Page 22 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane
Christina’s blush deepens. “Yeah.”
Georgina is stunned. For one thing, she had no idea that Christina and Lucas were friends, and for another, she can’t imagine Libby buying Lucas such a flashy car. “He got a new car?” Georgina inquires, trying her best to sound casual.
“Uh-huh.” Christina adjusts the black frames of her glasses. “His dad bought it for him.”
“How nice.” Georgina forces a smile onto her face. “Are you two…an item?”
Christina’s eyes drop, and she looks as if she’d rather melt into the floor than continue the conversation. “No, Mom. Lucas and I are just friends.”
“Lucas Corbin drove you home?” Sebastian has appeared in Christina’s doorway. He fills the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. For a moment, Georgina is struck by how much he resembles his father these days.
“Yeah,” she replies, not meeting her brother’s eyes. “So?”
“So that guy is a loser and I don’t want you hanging around him.”
“Since when do you care who I hang out with?” The words, though bold, are spoken to the floor.
“Since now,” Sebastian snarls. “He’s two years older than you. What’s he doing nosing around my fifteen-year-old sister?”
“First of all, I’ll be sixteen in, like, three months. And second, it was just a ride home. Can everyone stop making such a big deal about it?” Christina throws her hands up in exasperation.
“Fine. But stay away from Lucas Corbin,” Sebastian retorts before storming down the hall.
“Christina, honey,” Georgina starts, “I think Lucas is a nice boy, I really do, but maybe we should talk about—”
“I’m not dating Lucas, okay? He’s not even interested in me like that. I’m, like, not even the kind of girl that would be on his radar. We’re not exactly in the same crowd at school. And anyway, I know the rules.” She rolls her eyes and says, her voice dropping into a lower octave, an imitation of her father’s, “I’m too young to date.”
“Christina, I’m sure plenty of boys are interested in you, it’s just that you’re still so young, and—”
“Please, Mom.” She gets off the bed and moves across the roomto her desk. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore, okay? Besides, I have a ton of homework to do.”
Her back to Georgina, Christina opens a textbook and begins flipping through the pages.
Georgina’s heart sinks in the silence. She tried, she really did, to create a home for her children that was different from the one she grew up in. And yet, for a moment, it’s like she’s back there, drowning in the loneliness she’d felt as a little girl.
She sees herself alone in her bedroom, hears the sounds of her parents arguing through the thin walls: “Do you think money grows on trees? Jesus Christ, Joan, look at all this shit! And you got the kid a new coat? How much of my money did you spend onthat?”
They always spoke about Georgina that way, as if she weren’t a person but a burden they’d been reluctant to take on. Rarely did they ever speaktoher.
“I had to, Gerry. Her teacher called home. Said it was too cold to be sending her in without one. You want CPS showing up at our door?”
“If they did, they’d take one look at the place and have it condemned!” Her father’s voice grew to a roar. “Do you think I work like a dog so you can keep collecting your…your garbage?”
Their house was full of her mother’s “treasures.” Bloated boxes of junk, piles of old newspapers that grew larger by the day. They were an oppressive presence, always looming, taunting Georgina with their dust and disorder, threatening to consume her. It made her feel dirty; like her home life was a permanent stain that she was sure everyone around her could see, despite the fact that her mother never let anyone else inside their house. There were no playdates, no birthday parties, no sleepovers with giggling school friends. Her mother’s hoarding had all but condemned Georgina to a life of solitude. She’d itched to throw it all away, to scrub and scour every inch of that suffocating house, but she knew her mother would never allow it. She seemed to love her things, hergarbage,more than her own daughter. And so Georgina did the only thing she could. She weaved between the dusty boxes and teetering piles of garage-sale trinkets, shut herself in her room (which she kept clean with military precision), and did her best to stay out of the way.
Georgina shakes away the memory. Reminds herself that she’s not that little girl anymore. But sometimes she worries that a part of her never escaped that place, that her life there damaged her, her ability to connect with other people. Even her own children.
Georgina hasn’t been a perfect parent. She knows that. But she hopes they see how hard she’s tried to give them more than what she had, to connect with them in a way her parents never did. When they go off into the world, she wonders, will they look back on this home she’d created for them and see the love she’d poured into the home-cooked meals and polished floors? Or will they too remember the silences that she never learned how to break through?
Georgina watches her daughter for a moment more, searching for the right combination of words that will shatter the invisible barrier between them, but they don’t come. And so she quietly leaves the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
15
Hannah
Hawthorne Lane
Hannah looks down at her hands, sees the spill of red blood, feels it sliding, warm, between her fingers. Her lungs burn as she gasps for air; she wants to scream but she can’t. She can barely breathe. What has she done?
