.”
We hear Michael’s heavy step on the stairs at the same time the sound of the ringing phone jerks us to attention. Angel gets there first, seizing the phone hard, then immediately relaxing. “Oh, hi, Grandpa. No, nothing. Here, I’ll let you talk to Dad.”
She hands the phone to her father, saying she’s going to take a shower.
“Hi, Dad,” says Michael, closing his eyes and kneading the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I figured as much . . . Well, we shouldn’t get special treatment and I wouldn’t want it . . . We did hear that he really is meeting a girl . . . No, I don’t . . .”
Michael’s shoulders sag as he talks more to Dr. Turner, a man I’ve found as scary as any I’ve ever known, and I’ve known some characters. Oh, he’s benevolent enough, but he feels he has great power. I’ve seen it in the way his eyes dance when things are going his way, and it’s as if he thinks he made it happen through force of will or intellectual manipulation.
Only, his son hasn’t done what he wanted. For a doctor who has watched hearts beat inside open chests, who has held life in his hand and crafted a modest fortune and a foundation to do good works, it must be infuriating that his own son hasn’t fallen into line.
So Dr. Turner relishes the small victories of control. Like owning this house we live in.
I want to walk over and hang up. Just click the button down and free Michael of whatever lecture he’s hearing. It’s not that simple, though, as I’m well aware.
I approach Michael and circle his waist from behind, resting my cheek on his back, listening to his heart thrum beneath my ear. His voice sounds low and rumbly like this as he murmurs, “Mmm-hmm.”
Then his free hand untangles my fingers and he steps slightly away.
I slip into my parka and pick up my cigarettes, this time adding a hat because it looks like the wind is whipping up outside.
Outside on the sidewalk, I dial up Tony, having already received a voice mail I didn’t listen to, and two texts asking if I’m okay.
“Can you meet me?” I ask, as soon as he’s picked up.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t say it all on the phone, it’s too much.”
“Just say where.”
We agree to meet at “the Castle,” a chateau-esque granite building once a home, later a restaurant, now a dentist’s office. Fifteen minutes later, I’m leaning on a tree in front of it, staring at the garish magenta sculpture on the front lawn, when Tony pulls up in his ancient Monte Carlo.
I hop into the car, warming my hands at the heater vents. Inside I’m overheated from my walk and my anxiety; my exposed skin is almost numb.
Tony scratches his chin through his red beard, now threaded with more gray than I remember from our days as neighbors.
“What’s going on, Edna Leigh?”
I ignore his use of my given name and explain about Dylan, the presence of Mallory. As I finish up my story, I notice I’ve been twisting my engagement ring, which would now slide off easily, should I choose to remove it.
“I used to run away all the time,” he says, and because I know what kind of life he’s lived, I laugh.
“Oh, that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“I’ve turned out okay.”
“Yeah, finally at