chapter 7
I don’t need a map to get to Ambrosia’s. You can’t miss the place, a three-story, red Victorian on a hill overlooking the ocean. It sits all alone up there. Before Ambrosia’s family moved in a few years ago and fixed up the peeling paint and broken window frames, everyone knew it as the old Hamilton place, and it was haunted. Kids dared each other to creep into the overgrown gardens and through the creaking front door. I personally never set foot inside, but I know somebody who knew someone who did, and she ran out screaming about how the invisible hand of eccentric, long-dead Edith Hamilton had tapped her on the shoulder.
I get off the bus and start walking up the road, which quickly narrows and twists. In only a few blocks, our usual crowded surf-town atmosphere turns more isolated and rural. Trees thicken into a canopy over the road, and then there’s a sign with the address. The metal gate creaks and swings open with a light push. Despite all the money that Ambrosia’s family supposedly poured into fixing things up, I’m still getting the creeps. I try to shake off the feeling that eyes are watching me from deep in the trees. I follow a wide gravel driveway as it leads through a stand of redwoods, and beyond that the path curves for a while before opening into a clearing.
I gasp. It’s the landscaping, the intensity of it. It reminds me of the old movie Raymond made me watch four times, Dorothy from the world of black and white landing smack in color-saturated Oz. There’s a rumor that Ambrosia’s family imports flowers and plants from all over the world and somehow manages to get them to grow like crazy in our foggy climate. I can report for a fact that the rumor is absolutely true.
Pinks and blues and chartreuse. Plants climbing up and hanging down. Thousands of flowers in the shape of tiny silvery fairy bells and others like huge upside-down mixing bowls. There’s a line of cactuses as big as men that are draped in shrouds of white cobwebby stuff. There’s one section of the garden in particular that draws me closer. I didn’t know so many different kinds of pure-white flowers existed. White tulips and white roses and heads of what look like albino cabbage and a semicircle of silvery plants with huge fluffy, fringy petal wings. But it’s the plant in the middle of the garden that makes me walk right up to it.
It’s like from another world, a world where plants mimic human body parts, and these are the lips, parted, cracked, and red. From the center shoots a stalk, a sharp, silvery spear of a tongue—it must be twenty feet high—composed of all-white flowers, hundreds of them, thousands of them, and I know that I’m seeing a bloom that doesn’t happen very often. Maybe once every ten years, maybe every hundred.
The wind shifts and I’m overcome suddenly with the smell of rotting meat oozing from that plant. No bird or butterfly would have anything to do with it. This is a lure for maggots and beetles. Who planted it? Why put something so amazing and yet so disgusting at the center of so much sweet-smelling beauty?
I hold my nose and back away. I start to jog, glad to leave behind that stink. A few more twists on the driveway and the sprawling red house comes into view. I also see that I’m not the only guest. Alix is standing beside her battered brown Volvo with the surf racks on the roof. It’s parked next to Ambrosia’s gleaming convertible, and I doubt that any car with a cardboard back window and bungee cords holding down the trunk has ever parked in this driveway before. Stephanie is kicking at some gravel. Her bike is propped against a fence, and she’s red-faced with sweat from the trek up the hill.
None of us is thrilled to see the others. That’s obvious. Alix glares as I approach, her upper lip curled. Well, I’m disappointed, too. Not that I have anything personal against them. But—I know what Raymond said and I can’t help it—I thought Ambrosia invited only me. The way she whispered the invitation and didn’t let go of my hands, I figured it would be just us. Her and me. What are these other two doing here?
At the front door, Ambrosia, dressed in her usual black—pants, silky blouse with a sweater, cashmere of course, that drapes like a cape—observes the scene. She’s standing in the redbrick doorway, which must be fifteen feet high. Her dark, almost purple, hair hangs loose. With both hands she lifts the huge mass and twists it into a pile on the top of her head, which shows off her long, slender neck. The hair drops, settling instantly into glamorous waves. She beckons us over. “Come on in. This is home.”
We enter. We stop. We stand. We gawk.
“My family, we’re collectors.” Ambrosia clearly expects our stunned reaction. “My people despise anything modern or contemporary. Loathe it.”
As she gives us a quick house tour, her voice strikes a tone that somehow manages to combine bored and bragging. “Drapes, red velvet with silk lining imported from Turkey. Carpet, eighteenth-century Afghanistan.”
There’s so much red in the living room, it’s like walking through a sore throat. My brain spins with the dates and origins of rugs, fabrics, and vases. I’m not the only one who’s awed. From what I’ve seen of Stephanie, she’s not normally a person who cares about things like wealth, power, and precious heirlooms, but her head snaps from side to side, trying to take it all in. In intimidated silence, we follow Ambrosia upstairs. Alix walks practically on tiptoe since our path is lined with about two million dollars’ worth of breakable stuff. At the landing, I catch a glimpse of myself in a huge hallway mirror. Framed by gold leaf and filigree, even I look like someone important and powerful. I like it. I give myself an approving last look and follow the others down the hallway.
“My room.”
Ambrosia opens a door into a space that is less like a museum than the rest of the house, but still not like any teenager’s room I’ve ever seen. It is very much Ambrosia, whose style is what fashion magazines would call classic. Only instead of her usual all black, the bedroom is glaring white—white walls, white bedding, everything understated and reeking of money. My eyes lock onto interesting treasures. These aren’t the usual clutter of knickknacks and memorabilia from childhood visits to Disneyland. On a table there’s an ornate jack-in-the-box inlaid with scenes of mountains made out of what look like real jewels. Only Jack, this pitiful Jack, lies toppled, his head half ripped off.
Ambrosia takes note of what I’m noticing. “Meg, there’s something special that might interest you.” I follow the line of her pointing finger to a snow globe on her bookshelf. It’s the size of a grapefruit and not the cheapo souvenir kind you buy at the boardwalk.
“Pick it up. It won’t bite you.”
From the heft I know it’s real glass, not plastic, and my first reaction when I look at the scene inside is: Something’s seriously messed up, something’s not right about this. I hold the globe at an angle to study it better.
No, it’s not messed up accidentally; it’s meant to be this way. Suspended in the liquid there’s a slanted cliff, and all along the jagged rock are tiny figures in various actions and positions. One figure, a man, is caught in the moment of jumping off the cliff, his arms spread in panic, his features painted to show fear and dread. On a rocky outcrop another figure sits huddled, head in arms, the posture of despair. Another figure is frozen in the act of pushing someone off the ledge.
I shake the globe, and instead of snow, black ash falls on these miserable, tortured figures.
I know it’s only an inanimate object, but I can’t wait to get it out of my hands, and I feel a peculiar relief when the globe is back on the shelf. I push it as far from me as possible without sending it over the edge. Behind me I hear a faint tinkle of a laugh from Ambrosia: “It’s a work of art, but it takes a little getting used to. Give it some time. You’ll appreciate it eventually.”
Across the room Alix is pacing like a caged animal trying to make herself comfortable in all the finery. Out of water she’s so awkward. She flops on the bed, quickly stands, and with a look of apology to Ambrosia slaps her pant legs to remove some dried mud and sits back down. So, I think, she does have manners after all.
In the meantime Stephanie, dressed in her usual layers—long hemp blouse and thrift-store sweater over a flowing paisley skirt—has curled up in the window seat. She’s taking everything in, less impressed and more judgmental now, probably disgusted by all the wealth. I imagine her calculating how many monkey lives could be saved by the price of Ambrosia’s brocade drapery alone.
Behind her, with those drapes pulled open, I have a perfect view of the all-white garden, and behind that I can see a broad sweep of the ocean. I’d give anything to have a room of my own with a view like this. The weather report said that the last freak storm was over, but it sure looks to me like another is brewing. It was clear this morning, but now a cloud bank, thick and gray, collects on the horizon.
I choose to sit in a white wicker rocker, and Ambrosia offers me first dibs on the snack she’s prepared. Crackers are fanned out like a deck of cards on fancy white china, accompanied by a bowl of purple-colored dip. I dig in. It’s garlicky, salty, and sweet, but not sweet like sugar, more perfume sweet, the very essence of sweet. Delicious. Unlike anything I have ever tasted before. I have to stop myself from licking it off my fingers. My mind concocts recipes. I want to smear it onto bread, coat spaghetti with it, slurp it through a straw.
“I am totally pigging out on this,” Stephanie agrees. “I never want to eat anything else ever again.”
“All organic, of course. Olive and fig,” Ambrosia explains. “It’s an old family recipe, secret spices and all that.” As she bites into her cracker, she makes little moans of pleasure. Every movement of her mouth fascinates me. She dabs at her lips with a cloth napkin, sets it aside, and fixes her attention on us with an individual nod to each.
“I called you,” she says warmly. “You came.”
I stuff the last of the cracker into my mouth.
She lifts a book off her desk. It’s a journal or scrapbook, and she unties the bow of gold ribbon that holds it closed. I catch a glimpse of the calligraphed title, The Book of something. She takes her time leafing through pages. The paper looks old and in danger of crumbling. I notice clippings from newspapers, drawings, and passages in ornate handwriting. Ambrosia’s so engrossed that for a minute I wonder if she’s forgotten that we’re still here.
“Ahhhh. Here it is. Just the thing for this occasion. Listen carefully.”
She reads aloud and I know that she’s speaking English, only the language is so dense and poetic that I can decipher only sections of it. There’s something about somebody’s hand and a drawn sword dripping in blood, and a description of women who aren’t really women. A hideous sight. I catch that. And how their moods and breath are foul.
Ambrosia closes her eyes and explains, sounding a little blissed-out as she does. “Those are the words of the ancient Greek playwright Aeschylus. Lived 525 BC to 456 BC. Considered the father of tragedy. In my opinion, he’s the father of it all—tragedy, comedy, truth, falsehood. Nobody, then or since, has expressed it better.”
So that’s what this invitation is about. Greek theater. Our Western Civ project, schoolwork worth 25 percent of our grade. I feel disappointed—and yes, a cringe of humiliation—for thinking that Ambrosia could have any other possible reason for inviting me. Raymond was right after all, and speaking of Raymond …
“If we’re working on our school project, why isn’t Raymond here, too?” I ask.
Ambrosia’s eyes open—thwop—like two black, spring-loaded umbrellas. She gives me her own look of disappointment. Her voice turns breathy, thick with concern. “Meg, my dear Meg. Always hanging out with the same person. It’s so limiting to your personal growth.”
I leap to my best friend’s defense, the defense of our friendship. “Raymond is…”
She interrupts before I can figure out what exactly I was going to say. “Your loyalty is very commendable. Touching in its way. I value loyalty, too. But the two of you are very different. Day and night.”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “But we’re alike in the ways that count.”
“Trust me. You’re too close to see it.”
“See what?”
“How you’re changing. Surely you’ve noticed some of that. I certainly have. You’re feeling things so much more deeply. The pains of your life, the love that doesn’t ever get returned. This unfairness shakes your soul. Crying all the time now, aren’t you? Your lows are so much lower. Ever since your hormones kicked in and you got your period and the blood…”
Alix snorts at that, a few cracker crumbs exploding into the air. Stephanie, on the window seat, sits straighter and leans slightly forward, looking very interested, way too interested in my personal problems. I can’t believe that Ambrosia is talking about my hormones, my period, my soul, and my crying. But how do I stop her? I’m so flabbergasted that I’m not even capable of hearing full sentences right now. I take in only isolated phrases. “Full potential … late bloomer … finally had enough … waking up.”
By then she’s come full circle back to the subject of Raymond, and how different we are. “He is exactly whom you see, nothing buried inside, nothing to coax out and discover, nothing stuffed down and left to ferment. Within you, on the other hand, there are layers waiting to be revealed.”
There’s a big vase of white flowers on her desk, roses. A petal drops. She picks it up, eats it. “In you, Meg, there are untapped complexities. You know that. In this way you’re more like Alix, as deep as the ocean.”
Alix starts a little when she hears her name come up. She’s trying to look indifferent to the comment, but her eyes dart and her gaze drops to her hands. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or flattered, maybe both. Probably nobody ever called her deep before. “Well, we might be alike a little,” she says. “Meg hates everyone, too.”
“But I don’t really hate … not Raymond, not—” I protest.
Ambrosia stops me with a traffic-cop motion, the palm of her right hand held in my direction. She then swings her full attention to Stephanie. “Meg is also like you. Intense, passionate, eager, and willing to put aside mundane individualistic concerns for a greater purpose.”
Stephanie scoots to the edge of the window seat in disagreement. “Like me? Not at all. No offense, Meg, and I’m sure you have lots of passion tucked somewhere inside your quiet little self. But other than that one weird outburst in Western Civ, I’ve never seen you stand up for anything. I don’t have a clue what you care about. Do you even know?”
“That,” Ambrosia says with a wistful sigh, “is the crux of our problem. We see the surface and assume that’s the core. That may be true for most people, but not for us in this room. We have to dig before the others can see our true natures and understand the depth and breadth of what we share. Alix, why don’t you ask Meg a question about herself?”
Alix groans, embarrassment or flattery over and done with. “What is this, some stupid icebreaker game? Are we in kindergarten?”
Stephanie, too, has an edge on her voice. “I have a question. For Alix. If you love surfing so much, if the ocean is so important to you, why don’t you care when people treat it like shit?”
Alix doesn’t miss a beat. “How do you know what I care or don’t care about?”
“You’re selfish!”
“Who made you the judge of me?”
“You only care about you.”
“What do you know about me?”
The insults go on like this as Alix and Stephanie glare at each other. I’m sure Ambrosia is now sorry that she ever invited them. Only to my surprise, when I glance over, she actually seems to be enjoying their whole nasty back-and-forth. There’s an expression of amusement, even excitement, on her face. She turns to me with a sparkly smile.
“So Meg, a question for you. Whom do you hate more—the foster parents who make money off of your misery or the mom who threw you away like garbage the day you were born?”
Her question catches me in the throat. I actually feel it lodged there, a shape that’s huge and sharp and won’t let me swallow. I can’t believe that she asked that, that anyone would ask it. The question hangs there, grows and twists in me. I feel trapped, almost panicked for my life.
But then … but … and here’s the truth. The question she just asked? It’s the very question that I feel like I’m asking myself all the time, late at night, early in the morning, a question I keep stifling and never dare to answer, not even to myself. On the surface it’s the rudest, meanest question, but it’s also the most honest one I’ve ever been asked.
Alix and Stephanie have gone silent, waiting to see what I will do. Cry? Get mad? Answer?
When I turn to Ambrosia, I see encouragement in her. She honestly wants to know. She wants to get into my head and see what’s going on there. She doesn’t want me to lie or to pretend anymore. She wants to know who I really am—when I’m not faking, when I’m not scared, when I’m being totally true to myself.
The lump in my throat dissolves.
I give myself permission to answer: Whom do I hate most? In my mind, a blank face floats to the surface. No eyes, no nose, no hair. It’s the mother I never knew. But to express the level of hate I want to express right now, a blank face isn’t good enough. It won’t let me focus. I need actual eyes and ears and the sound of a hateful voice. I need specific deeds where I was wronged. I push aside the blank face and let the answer to Ambrosia’s question rise like scum on water.
“Foster mother,” I say. “This one. I hate her. I call her the Leech. It suits her.”
Ambrosia rubs a finger along the perfect polish of her thumb. “Should this leech be allowed to treat you the way she does?”
“No.”
“Louder! More outrage.”
“No!”
“Much better. And what would you like from her?”
I pretend to think about this, even though I’ve thought about it a lot. “I want her to feel sorry for how she treats me.”
Ambrosia’s voice drops. There’s disappointment in it. “That’s it?”
“Okay, I want her to feel really, really”—she coaxes me forward with her hands, like I’m trying to ease a car into a tight parking space—“really, really sorry. I want an apology.”
Her body shudders like I blew it and hit the car behind me. “That’s it? Words? Only words? Is this a wrong that can be erased by a little apology? That’s all you think you deserve?”
“I want…”
Eager, a second chance for me to get it right. “Go on.”
“… to be treated the way she treats her cat.”
Ambrosia slams her hand on the top of her scrapbook. “Is that seriously the best you can do, Meg? An opportunity for a wrong to be righted, for justice to be done. And all you can come up with is begging to be treated like a cat?”
“You should see how she treats the cat! Like royalty.”
“Come on! Think big, Meg! You deserve it. What about some payback? Shouldn’t a leech be punished for the blood-sucking misery she’s caused you?”
“Well…” I open to other possibilities. “She should pay back some of the foster care money she’s been paid.” Ambrosia’s eyes go even dimmer with disappointment. I try again. “Or how about she goes to jail for a while.”
Ambrosia shakes her head slowly, like I’m the biggest dimwit she ever met in her life, and now she has to provide the answer herself. “Meg, instant death or slow, excruciating torture?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you want for this miserable leech? Death or torture?”
At that, Alix laughs hard and uninhibitedly. Ambrosia’s choices are so unexpected, so wild, that I laugh, too, a real giddiness flooding through me. Stephanie joins in, bouncing on the window seat. “Why not? That’s punishment fitting the crime, all right! For being part of a system that abuses kids? Death, definitely,” she says.
“Hold on!” Alix insists. “It’s Meg’s life of misery. Maybe she wants torture.”
I giggle nervously as they wait for my decision. I’ve never allowed myself to consider getting even with someone to this level. But it’s just a game, so why not? No one’s going to get hurt. I reach down past my usual forgiving thoughts to a more primal part of myself. As Stephanie asked, Why not? “You’re right! It’s my revenge. I guess I do want some torture first.”
“Excellent!” Ambrosia mimes writing my answer in her book. “Would you prefer the torture of actual physical pain or excruciating mental anguish?”
“Pick mental,” Alix advises. Her eyes go hard like she’s remembering something important. “Bruises heal, believe me. You can get used to bruises.” She launches into a cheerleading chant, giving it a hard rock beat: “Mental anguish, mental anguish, mental anguish.”
I give Alix a thumbs-up, warming to the game. “Mental anguish it is.”
This time Ambrosia actually does write it down. I get a jolt of satisfaction from watching her pen glide across the page and knowing that my deepest, meanest fantasy of revenge is down in ink and can’t be erased. She addresses me with a solemn expression: “What is this leech’s legal name?”
“Lottie Leach.” I spell the name like each letter is drenched in oil.
“By the way, you’re a natural at mental anguish,” Ambrosia compliments me.
I feel myself blush. “Thank you.”
She writes the name and closes the book.
We’ve gotten so lost in my revenge fantasy that we haven’t noticed how dark the room has become, even though it’s still afternoon. The new storm is rolling in fast, the sky almost black except in one spot, as if an invisible moon has come up and is sending down a celestial spotlight. The all-white garden with the stinking plant glows in the center.
Stephanie leans against the edge where the wall meets the window, and she yawns. “Wow, I’m tired,” she says. Alix’s face and the muscles in her back and arms are slack and relaxed. I’ve never seen her look so … peaceful. There’s no other word for it.
“Good time,” she says dreamily. “Too bad it’s fantasy.”
I, too, suddenly feel tired, like years of tension have drained out of me. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the revenge game. Maybe it’s the low pressure of the unusual weather. Maybe it’s something else.
Ambrosia starts humming a tune. I know that tune. It’s the tune, and I want to ask her about it. I try. My mouth opens, a question forms, but I go limp, so limp, too limp to even talk. Nine notes rising and falling. I count them. I hum along. Alix and Stephanie’s soft voices join in.
I let myself drift off thinking about the Leech, her cat, and my revenge. I feel exhausted in a totally satisfied way. Like when you use up every minute of your day, not wasting time by wishing that you had done something else or regretting where you are or who you’re with or what you did or didn’t say.
When you’re totally aware that this is your life, and for the first time, you know exactly how you’re supposed to be living it.