Getting Somewhere (12 page)

Lauren is disgusted and captivated by the thought. There is something both disturbing and inviting about having actual people to plug into the images she has always carried of lesbians. She has only ever thought about the notion vaguely, applied generally to girls who were butchy or jocks or just ugly or to celebrities who are kind of expected to behave in bizarre ways. In her imagination, gay people have always been men. She's never really put the idea together with women, adults who would live together, take vacations together, make love in a mountain cabin, or celebrate anniversaries together. It almost makes it seem even more depraved if it isn't just a sex thing, if it is about love and never, not ever, being with a guy or having kids or being a normal family.

She flips the page of the photo album angrily, more incensed than ever that these women are allowed to have a bunch of young girls come stay with them, are allowed to have a program that's supposed to set people on the right path when they've “gone astray,” as the counselors like to say, themselves. Who could have approved such a thing? Are they hiding it? Is she the only one who knows who these women really are? Lauren is even more determined than ever to find real proof, is sure that, with it, she can go over the heads of peons like Tracy Hughes who just treats her like a naughty child and doesn't have any power anyway.

It is not until the last page that Lauren finds what she is looking for. In fact, the picture is just tucked into the edge of the book as if someone had taken it out to look at it more closely. It is a picture of Ellie and Grace together and they are leaning toward each other with their lips pursed, just ready to meet in a kiss. There is a cake in front of them with candles on it and the edges of what look like champagne bottles and glasses. The picture is kind of blurry, and it is even difficult to make out their faces, but Lauren is sure it's them. It's not great but it's better than nothing. She lays the album on the carpet and then, after peering at it one more time, slides the photo into her shorts beside the envelope.

Something catches as Lauren tries to replace the album in the drawer, and she pushes harder trying to make the album lie flat. She realizes she has been making a lot of noise and stops to listen, thinks for a minute she might hear someone in the hall or the kitchen, freezes, holding her breath. Nothing. Lauren debates getting up to check the front door again but decides that would take too much time. Instead, she reaches into the back of the drawer to see what is causing the problem. It's another smaller album that has been shoved into the back of the drawer, and Lauren opens it with excited anticipation. Certainly, something this hidden must be just what she is looking for.

But this one is even worse than the first. The pictures look like they are a hundred years old, so ancient that the early ones are in black and white. If there are even people in them, they are awkwardly posed, unsmiling, wearing what looks like old-fashioned everyday clothing. Most show a couple with a small girl who looks like she could be Grace but Lauren thinks the pictures are even too old for that. Then there's one with four people, the couple, grown older now, a younger woman, and a child, also a girl. Lauren leans closer to peer at the little girl's face but doesn't really care who it is, has already lost interest in the album, and begins flipping through the pages quickly, barely even focusing on the photos.

On the last page, there is a newspaper clipping folded and slipped into the sleeve. Lauren withdraws it and carefully lays the thin, worn paper on her lap. The headline reads, “Charges Dropped, Death Ruled Suicide” and under it, a smaller but still bold line states, “Local man released when daughter's death ruled a suicide, investigation closed, says sheriff.” Lauren briefly wonders why the article has been saved but has no further interest in it as she folds it up and replaces it in the back of the album, adjusting the edges to lie flat in the sleeve to betray no evidence of her handling. Just more of Grace's holy family history, she is sure. Why not something about Ellie? Why don't they ever hear about her background, her childhood, some explanation for how a girl, a woman—an actually pretty woman—could turn into
this
?

Lauren's hands are shaking with fury as she fumbles around trying to get both albums back in the drawer as they were. She stops for a moment, listening once again for movement, considers making her escape now.

But there's one more place to check. Lauren moves to the nightstand and opens the small drawer with such a jerk that she sets the lamp to wobbling, has to steady it with her hand to prevent it from falling. In there she finds a pile of envelopes with cards thrown in among them haphazardly, as if they were read in a hurry and no time was taken to match them back up. Or else reading them made the person mad. Made Ellie mad. Does Grace ever sleep in here? If this is Grace's house, why does Ellie sleep here, in the best room? Lauren stares at the closet doors for a minute, considers checking out the hanging clothes, but what would that prove, even if Grace keeps her clothes in here? Grace sleeps out in that ridiculous little shed. Or at least she goes out there in the evening. Lauren has seen her go, though she's never seen her come back in the morning since Grace is always up way before Lauren. She glances around the room again, feeling like she is missing something important, can't think what else to look for.

She's starting to get so antsy that she can hardly concentrate. She bends down to examine the cards, thumbs through them with a little more urgency, then picks one out, opens it. It is a birthday card to Ellie, signed, “Love, Grace,” with no other message. Lauren riffles further through the pile, hesitates, then finally just gathers them all together, lifting them as one out of the drawer. There has to be a love letter, at least one, somewhere in here. She'll just sort through them to find it later. This is good, but it is not good enough. She will have to do more.

Lauren neatens the edges of the clump of cards and letters just enough to be able to hold them all without dropping any, pushes the drawer shut with her knee, setting the lamp to wobbling slightly again, and clutching the pile to her chest, scans the room one more time as she backs out the door.

Lauren carefully props the door open just as it had been when she arrived and turns to cross the foyer and climb the stairs with her booty. At first, she doesn't even notice Cassie standing in the doorway of the living room because the girl hasn't uttered a single word.

Lauren startles. “Oh my god! You scared me. What are you, some kind of snoop, spying on people behind their backs?”

Cassie shakes her head but still says nothing, her eyes on the pile of cards in Lauren's arms.

“What are you looking at? God, just mind your own business, okay? Ellie told me I could borrow some stationery, write my parents a letter. I'm sure she would have done the same for you if you actually had parents. You don't, do you?”

Lauren is kind of expecting Cassie to break down and cry or at least look shocked. Or saddened. Or something. But she just stands there, doesn't change her expression, doesn't even try to answer.

Lauren steps over a little closer to her.

“I'm just going to go through these and see which ones I like best and return the ones I don't want to use. You understand that, right?”

Cassie's brow furrows a bit.

Lauren enunciates her next words like she's talking to someone just learning English. “Borrowing. Do. You. Understand. Borrowing?”

“Yes, I understand borrowing.”

Lauren shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“Geez. This place is a nuthouse.” She turns and climbs the stairs.

Her heart is racing as she returns to her room, but she tells herself there is nothing to worry about. It was just Cassie. She barely even talks. And Lauren is certain, absolutely certain, that she never would.

L
AUREN IS RUBBING
her eyes with her fists, looking a bit woozy, when she stumbles into the kitchen for a glass of cold water from the refrigerator. Donna smiles at her. “Feeling any better?”

“Not really. I took some Motrin but it isn't really helping.”

Lauren plops down at the kitchen table with her glass where Donna has laid the vegetables she plans to cut up for a pasta salad. There is a cutting board and a knife, several zucchini, a pile of carrots, two medium-size heads of broccoli, two large tomatoes, and a couple of bunches of green onions. Lauren pushes the cutting board away from her so there is room on the table for her elbows, reaches toward one of the zucchini, and proceeds to roll it back and forth across the surface of the table, cradling her head in the other hand.

Donna is racing around the kitchen in a hurry like she has some kind of deadline. It seems to Lauren like the woman is turned on to high and can never slow down. It actually makes her nervous, and she has tried to avoid being around Donna any more than necessary. Plus, Lauren hates cooking and there is no way in hell she's planning to wash any dishes, hasn't done it once since she's been here.

“Well, you missed all the fun out there,” Donna says cheerfully to Lauren.

“Oh right,” Lauren answers sarcastically.

“We picked the first of the tomatoes today. Out of the greenhouse. They're really nice.”

“Oh joy,” Lauren intones, lifts her head to glare at Donna. “Don't you get awful tired of this?”

“Tired of what?”

“Everything. The garden and the cooking.” Lauren hesitates. “Having us around?”

Donna takes a deep breath, considers her answer. “I guess it's different for me. I choose to be here.”

“Why?” Lauren's tone is biting, critical, less inquisitive than challenging.

“Hard to believe, huh?” Donna is laughing a little but her voice sounds immediately suspicious, and Lauren realizes she might have to be a bit nicer if she's to get any information out of her. She's kind of thought of Donna as a servant, doesn't consider her role central or important. She certainly doesn't like the idea of Donna telling her what to do. Last week, Donna had asked Lauren to trim the tops of the carrots a little shorter so they wouldn't punch holes in the bags. That really pissed Lauren off. She's sure Donna has no business bossing people around so she just kept doing it the same way. When Grace came in, Donna had called her over, asked how she wanted the carrot tops cut, and Grace had said they like them a bit shorter so the weight in the bags is mostly the edible parts. Lauren knew that Donna didn't know what she was talking about. Maybe she was right about the length, but she didn't even know the reason.

Now Donna asks her, “Are you just having a hard time imagining why anyone would choose to be here, or are you asking about me personally?”

Lauren tips her chair back on two legs, earning a disapproving look from Donna, and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“I don't know. Both, I guess. Did you guys all live together before we came?”

“Well, I've only been here since January. I heard about this farm and the program and decided it sounded interesting, so I came here to see if they needed any help.”

“Grace and Ellie lived here together before you came?”

Donna frowns again, peers at Lauren, still trying to determine if her interest is genuine. Lauren wonders if maybe Donna is a little smarter than she thought.

“This was Grace's grandparents' farm, remember? She told you all about that when you first came. She left for awhile, and then she came back when her grandfather got too sick to run it by himself. I think she and Ellie just thought they could combine their skills by doing the CSA with help from young women who needed a break, provide a place where girls could imagine the kinds of women they'd like to be and maybe get some idea about how to go about achieving that.”

Lauren snorts in disgust.

“That's what I don't get. How can we learn what kind of women we want to be when we're completely isolated from everything in the world that's actually real? I don't want to be a farmer, and I don't know anyone who does besides you guys. I think it's pretty weird, actually, and I sure can't imagine that this is, like, something very many women would want to do.”

Lauren doesn't like the sound of Donna's laugh, doesn't think anything she's said is funny.

“No, Lauren, none of us think you want to be a farmer. That isn't the point, and I think you already know that without me explaining it. It wouldn't matter what kind of work it is, though the chance to be outdoors and learn about plants and nature and food and relationships seems like the ‘real' world to me. That's why I'm here, anyway, because I believe in all that stuff, think it's key for living a healthy, happy life. I actually think this is the place to learn just about anything you need to know, but only if you're willing to open the book, so to speak, turn the pages. Know what I mean?”

“No. I have no idea what you're talking about and I think it's just mumbo-jumbo bullshit so you guys can get paid to have free labor on your goofy little farm. And even if you actually believe all that, none of it is worth one second of being stranded out here in the middle of nowhere.”