The Things We Do for Love

The Things We Do for Love Page 9

He pushed a tape into the VCR and hit play.

Halfway through the documentary, the bell rang. Lauren gathered her books and notebooks and left the classroom. In the halls, the noise was amped up; the laughing, hey-dude soundtrack of day's end.

She moved through the crowd, too tired to do much more than wave at passing friends.

David came up behind her, pulled her into his arms. She twisted around and clung to him, staring up into his blue, blue eyes. The noise in the hallway faded to a buzzing whine. The memories of last night came to her all at once, made her smile. He had saved her; it was as simple as that.

"My parents have to 'dash off' to New York tonight," he whispered. "They won't be home till Saturday."

"Really?"

"Football is out at five-thirty. You want me to pick you up?"

"No. I need to look for a new job after school."

"Oh. Right." She heard the disappointment in his voice.

She pressed onto her toes and kissed him, tasting the fruity residue of his daily Snapple. "I could be to your house by seven."

He grinned. "Great. Do you need a ride?"

"No. I'll be fine. Should I bring anything?"

He grinned. "Mom left me two hundred bucks. We'll order pizza."

Two hundred dollars. That was the amount of back rent they still owed. And David could spend it on pizza.

LAUREN WAS READY TO GO JOB HUNTING. SHE'D GONE to the school library and printed off fifteen copies of her resume and her recommendation letter.

She was just about ready to leave when her mother tore into the house; the front door cracked against the wall.

Mom ran to the sofa and threw the cushions aside, looking for something. There was nothing there. Wild-eyed, she looked up. "Did you say I looked fat?"

"You don't weigh a hundred pounds, Mom. I didn't say you were fat. If anything, you're too thin. There's food--"

Mom held up a hand. A cigarette wobbled between her fingers, spewed ash. "Don't start with me. I know you think I drink too much and don't eat enough. Like I need a kid policing me." She glanced around the room again, frowning, then raced off to the kitchen. In two minutes, she was back. "I need money."

Some nights Lauren remembered that her mother was sick, that alcoholism was a disease. On those nights, she felt sorry for her.

This wasn't one of those times. "We're broke, Mom. It would help if you went to work." She tossed her backpack on the kitchen table and bent to pick up the fallen cushions.

"You work. All I need is a few bucks. Please, baby." Mom sidled close, placing a hand on Lauren's back. The touch reminded Lauren that they were a team, she and Mom. Dysfunctional, certainly, but a family nonetheless.

Mom's hand slid up Lauren's arm and closed around her shoulder; the hold was pure desperation. "Come on," she said, her voice trembling. "Ten bucks will do it."

Lauren reached into her pocket and pulled out a wadded-up five. Thank God she'd hidden the twenty under her pillow. "I won't have lunch money tomorrow."

Mom grabbed the bill. "Pack yourself something. There's pb and j and crackers in the fridge."

"Cracker sandwiches. Perfect." Thank God for the leftovers David had brought over.

Mom was already moving to the door. When she opened it, she stopped and turned around. Her green eyes looked sad; the lines on her face made her appear a decade older than thirty-four. She ran a hand through her spiked, unkempt white hair. "Where'd you get that suit?"

"Mrs. Mauk. It's her daughter's."

"Suzie Mauk died six years ago."

Lauren shrugged, unable to think of a response.

"She kept her daughter's clothes all those years. Wow."

"Some mothers would find it painful to throw their child's clothes away."

"Whatever. Why are you dressed in a dead girl's suit?"

"I ... need a job."

"You work at the drugstore."

"I got laid off. Times are bad."

"I've been trying to tell you that. I'm sure they'll hire you back for the holidays."

"We need money now. The rent is late."

Her mom seemed to still, and in the sadness of her look, Lauren saw a glimpse of the beauty her mother had once had. "Yeah. I know."

They stared at each other. Lauren found herself leaning forward, waiting. Say you'll go to work tomorrow.

"I gotta go," Mom said at last. Without a backward glance, she left the apartment.

Lauren tucked away the ridiculous disappointment she felt and followed her mother out. By the time she reached the picturesque heart of West End, the rain had stopped. It was only five o'clock, but at this time of year night came early. The sky was a pale purple.

Her first stop was the Sea Side, a booming tourist stop that featured microbrews and local oysters.

A little over an hour later, she had made her way from one end of downtown to the other. Three restaurants had politely taken her resume and promised to call her if a job came up. Another two had not bothered with false hopes. All four of the retail shops had told her to come back after Thanksgiving.

Now she stood in front of the last restaurant on the block.

DeSaria's.

She glanced at her watch. It was six-twelve. She was going to be late to David's house.

With a sigh, she climbed the few steps to the front door, noticing that they were rickety. Not a good sign. At the door, she paused to look at the menu. The highest priced item was manicotti at $8.95. That was not a good sign, either.

Still, she opened the door and went inside.

It was a small place. The walls were brick. An archway separated the space into two equal-sized rooms, each of which held five or six tables that were draped in red-and-white fabric. An oak-manteled fireplace dominated one room. Pictures hung in wooden frames on the rough walls. Family pictures, by the look of them. There were also framed prints of Italy and of grapes and olives. Music was playing. An instrumental version of "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." The aroma was pure heaven.

There was one family having dinner. One.

Not much of a crowd for a Thursday night.

There was no point in applying here for a job. She might as well give up for tonight. Maybe, if she hurried, she could get home, change her clothes, and make it to David's by seven o'clock. She turned and headed back outside.

As she walked to the bus stop, it started to rain again. A cold wind swept off the ocean and roared through town. Her tattered coat was no shield at all, and by the time she got home, she was freezing.

The front door stood open, but even worse, the dining room window was open, too, and the apartment was freezing.

"Shit," Lauren muttered, rubbing her cold hands together as she kicked the door shut. She hurried to the window. As she reached for it, she heard her mother's voice singing, "Leavin' on a jet plane ... don't know when I'll be back again."

Lauren paused. Anger rippled through her, made her bunch her fists. If she'd been a boy, she might have punched the wall. She hadn't found a job, she was late for her date, and now this. Her mother was drunk and communing with the stars again.

Lauren climbed through the window and up the rickety fire escape.

On the rooftop, she found her mother sitting on the ledge of the building, wearing a soaking wet cotton dress. Her feet were bare.

Lauren came up behind her, taking care not to get too close to the edge. "Mom?"

Mom twisted slightly and smiled at her. "Hey."

"You're too close to the edge, Mom. Move back."

"Sometimes you gotta remember you're alive. C'mere." She patted the ledge beside her.

Lauren hated times like this, moments where her need ran alongside fear. Her mother loved to live dangerously; she always said so. Lauren moved cautiously forward. Very slowly, she sat beside her mother.

The street below them was almost empty. A single car drove past, its headlights blinking through the rain, looking insubstantial, unreal.

Lauren could feel her mother trembling with the cold. "Where's your coat, Mom?"

"I lost it. No. I gave it to Phoebe. Traded it for a carton of smokes. The rain makes everything look beautiful, doesn't it?"

"You traded your coat for cigarettes," she said dully, knowing it was useless to be angry. "They're predicting a cold winter this year."

Mom shrugged. "I was broke."

Lauren put her arm around her mother. "Come on. You need to get warmed up. A bath would be good."

Mom looked at her. "Franco said he'd call today. Did you hear the phone ring?"

"No."

"They never come back. Not to me."

Even though Lauren had heard it a thousand times, she still felt her mother's pain. "I know. C'mon." She helped her to her feet and guided her to the fire escape. Lauren followed her mother down the iron-grate stairs and into the apartment. Once there, she convinced her mother to take a hot bath, then went into her own room and changed her clothes. By the time she was ready to leave, her mother was in bed.

Lauren went to her, sat on the edge of the bed beside her. "You'll be okay while I'm gone?"

Mom's eyes were already getting heavy. "Did the phone ring while I was in the bath?"

"No."

Slowly, Mom looked at her. "How come no one loves me, Lauren?"

The question, asked softly and with such utter despair, hurt Lauren so deeply that she gasped. I love you, she thought. Why didn't that count?

Mom turned her head into the pillow and closed her eyes.

Slowly, Lauren got to her feet and backed away from the bed. All she could think about as she made her way through the apartment and down the stairs and across town was: David.

David.

He would fill this emptiness in her heart.

THE STAID, ULTRARICH ENCLAVE CALLED MOUNTAINAIRE inhabited only a few city blocks on the easternmost edge of West End, but there, behind the guarded gates and ironwork fences, another world existed. This oasis of wealth dominated a hillside overlooking the ocean. Here in David's world, the driveways were made of stone or patterned brick; the cars pulled up beneath fancy porticoes and parked in cavernous garages; dinners were eaten off china as thin and translucent as a baby's skin. On an evening like this one, streetlamps lit every corner and turned the falling rain into tiny diamonds.

Lauren felt acutely out of place as she walked up to the guardhouse at the entrance gate, a girl who didn't belong. She imagined that a notation was made on some chart that would be presented to Mr. and Mrs. Haynes on their return: Bad Element Visits Home.

"I'm here to see David Haynes," she said, forcing her hands to her side.

The guard smiled knowingly.

The gate buzzed, then swung open. She followed the winding black asphalt road past dozens of homes that looked like magazine covers. Georgian mansions, French villas, Bel-Air-style haciendas.

It was so quiet here. No honking horns, no fighting neighbors or blaring television noise.

As always, Lauren tried to imagine how it felt to belong in a place like this. No one in Mountainaire worried about back rent or how to pay the light bill. She knew that if a person started here, there was no destination that was out of reach.

She walked up the path to the front door. Fragrant, saucer-sized pink roses hemmed her in on either side, made her feel a little bit like a princess in a fairy tale. Dozens of hidden lights illuminated the landscaped yard.