by Carrie Quest
“Sure,” I say. Suddenly I’m exhausted. Totally overwhelmed. Since the accident I’ve worked so hard to feel nothing, and in the past twelve hours I’ve been hit with lust, guilt, and the pain of giving up the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. Numb was a hell of a lot easier.
So, when Piper leaves for her appointment ten minutes later, I don’t get up. I sink back under the blanket and close my eyes, searching for oblivion.
The last thing I see before sleep hits me is red cherries.
5
Natalie
I get to the restaurant five minutes early, but of course my parents are already there. Five minutes early to them is like ten minutes late to ordinary mortals. They’re sitting next to each other, so I slide into a seat across the table and give them my best dutiful daughter smile. The one with lots of teeth.
“Hello, darling,” my mom says. “We ordered you coffee.” Her eyes drift down to my feet and she winces slightly when she spots Piper’s flip-flops. “If we have time after breakfast, I can take you shopping for shoes.”
My dad is reading the paper, but he looks up at me and grins before going back to the sports section. He’ll join us when he’s finished reading about the Red Sox. He follows the team on every possible social media platform (I was forced to give him a Twitter tutorial last time I was home) and has their app on his phone, but he’s still obsessive about reading the paper. He doesn’t trust news unless it smudges his hands in ink.
My parents’ intensity levels are set permanently on high. They both knew they wanted to be doctors before they were out of elementary school, and they met freshman year of college at a Halloween party where they were both dressed up as surgeons. (My dad was pretending to perform an appendectomy on a watermelon… I’ve never gotten or wanted the full story.)
My mom and I chitchat awkwardly about their upcoming conference while my dad reads, and we wait for the food to arrive. I know Piper was shocked that my parents aren’t making more time for me this trip, but that’s kind of how we roll in my family. Medicine is their life and they live for these conferences; the chance to meet other surgeons and talk about, I don’t know, stitching techniques and the best way to sharpen their scalpels or whatever. I can respect that, even if it stings sometimes that I’m not their priority.
Then again, being a priority means a lot of pressure. Their attention can be suffocating, even if making them proud this past year felt good.
My breakfast burrito arrives, and I try hard not to groan as the first cheesy and greasy bite hits my slightly hungover stomach. So. Good. Ambrosia may be the food of the gods but that’s only because they’ve never had chorizo.
“So, Natalie. We’ve reviewed your proposal.” My dad takes a big sip of coffee and smiles at the waitress who is instantly there with a refill. She’ll get a good tip later. The Berensons believe in rewarding a job well done.
“My proposal?” I sent them that email telling them a little more about my writing class, but he’s acting like I submitted a ten-page document with future earning projections and spreadsheets.
“Yes, about the class and this writing idea.”
“It’s what I want to do.” I project as much confidence as I can into my voice. “I’m sure.”
My mom smiles. Hers has even more teeth than mine. “Like you were sure when you wanted to be a potter? Or an actor? Or an architect who designs tiny houses?”
The burrito in my stomach starts flipping over like it’s thinking of making an escape bid. “Those were interests,” I say carefully. “I explored them and moved on. Writing is a real goal.”
They both look at me skeptically, and in a way, I can’t blame them. They know I love reading, but they have no idea I’ve been scribbling away in secret since I was a little girl. I’ve never told anyone about wanting to be a writer because it felt so out of reach and exotic to a girl who grew up in a family of doctors. If you want to be a doctor, there is a clear path you follow. Succeed on every step of that path and you’re on your way to Scrubsville.
If you want to be a writer? Not so much.
“We think you need a backup plan,” Mom says. “And we’ve decided that business would be a good choice.”
“Business?” I sputter into my coffee and the waitress drops a stack of napkins on the table. She gives me a quick smile and I wonder if she’s had a similar conversation with her own parents. Poor soul. “What does business have to do with writing?”
“More than you might think,” my dad says. “With a business degree you could run a magazine. You could own your own gallery—do anything in the arts really. It’s the smart move.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, reminding myself they’re doing this because they love me. They’re scared I’ll end up penniless in a Parisian attic, burning my manuscripts to stay warm.
“I see what you’re saying, but I just don’t think business is the right major for me.”
My mother frowns and the crease between her eyes deepens to Magellan Trench levels. Danger sign.
“Your refusal to commit to a major for longer than a semester is immature and ridiculous, Natalie. You’re twenty-two years old and you act like a high school freshman, flitting around from one silly interest to another. You need to focus, because we are not going to continue to fund this frivolous lifestyle.”
Tears prickle behind my eyes and my nose starts to run. Thank god for those extra napkins. Maybe they’re standard issue for parent/child brunches. It doesn’t matter that I knew this was coming, or that I accepted a long time ago that my mom doesn’t understand my choices. Her criticism still hurts like hell, especially after she’s been so supportive over the last year, and now I’m wondering why I didn’t order a mimosa.
Or seven.
“Writing is a hobby,” she continues. “Not a career. We expect more from you.”
I press my lips together and look out the window because I know if I look at her, I’ll cry, and bawling over brunch is not the way to demonstrate my maturity. My dad gives my hand a pat and I wish, not for the first or even the thousandth time, that he’d tell my mom to relax. If it were up to him, I don’t think he’d care too much what I did, as long as I fed myself and was happy.
Mom, on the other hand… When I was six, I brought home the standard worksheet asking what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wrote “have fun, eat popcorn in bed, and stay up late.”
She crossed it out and wrote “cure cancer.”
Relaxing is not on her radar.
“You don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket,” she says. And here we go. My mom talks a lot about eggs and baskets. In her mind we’re all hopping around like frickin’ Easter bunnies.
“All of Allie’s eggs are in one basket,” I counter, desperately trying to keep that mom-specific defensive tone out of my voice.
“Yes, but medical school is a very sturdy basket,” she counters. “Like thick wicker. Or maybe rattan. Writing is much weaker.”
I blink. This conversation is taking a turn for the strange. My parents are not good with metaphors.
“Look at Piper and her brother,” she continues. “Piper’s got this exciting internship and a stable future ahead of her in physical therapy. She can work in private practice or at a hospital. She can focus on many different types of injuries. She’s working hard and building herself a nice, strong, rattan basket with a lot of depth.”
My dad nods vigorously. “Maybe even a lawn chair,” he says.
My head starts to hurt, and it’s not from the hangover.
“Her brother, on the other hand, is putting all his eggs in a flimsy basket. One of those throwaway ones made out of cheap plastic. What if he gets hurt? Does he have a backup plan? Because without one, he’ll end up flipping burgers. No hope. No future. No eggs.”
I rub my forehead. “Ben owns our house,” I remind her. “Plus a condo in Breckenridge. His eggs are in good shape. He’s done really well with snowboarding.”
And snowboarding has done really well for him, I think,
remembering his sculpted chest and abs. This is the first pleasant thought I’ve had since brunch started, so I close my eyes and take a minute. Mmmm.
No! Remember all the reasons hooking up with Ben is a bad idea. I tick them off in my mind: Piper’s brother. Landlord. Roommate. My middle name rule… Shit, I heard Piper say his middle name less than an hour ago.
Maybe I should rethink this whole thing. Maybe it’s a sign.
No! Focus, Natalie!
“Why is your face so red?” Mom dips her napkin in her water glass and reaches across the table to scrub my cheeks. “Did your food taste funny?”
I push her hand away. “I’m fine. I think you’re wrong about Ben. He’s worked really hard to get where he is, just as hard as Piper. She says he hasn’t taken time off from training in years. It’s not fair to compare them like that. Plus, maybe he does have a backup plan! You don’t know anything about him. He could be secretly building a truffle farm or running a hedge fund. You shouldn’t judge people’s dreams because you don’t understand them. A basket might look weak from the outside, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hold eggs. Maybe it’s lined with metal. Or kryptonite!”
My parents stare at me in silence and I take a big gulp of water. I’m sure they’re wondering why I just gave them a lecture on Ben Easton’s potential as a truffle farmer and I’m a little confused myself. Sure, I’ve met him a few times, crashed his masturbation session, and ogled his chest, but it’s not like we’re friends.
But it pissed me off when they compared him and Piper because I know they’re doing that with me and Allie all the time, even if they’re usually polite enough not to say it to my face.
“Kryptonite is a fictional mineral,” my dad finally points out. “I don’t think it’s available at Pottery Barn.”
This time I do roll my eyes. I can’t help it. But then I look up and see his lips twitching, and when he tosses me a wink, I know he’s at least partly on my side.
“Baskets aside,” he says. “We’ve reviewed your proposal, and this is the deal. You can explore writing this summer. If you get a strong A and you get a letter from your professor saying that you have real potential as a writer, then we can discuss you signing up for the creative writing program with a possible minor in business.”
I nod. This is actually better than I was expecting. He must have really argued my case with my mom, and I can tell she’s not too happy about it because the Magellan Trench is still present.
“If you cannot meet these requirements,” he continues, “then you must agree to sign up as a business major at the end of the summer and writing will remain a hobby. Deal?”
He holds out his hand and I shake it, halfway surprised they didn’t draw up a contract for me to sign. I was expecting the grade condition, and the letter should be easy enough. It’s a fairly small class, only fifteen students, and I signed up as soon as the registrations went live because I was so paranoid that I wouldn’t get in.
Of course, if my super-secret plan goes the way I want it to, then the summer school stuff won’t really matter. I’ll still do it, of course, but when I send them my course grade and letter of recommendation at the end of the summer, I’ll also be able to include the name of my fancy new agent in the envelope. What better proof could there be of my potential as a writer?
It has to happen that way. There is no other choice, because I’d rather hide out in a tree house, eat squirrels, and pee in a pot for the rest of my life than be a business major. This is my one chance to make my dreams come true and nothing is going to stand in my way.
6
Ben
I stay on the sofa, sleeping on and off but mostly hiding like a complete chicken-shit loser for the rest of the day. Pipes gets back around six, and she and Nat have a whispered conversation about whether or not they should wake me up to go out for Piper’s farewell dinner. Piper (of course) is all for dropping Chuckles on my head and dragging me to the restaurant, but Natalie convinces her that I must be exhausted after the trip and they should leave me to sleep.
I’m not sure if she’s being considerate or if she doesn’t want to face me after last night, but either way I’m grateful. Sushi with Piper and a gaggle of her friends sounds like torture right about now, and I need to get my shit together, so I can go see Adam tomorrow.
I wait until I’m sure they’re really gone, then roll off the sofa, grab the dog, and go look for something to eat. An hour later I’m back with a burrito and a six-pack. It takes three beers before I can force myself to go downstairs and face the remnants of my life, but once I’m down there I go to town. All the snowboarding shit gets shoved in the storage closet. At first, I stack the boxes carefully, but by the end I’m slinging stuff in there as fast as I can. I’m a little more careful with the boards, stacking them up on the built-in shelves in the back. Part of me wants to take my avalanche shovel and hack the shit out of them, but I can’t do it. Too disrespectful, I guess.
The samurai helmet and any boxes with foreign postmarks get the same treatment. I don’t remember what’s in them and that’s the way I want it. Two hours later I’m sweating like a pig, but the big room is clear of just about everything except some boxes of books from my parents’ place in Breckenridge. No idea how they ended up here.
Maybe my dad went on one of his cleaning jags and sent them down with Piper. Usually he’s a pretty mellow guy but if you mess with his garage space, he freaks out. I used to get emails in Brazil or Japan asking me what I wanted him to do with my bike from when I was ten or my old snowboarding boots. Once something’s in his sight, he will not rest until it has been put into its proper place. If he ever sees the way I tossed all that equipment into the storage room, he’ll have a fucking coronary.
The dog stuck with me for a while, sprinting back and forth between the rooms and chasing after everything I threw. Then he collapsed on the same pile of jackets as last night and fell into a deep sleep, his legs twitching occasionally, maybe attacking more boxes in his dreams.
I unfold an old lawn chair I found in the piles and sit down next to him, cracking open the last beer.
“What am I going to call you, huh?”
He rolls over at the sound of my voice, but he doesn’t wake up. He’s a good-looking dog, black and kind of fluffy with white and brown markings like a Bernese Mountain dog. The vet I took him to after I rescued him told me he’s still young, but that he’s going to be huge. She thought he was a mutt, but she said I could give him a DNA test to be sure. I cannot believe people actually pay for shit like that, but I guess everyone’s got to make a living. Even dog DNA testers.
The vet also did an X-ray and told me someone had broken at least three of his ribs, which made me want to get back in my car and finish punching the shit out of the asshole who gave me the shiner.
“Bilbo? Gandalf? Dent?” I try out the names, seeing how they feel as they roll off my tongue.
“You are such a dork.”
The beer’s mellowed me out enough not to jump at the sound of Piper’s voice, but she totally managed to sneak up on me. I’m going to have to get a lock for that door. At least she didn’t catch me with my hand in my pants like Natalie did last night.
“Don’t give him a hobbit name,” Piper says. She stumbles a bit on the last stair and plops down next to the dog. “The other dogs will make fun of him.”
“Hobbits are cool as shit,” I inform her, picking up the argument we’ve been having since Mom read us The Hobbit as a bedtime story. I fell in love with Tolkien and Piper hid under the bed. Neither of us has ever recovered.
“I should name him,” Pipes says. “I’m awesome at stuff like that.”
I grin. “How many drinks did you have?”
“A few.” She screws her face up. “How about Buckles? Or Smuckles?”
“No.”
“Cluckles?”
“You seriously want us to be brother and sister roommates with two pets named Chuckles and Cluckles? Because I gotta tell you, that prett
y much guarantees that neither of us will ever have sex again. Just saying.”
“Fair point. Name him Loki.”
That’s actually not bad, but I’m not admitting it to her.
She holds out a hand, so I haul her up. “Need help on the stairs?”
“I got it. Will you be around tomorrow?”
“I’m leaving around ten to go see Adam.” His parents texted me earlier that they arrived and were looking forward to seeing me, which made me chug a beer in one long gulp.
Piper’s face goes soft. “Right. Well, tell him I said hi. If you think he wants to hear it.”
I nod, even though I won’t.
“I’m leaving early to get moved into my new place, but I might come back this weekend. So, in case I don’t see you in the morning…” She pulls me in for a huge hug. “I’m really glad you’re safe,” she whispers, so softly I almost don’t hear her. I don’t answer.
Once she’s upstairs, I dig through the book boxes, waiting until it’s all clear before I go up and crash on the sofa. I’ll have to get a bed at some point, but the thought of ordering it and organizing delivery exhausts me. Maybe in a few days, after I figure out Adam’s therapy schedule. I find a bunch of books from high school and, tucked at the very bottom of the second box, a few figurines from Lord of the Rings. I grin when I see the Treebeard figure, remembering the conversation Natalie and I had about Ents. I toss it from hand to hand a few times and decide to leave it outside her door before I go to sleep, like she left me the Band-Aids. A peace offering.
It’s gone when I wake up, which makes me smile all morning, even when I’m walking along the hospital corridor on the way to face Adam and his family. I stand outside the door for a full five minutes before I go in, preparing myself. It’s always a shock to see him, and I need to get straight in my head that I’ll be walking into a room with Adam Now, not Adam Then.
Adam Then had dark hair that fell to his shoulders in a perpetual black snarl because of all the time he spent in hats and helmets. He rocked a dark beard unless his mom was going to be around, and he was always in motion. The dude was never still. Even if we were sitting around watching TV, he’d be tapping his fingers or shuffling his feet. He was always jonesing to get out on the snow.