Freaky Green Eyes by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A

thought about that. You were supposed to be able to trust people you fell in love with, but that could be risky: people fall out of love all the time. Twyla said, wryly, “Your girl friend.”
    It was true. Maybe. If there was anybody I could trust, it would be a close girl friend like Twyla. But that was risky, too.
    â€œFrancesca?”
    I was in my room, at my computer but daydreaming. Staring out the window at the lead-colored lake and thinking of Twyla, and my other friends I didn’t seem to have much to say to lately. Maybe it was what Mom said: I was “withdrawn.”
    Is “withdrawn” the same as “depressed”? Or just a mood?
    Mom pushed my door open a few inches, hesitantly. She pushed her head inside. “Hon? Are you busy? Can you talk?”
    A huge sigh ballooned in my chest.
    â€œSure, Mom. Come in.”
    I hated being invaded like this. Though I’d known Mom would come looking for me. She wasn’t one to let things go.
    Still wearing the turquoise scarf. And a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned to the cuffs. Her eyes were lightly threaded with blood; the rims looked reddened. “Can I sit down? You’re not doing homework, are you?”
    â€œSort of,” I lied. “But I can talk, sure.”
    This was when Mom first spoke of Skagit Harbor. Her “cabin” there: did I remember it?
    Skagit Harbor is an old fishing village on Skagit Bay, about an hour’s drive north of Yarrow Heights. My mother’s grandfather had a small, single-room house there, known in the Connor family as “the cabin.” A few years ago, Mom took Samantha and me up for a weekend, while Dad was covering the World Series in New York. I had a good memory of Skagit Harbor and wondered why we’d never gone back.
    Dad hadn’t liked it, I guess. He thought SkagitHarbor was funky and boring. The kinds of people who lived there tended to be pretty ordinary, with what Dad called a “hippie infiltration.” He meant artists who made their living doing carpentry or waiting on tables in restaurants, marginal people in his opinion.
    I was taken by surprise. “The cabin? What about it?”
    â€œWell. I’ve gone up a few times this spring. I’ve been repainting it, fixing things up. Clearing away the underbrush. It’s like a jungle.” Mom paused, smiling faintly. There was some meaning here I wasn’t getting, not quite yet. “I’m going to be taking some of my studio things up this weekend. Your father will be away, and . . . I’m wondering if you’d like to come with me. I’ll be driving back Sunday night.”
    Suddenly I was on my feet. I was furious, and frightened.
    â€œMom, why are you provoking him? Why are you doing this?”
    Mom stared at me. She’d been touching the scarf, making sure it hadn’t slipped around. I could see the faint lines in her face, and the metallic-gray cobwebby streaks in her hair.
    â€œP-provoke? What do you mean, Francesca?”
    â€œMother, you know exactly what I mean.”
    â€œYour—father? You think I’m provoking your father?”
    â€œAren’t you?”
    â€œFrancesca, this is out of your depth. This isn’t a topic I care to discuss with you.”
    Mom was on her feet now, too. I would remember how weird this was: there was actual fear in her face.
    I said, on the verge of tears, “Look, you just asked me, Mother, didn’t you? ‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’ So I’m telling you what I think is wrong. You’re doing things to deliberately make Daddy angry. You know how he is, and you keep doing them.” My voice was choked. I could hardly breathe. It was like I’d dived into the water but couldn’t swim back to the surface—something was dragging at my ankles.
    Mom said, stammering, “Francesca, you don’t understand. It’s—complicated.” She seemed confused. She had a new,