The Girl On The Half Shell Read online

  “So you’re going to New York with Chrissie?”

  “Yes, she’s stuck with me for spring break. Dad is doing a trial in DC, but he wants to have dinner one night while we’re there, if that’s OK with you.”

  “Whatever Chrissie wants.”

  Whatever Chrissie wants. OK, Jack, stop with the nonparenting for parents crap.

  I pull my long hair into a ponytail, grab the gown from the performance and go back into the dorm room. Jack is studying the wall again and Rene gives me that look, the be nice to your dad look, and darts into the bathroom to change. There is an uncomfortable stillness in the room now that Rene is gone. Well, uncomfortable for me, but Jack seems not to notice. I drop before my suitcase to finish my packing, watching as Jack goes from picture to picture before pausing at one.

  He turns from the wall and I can feel his eyes on me. “I thought you were done with Brad.”

  Direct hit. Vulnerable spot in under five minutes. “I am. We move out in a month. There didn’t seem a point to taking the wall apart since we have to do it in May anyway. I don’t think I can take down his picture without ruining the rest of the wall.”

  Before I can move away, Jack laughs and ruffles my hair, the golden-brown wisps that are the exact same color as his. “Come on, Chrissie. Lighten up.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s not you. I’m just uptight about everything these days.”

  I can feel Jack watching me and I stare at my bag, making awkward movements to close it. I finally look up at him and Jack smiles, the one he always does when he seems to silently take stock in the similarities between us: golden hair, deep blue eyes, and the ivory-tone skin, lightly tinted apricot from the sun. It pleases him to take note of our similarities. He does it often. It has the exact opposite effect on me; it confirms for me that while genes are passed on they don’t always work out with the same success from generation to generation. What is a spectacular combination on Jack is much less spectacular on me.

  Nice as my features are, I know that I am no beauty. On a good day I am willing to concede that I have a nice body and a pert face. I can’t think of another adjective that more aptly applies than pert. At five foot three, I certainly didn’t get my father’s height. Jack is well over six feet. I didn’t get his charisma either.

  Jack grins, his blue eyes twinkling. He’s done taking stock of me and he’s in a good mood. It’s a loving look. I can’t feel it. I know in his way my father loves me. I just wish he had more time for me, enough time in any one time to connect.

  I stomp out that train of thought and drag my suitcase to the door. I want to have a good vacation in New York with my dad, three weeks. Next fall I’ll be in college. This could be my last chance to work through whatever is wrong between us.

  “Do you want to stop for dinner on the way back to the house?” Jack asks.

  My stomach knots. Jeez, I have three miserable weeks off in the spring. Couldn’t he keep those weeks free just for me? I try to contain my disquiet. “Who do you have at the house this time?”

  Jack is unruffled by the question. “Just the same old gang.” He says it as though that explains everything and makes it all right. “I expected them to be long gone before this week, but here we are.” He gives me that famous smile. “Don’t be mad at me, Chrissie. Do you want to stop for dinner or not?”

  “Let me ask Rene what she wants.”

  Jack fixes his eyes on me. “What does Chrissie want?”

  Like that really matters, mocks the pouting child inside of me. Jack could say a thousand times whatever Chrissie wants but that wouldn’t once make it real. When are things ever the way I want them? I stare at my dorm room. I never wanted this, but I’ve been here eight years.

  “I don’t care. I’ll leave it up to Rene.”

  I’m not hungry, so it was stupid to leave it up to Rene. Rene always wants to go out. She loves walking in to a crowded restaurant on a Friday night with Jack and getting a table without waiting. She loves how special it makes her feel to be in public with him. But then Rene doesn’t live with the awareness that perfect strangers know the most painful parts of her life.

  That thought makes me angry at Rene and I don’t want to be angry with Rene. She is my best friend, and to be honest, my only friend. Rene can be irritating as hell, but Rene never lets me down and I can always depend on her. Rene is a good person no matter what people say about her. And Rene knows who she is and where she is going in life.

  Rene knows exactly what she wants, having mapped out her life in microscopic detail since practically kindergarten. I pretend that I feel that way about Juilliard, but I don’t. And shouldn’t I know what I want to be by now? I bet a therapist would have a field day with me.

  I tear up and stare out the car window trying to focus on the shops we’re passing. It’s nine o’clock, but even on a Friday night on State Street there isn’t much happening in Santa Barbara. Most days nothing much is happening and the streets usually roll up at eight.

  I can feel Rene watching me as Jack chatters away. Does he even notice I’m nearly crying? Does he notice or does he ignore? Is it easier to pretend not to see that I am totally messed up than to ask me about it? Has he ever even noticed that the only friend I have is Rene?

  Jack turns the car into a parking lot and I turn in my seat to look at him. “Really, Daddy, do we have to go here tonight? Can’t we just go through a drive thru or something? We never get fast food. That would be a treat after dorm food. Or we could just eat at home. I’m sure Maria has something for us to eat at home.”

  Jack smiles. “You know how I am, Chrissie. Buy local. I’m not going to Burger King or a Taco Bell just to save a few minutes.”

  “Burger King and Taco Bell are franchises privately owned so it would be buying local,” I insist.

  Jack shakes his head. “It would still be feeding the corporate menace.”

  “Record companies are corporations, why are they OK?” Rene asks innocently. “Don’t you own a label?”

  A smile starts to tug on my lips. We’re not little girls any more, Jack. Rene isn’t the least bit intimidated by you.

  Jack stares as if deeply offended. “For the same reason Dukakis is OK and Bush isn’t though they are both politicians.”

  “I voted for Bush,” I inform my dad and the expression on his face goes through several rapid changes.

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I’m not just messing with Jack. It is the truth. I turned eighteen before Election Day and my first vote was for a Republican. I felt an almost rebellious sense of glee when shoving the ballot into the box. I can’t say that I was enthusiastic about Bush. But I did like Reagan, the feeling of having everyone’s granddad in the White House watching out for us all, and he just seems like such a nice man. I don’t know if Reagan’s policies were good or bad. I’m not political and Jack is political enough for any one family. But I liked the quiet certainty the world seemed to hold when Reagan was President and Bush was his Vice President, so I voted for Bush.

  “Enough.” Jack makes a comical gesture as though a dagger has just gone through his heart and I know he is only half joking. “Next you’re going to tell me that you don’t want Juilliard. You want law school.”

  I make an exaggeratedly sheepish face and Jack freezes in mid-step. “Really?”

  I climb from the car.

  “It’s your fault, you know, that she is the way she is,” Rene says. “It’s every parent’s fault. We are all destined to be the opposite of our parents. So don’t blame Chrissie for voting for Bush. It’s your own fault.”

  The look on Jack’s face is priceless. I laugh.

  I loop my arm through my dad’s. “No, Daddy. I definitely don’t see law school in my future.”

  A smile teases at the corner of Jack’s lips. “You can be anything that you want, baby girl. I was only teasing. Anything you want so long as you’re happy.”

  He means it, but for some reason comments like that from Jack always piss me off. I
t makes me feel like there isn’t anyone guiding me through life. If I said I wanted to be a ditch digger, Jack would probably only say The world needs ditch diggers too. How are you supposed to make major life decisions with parenting like that?

  Jack opens the heavy wood door, Rene darts ahead of me, and with a hand on the small of my back Jack guides me before him into the packed, dimly lit entrance. The restaurant Jack selected is a Santa Barbara landmark, dark with red carpet and red leather booths, dated in décor and known for its Italian food and generous drinks. The walls are lined with pictures, pictures of the famous, the political and the historic. There is a picture of Jack here with the owners, and one of my mother.

  As I drop into our booth I notice in the center of a cluster of celebrity photos above Jack’s head there is a picture of President Reagan on his ranch in riding gear. I laugh. I stare at it until Jack turns to look. Jack frowns. I give him a smile. The frown lowers and he turns the photo so poor Reagan can no longer stare at the back of his head.

  I laugh and I’m in a good mood again. Nothing in my life is certain, I’m still a mess, I don’t know why I feel the way I feel most of the time, and I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know that I am not my father’s daughter. And that’s OK.

  Chapter Two

  I feel sick, like I want to vomit. “What do you mean you are not going to New York?”

  Jack leans back in the booth and stares at me. I must have said that too loudly. Even Rene looks uncomfortable. I don’t check to see if people are listening. People are always listening. I start to play with the paper from my straw.

  My cheeks redden. “You promised,” I snap irritably since no one says anything.

  Jack sighs. He leans ever so slightly forward with his elbows on the table. “I’ve had this thing going on,” he says quietly and I feel that rapid flash flood of emotion in me again. Thing. I hate when Jack blames “thing.” It could be anything. It could be nothing. But it is an old excuse, his things that ruin our time together, his schedule, things that take precedence, things I know nothing about, things he will never share with me. “…it can’t be helped, Chrissie.” That famous smile flashes at me again. “Besides, you girls are eighteen. I thought you would prefer New York without me. Who wants their dad along on spring break?”

  I feel again that strange pressure of time running out. It is an odd thing to feel when you are only eighteen. All my desperate hopes for New York are that easily demolished. He doesn’t want to spend time with me. It is not my imagination. For some reason, he doesn’t want to get close to me. I dash a hand across my eyes. If I cry I’ll feel even more stupid than I do right now.

  Silence descends at the table and I know it is my fault. We were having such a lovely dinner and I ruined it. Even knowing that, I am angry at Jack because I hate the silence. Jack says nothing when he thinks there is nothing to say that will help. I would prefer if he just said anything, got angry with me, said something pointless. That would suggest an effort, a note of caring, a note of something, a clue that we are father-daughter, irrevocably and undeniably connected in a way that neither of us can ignore.

  From the corner of my eye, I see the cocktail waitress closing in on us again. Her shirt is cut too low, she has that pretty girl sort of obviousness that looks so pretty even when she is obviously flirting with my dad in that irritatingly phony way. She probably never thought she’d end up working here. Oh no, she was supposed to work somewhere better than slinging drinks in a locals’ haunt, she was supposed to end on a happy bed of stars like Eliza. I fix my eyes carefully on my father’s glass, the discreetly disguised mineral water filling the cocktail glass.

  More drinks. Where does she think she’s going to put them? An endless stream of Jack Daniels has arrived since we sank into our booth, forgotten, cluttering the table to the point it was hard to fit our dinner plates on it. The waitress must be new since she thought it perfectly normal to interrupt our meal continually with bits and pieces of paper asking if Jack would autograph them and bringing every drink sent by a fan.

  “Jeez, enough with the drinks already. Can’t you see he doesn’t want them? He’s been sober for ten years. I would have thought you were the type to at least read a tabloid.”

  Oh god! Did I say that out loud? The sudden shock of Jack’s expression tells me I did. And darn, the waitress looks like she’s about to cry.

  It is a horrible moment, that kind of earth-quieting, horrible moment that will only get more horrible rapidly. The owner of the restaurant is closing in our table. He must have heard. Be honest with yourself, Chrissie, everyone heard. In the commotion around me I start to grow smaller and smaller and more inadequate. I started this and I can’t get a word out of my mouth, not even to apologize to the poor cocktail girl who is shaking with mortification. Tom, the owner, is flustered and apologetic. Jack is charming and reassuring. Rene is fascinated and watching with a sharply arched brow. Fascinated by what? Oh, the poor pretty waitress. How pretty she looks now that she is crying.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. Truly, my apologies. She’s new…” those are the only words I catch in the ensuing drama. The owner apologizing for the waitress. No one apologizes for me, and I was the bully here, a dreadful Eliza wannabe hurting people I think insignificant. I stare at the waitress. There are no words from my mouth, but I hear them in my head: It’s me! I’m the awful one. I didn’t mean to be mean. I’m just pissed off. It’s been a really trying day.

  I can’t take any more. I say nothing, not even to Rene who is still absorbed in watching and I slip from the booth. Getting out of the restaurant is more of a hassle than getting into it had been. Someone must have put the word out that Jack is here. The sidewalk is packed with retro throwback sixties types, all waiting patiently their turn to see him, the voice of a generation. They would be happy if they only got to see him. I brush at my face and realize I’m crying and it doesn’t matter because I’m not with Jack so no one notices me.

  I push through the bodies feeling small and inadequate and—unfortunately—mean. I’m used to working free of the crowds that sometimes spring around Jack unexpectedly like a flash fire and I am an expert at disappearing. Though not tonight. I was not invisible tonight. They’ll talk about tonight at Harry’s for a while. Perfectly wretched. I was perfectly wretched.

  I lean against the car to wait and realize I am hyperventilating. I can’t feel my limbs, and I know that the car I lean against is damp but I can’t feel that either. Everything looks so strange, the near empty streets, the cluster of people outside the restaurant in the all-but-vacant strip mall, and the way the world looks beneath the bleak fluorescent light of the parking lot. I probably look strange, too.

  I sink to the ground, angry with myself for the senseless drama I created tonight. I am not a dramatic girl. Everyone always says I’m sensible. I am not a mean girl. Everyone always says I’m good. But tonight I went postal over a cocktail.

  I really hate that I’m crying. Time loses the feel of realness when you cry. Seconds can feel like minutes, minutes can feel like seconds, and it is hard to tell which because it is the cry that determines that. Sometimes after I cry I check my watch and I’m always surprised. Sometimes it’s only a few minutes, but it was a really bad cry that feels like forever. And other times its half a day, and it felt like nothing at all, like a dripping faucet, an irritating sound punctuating otherwise normal sound. An irritation, no more significant than that.

  Jack and Rene step off the sidewalk and into the parking lot. I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. How long have I been waiting? It feels like they’ve left me out here an eternity.

  I watch them cross the parking lot to me. They don’t look strange in the bleak fluorescent light of the parking lot. Jack looks like Jack, perfectly normal, and Rene has that glow about her as if she’s just left the best party and is thoroughly pleased with the world. I curse Rene in my mind for forcing me through the fiasco of dinner, but then, it really wasn’t her fault, and no one is
more surprised than I am, that I went postal over a cocktail.

  Postal over a cocktail. It is all very stupid, especially now that I put it that way. They both smile at me as if everything is normal. No one says anything and we climb into the car to make our way home. I am committed to my silence during the car ride to the house and no one disturbs that, and I am grateful that they don’t, though I wish Jack would.

  It is a short drive home, and five minutes later we are on Marina Drive making our way down the dimly lit narrow road into Hope Ranch, the neighborhood I’ve called home since birth. The familiar sights make some of my gloomy mood wane. I love the neighborhood I live in. It is private and quiet and wooded and protected. It is home.

  Marina Drive is lush with woods: sycamore, oak and eucalyptus trees flourish among the richly green vegetation. On one side of the road are the cliffs above the beach. With the windows down and the music off you can hear the crashing surf as you drive, and I love that sound, sounds of home. On the other side is low rising hills with stunning homes upon them. Wayward, paved arteries flow through the thicket, private pockets of modest ranch homes and massive estates.

  My father’s house has been in the family for two generations. It is a rustic, chicly humble Spanish style single story stucco and red tile structure. There is a main wing with two wings jutting off that gives it the shape of a not fully completed square. It sits on a cliff above the ocean, the modestly landscaped five acres left as close to natural as possible, and is only partially enclosed for privacy so as not to intrude on the equestrian trails that cut through Jack’s land.

  No one owns the land or the beach, Chrissie. We are only caretakers. I was five when Jack said that, I was sitting in the yard watching as he pulled down the fencing with his own hands that my grandfather had put in place with his own hands. The house had transferred to my dad when grandpa had gone into the nursing home, but the fence had stayed until after Jack Senior passed away. We didn’t live here full time until I was five. It was the year Mom got sick.