Theirs was a world I longed to be a part of. Accomplished, married parents. Siblings to share a meal with. A beautiful home with two fireplaces and crown molding in every room.
But our upbringings couldn’t have been more different.
I moved from Miami, Florida, to Glenview with my mother when I was a freshman in high school. I spent my years at Glenbrook South as the new girl. Not the shy, nerdy one—more like the tall, athletic swimmer with big dreams. I met my best friend, Grace, a couple of days after Mom and I moved into our new home. Grace and I were both tall for our age, a little too studious to be truly cool, and inseparable during those four years. I had big plans for myself even then, and went after straight As with single-minded purpose.
Swimming and studying were two of the many ways I managed to escape from my mother, who’d lost not only her Wedgwood china but also her joy for life in her divorce when I was two years old. She rediscovered both in a bottle of vodka a year later. Luckily for her, she was the product of a father whose grandparents had built a manufacturing dynasty and left generations of descendants with monthly trust-fund checks. Mom was set for life, with just enough money to keep a roof over our heads, ensure that she never had to work a day in her life, and provide a means to fund her shopping and alcohol addictions. As I got older and threatened to dent her stipend with demands like winter coats and school supplies, she began to parent me. “You can’t always get what you want,” she’d say. “It’s time you learned to take responsibility for yourself and earn some money.” She had no concept of what it took to hold down a job, but she was very proud of herself for insisting I get one.
When I was twelve, I realized she was an alcoholic. The day she tumbled into the pool in front of my teammates and classmates, I was stunned by everyone’s reaction to her. Jaws dropped, heads shook, and whispers filled the air, lingering in my mind for months. I’d always thought that was just who she was. Fun, vivacious, full of life. Loud.
A week after that swim meet I was watching TV one morning when a commercial came on and asked, “Do you or someone you love have a drinking problem?” I turned and looked at my mother, who was on her second pack of cigarettes and fourth vodka martini, and dialed the number.
A therapist scheduled an intervention for the next day, which included said therapist, my uncle Justin, his fourth wife, and me.
“We’re going to each present her with a hamburger,” the therapist instructed us.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “Did you say hamburger?”
“Yes, Chloe, a hamburger. Your ‘bun’ will be your opening statement: the first layer of your speech where you’ll simply state how much you love your mother and what she means to you. Next will be the ‘meat,’ where you outline—in your own words—what she’s done to hurt you. Last will be another bun where you reiterate your love for her, and how you’re willing to do whatever it takes to support her through her recovery.”
“She’s a vegetarian,” I said.
However, my mother digested her four hamburgers and willingly checked into rehab that afternoon. Saying good-bye to her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I’ll never forget the look in her eyes when she left that day. Addiction or not, she was all I had. I went to live with my aunt and uncle for three months, which I mostly spent worrying about my mom. I was overwhelmed with guilt and uncertainty—and scared I’d never get my mom back. And in some ways I never did. She emerged three months later with nothing to mask her unhappiness, and moved us to Glenview for a fresh start. Her lust for life had been sucked away. This new mom was sober and somber. And quiet.
“Your parents take great care of me,” I told Tyler. “And I love Sammy and Sarah, they’re a pleasure to be with.” I watched him
walk over to the TV where he grabbed two DVDs from the shelf. I couldn’t look away. I’d been staring at pictures of him on and off for about three years, and there he was in his parents’ living room, close enough for me to touch, without a piece of glass between us.
“Oh yeah, those two are a barrel of laughs,” he said before sitting down next to me on the couch, bumping my knee as he settled in. “So what’s your story?” he asked.
I sat up straight. “I’m just home for winter break. I’ll be graduating college this year and starting law school at Northwestern in the fall,” I said, my heart beating like it did after a long swim.
He scanned me from head to toe with a predatory expression that was somewhere between perplexed and amused. I could tell he was fully aware of the effect he had on most women, including me.
“You went to South?” he asked.
“Yes. I was a year ahead of you.”
“Thanks, counsel, I figured that part out all on my own when you said you were graduating this year. You got a boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Easy killer, I’m just making conversation,” he said.
“Yes, I do.”
“What’s his name?”
“You really shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”
Tyler swallowed. “What’s his name?” he asked.
“Brian,” I said and nervously picked at my nail polish. “His name is Brian, and we’ve been together for about a year.” I was in a casual relationship with a guy named Brian at the time, but for some reason I felt compelled to make it sound more serious than it was when Tyler questioned me.
He nodded. “You like Brian?” he asked mockingly.
“It’s really not your concern.”
He shrugged his mile-wide shoulders and then stood. “I hope to see you around, Chloe,” he said my name slowly, with deliberation. Then he grabbed a bottle of tequila from the bar and left the house. Gone as quickly as he’d appeared.
I exhaled and smiled.
T
he following summer, the Reeds asked me to accompany them to their vacation home in Lake Geneva for three weeks. Lake Geneva is a quaint little town in Wisconsin about an hour north of Chicago, but it feels worlds away. High-rises and buses are replaced with pubs and trolleys, while fish fries and boat rides are the town’s most coveted delights. And although Lake Geneva has added a Starbucks and a Home Depot to appease some of its fastidious urban transplants, the place has still managed to capitalize on its biggest assets: fresh air, farmland, and Fourth of July.
Every summer the Reeds planned their summer vacation around the Fourth of July festivities at the Grand Geneva, a huge resort that anchors the town and used to be the old Playboy Club. These days it’s a luxury resort boasting two championship golf courses, a spa, and walking trails. It may be the closest thing to the Berkshires in the region. Minus the mountains.
Mrs. Reed informed me that she and her husband would be in and out of town while I was there with Sammy and Sarah. I gladly accepted their offer, and looked forward to the break and the income after graduation. Despite being raised by nannies, Sammy and Sarah were two of the most well-behaved eight-year-olds I’d ever met. They knew their place and were fearful of the repercussions that came with misbehaving around their father. The kids and
I got along great because I let them do what they wanted when their parents were away, which was always, and they agreed to keep quiet about it. If they wanted to jump in the lake with their clothes on, I’d let them. If they wanted to sit in front of the TV and eat spaghetti with their fingers, I let them. If they wouldn’t tell, neither would I.
Two days before we were set to leave, Mrs. Reed called me to go over some last-minute details.
“Hello, Chloedear,” she said as though it were one word. “I’m just confirming that we’ll pick you up Saturday afternoon around four o’clock, and then we can all have suppah together,” she said in her unmistakable drawl. “Dr. Reed and I have to leave early Monday morning to head back into the city. He has a vereh important meeting, and then we’ll return to the lake sometime midweek. You’ll have the Jeep at your disposal while you’re there,” she said. Formalities were very important to her. Referring to her husband as Mr. Reed instead of Dr. Reed would have been like insulting her grandmother’s sweet tea.
“Oh, I thought we were all leaving on Sunday?” I asked.
“No dear, I mean, I guess we could leave Sunday if that’s better for you.”
“No, no, it’s fine, either day works for me, I just thought you’d originally said we were leaving Sunday, but Saturday sounds great. I’m really looking forward to it,” I said.
“Wonderful, then. Bless your heart; you’re so generous to accommodate our schedule. One more thing, our son Tylah is coming up Sunday evening to spend some time with friends who have a house down the lake from ours. I’m not sure how long he’s staying, maybe three or four days, but I’m sure he’ll stay out of your way. We hardly evahsee him when he’s there.”
My fingers clenched tightly around the phone, and I opened my mouth to answer her but nothing came out.
“Chloedear, are you there?”
“Yes, of course,” I said finally.
“See you Saturday, then.”
Click
.
We arrived at the Reeds’ sprawling Victorian-style lake house that Saturday in the late afternoon, and the kids wasted no time jumping off the dock and floating around in oversized inner tubes. The house was a study in white. Not clean, contemporary, cool beach-house white; more like a wicker factory had sex with a garage sale. The house was dripping in lace curtains and flea market finds. The main sources of color were a collection of ceramic cookie jars displayed on the large, white built-in shelves that flanked the TV, and needlepoint pillows with quotes like “Friends Welcome” and “When I Count My Blessings, I Count You Twice,” which adorned nearly every white seat cushion in the house.
The next day I took the kids into town where we got ice cream and watched fudge being made through the front window of the chocolate shop, then picked up a peach cobbler Mrs. Reed had ordered from her favorite local bakery. Tyler arrived that evening while we were all on the back patio having dinner. He walked out of the house holding a beer in one hand and texting with the other.
“Hello, Tylah, darling.” His mother waved.
Sammy and Sarah shouted in unison, “Hi, Tyler!”
“Hey, squirts,” Tyler said. “Got a burger left for me, Dad?”
Dr. Reed glanced at him and then turned his attention back to the grill. “Talked to Coach last night,” Dr. Reed started. “He said your sprint times were down this week.”
Tyler rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Good to see you too.”
Dr. Reed placed his spatula near the grill and went to pat Tyler on the shoulder like one would greet a German shepherd; then he took the beer out of Tyler’s hand and tossed it in the garbage. “One burger coming up,” his dad confirmed.
Tyler glanced at his empty hand, and then at his mother.
“Let him have what he wants, Jim,” Mrs. Reed said diffidently to her husband.
“He’s got ten pounds to lose by next month. He’ll survive on one burger,” Dr. Reed said. “And stay away from the beer.”
Tyler’s mom looked back at him and smiled. “Your father’s right, dear,” she concluded, and then changed the subject. “You remember Chloe, darling,” Mrs. Reed said, gesturing toward me with her hand.
He turned just in time to catch me staring at him.
“Yeah,” he said, acknowledging me with a nod.
I smiled and then looked away. I wasn’t a shy person, and had had a string of boyfriends. I was responsible for earning my own money, paying my own bills, and my confidence never failed me…unless, of course, Tyler Reed was around.
He took a seat at the table with us and began answering a barrage of questions from his brother and sister. He never looked at me, and I never took my eyes off him. The chair disappeared beneath his muscular build as he leaned back and rested his elbows on the armrests. I could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his short sleeve. Sammy and Sarah hung on every last word about his practices and teammates, until their father chimed in and started to criticize Tyler for his unimpressive performance.
“It’s embarrassing for me to hear from Coach that you’re not meeting expectations,” his dad said. “You’ve got appointments with three top agents next month, and every stat counts.”
“It’s embarrassing for me to have you call him every fucking day.”
“Tylah Alexandah Reed, I nevah!” his mother shouted.
His father cut her off in the same tone. “Don’t you dare complain to me! If you were performing like you should be, I wouldn’t
have to make the call every day. Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear you’re not playing as well as you should be? You have two months until you declare eligibility for the draft, and I will not tolerate anything less than stellar numbers.”
Sammy, Sarah, and I sank into our seats and picked at our food as the two of them continued shouting at each other until Tyler abruptly stood and left.
Mrs. Reed sniffed away the unpleasantries and regrouped with her best happy-hostess smile. “Who would like some cobbler?” she offered.
The next morning, the Reeds left for the city, leaving me with Tyler and the kids. Which was much like leaving a cheetah and a gazelle alone in the house.
M
rs. Reed was right: Tyler did stay out of my way at first. Monday morning he grabbed a set of golf clubs from the garage, and then came back six hours later to shower before heading out again to visit a friend who lived across the lake. He eventually came home around three thirty in the morning. I did my best to keep the kids quiet during breakfast the following day and get them outside as early as possible without waking him. Around noon on Tuesday, the kids and I were at the dock at the bottom of the grassy hill picking up the mail, which was delivered to the lake houses by boat. We were sitting on the wood planks, and I was paging through a Pottery Barn catalog when I looked up and saw him. Tyler was at the top of the hill holding a coffee mug in nothing but a pair of cargo shorts. I waved, hoping he’d join us, but he just nodded and went back inside. That night as I was preparing dinner for Sammy and Sarah, he brushed past me to get to the fridge.
“Are you going out tonight?” I asked.