Far Away

by Lisa Graff

  “Jennie, I’m thrilled you’re getting to know CJ. She’s . . .” Aunt Nic rolls her head to the ceiling, and for a second it looks like she might cry. But then she pulls herself together. “She’s awesome. She’s worth getting to know. It’s just . . . I am so worried that you’re going to blow this. You don’t know the first thing about being a parent, and I can’t stand the thought of that girl getting hurt again.”

  It’s the “again” that I get stuck on. Which time before is Aunt Nic talking about?

  But my mom seems focused on something else.

  “I could’ve been her parent her whole life, Nic,” she snaps back.

  Aunt Nic lets out a growl so loud then that the stragglers in the doorway don’t even bother to wave goodbye.

  “I gave you a million opportunities to see your daughter!” That’s what Aunt Nic shouts at my mom.

  “You kept her away,” my mom argues. She sounds younger, all of a sudden. Like a little sister, I think. “You didn’t want her to know me. You wanted her all to yourself.”

  “Oh, please,” Aunt Nic says. “You could’ve come anytime you wanted. You knew that. You could’ve come five years ago when you said you were going to. We waited for a week, Jennie. I had to tell the poor girl our motor home broke down.”

  I slip down the wall, all the way to the floor.

  Long Beach. The Ferris wheel. One of my happiest memories, and my mom could’ve been in it, too.

  Only she chose not to.

  In the living room, my mom is still arguing. “You’d told her I’d died,” she says. “How was I supposed to show up out of the blue after you told her that? Who does that, Nic? Who lies like that to a little kid?”

  Aunt Nic swallows hard. Her voice is mean, but her face is pained. Broken.

  “Someone who can’t bear to tell that little kid that her mom doesn’t want her anymore,” she replies.

  And then she flicks her eyes to the hall and sees me on the floor.

  I scramble to my feet and race back to the bedroom so she can’t see my face. I don’t want her to see my face, because she’ll know, in an instant, how much I want to cry. And I’m not going to cry.

  “CJ.” Aunt Nic reaches me before I’m able to shut the door on her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into my ear as she scoops me up and cradles me right there in the doorway like I’m a little baby. I am crying. I can’t stop. “I’m so sorry, seedling. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Seedling.

  My heart catches on the name. It’s what my mom always called me, when she was a spirit. Only it wasn’t ever my mother at all. It was Aunt Nic.

  It was always Aunt Nic.

  I let her rock me for a long time, and I don’t even care that I’m crying. And then, when I’m certain there are no tears left to worry about, that’s when I ask the question that’s weighing heavy like a rock in my stomach.

  “Didn’t you mind?” I say the words softly. Like even though I know I can’t cry anymore, maybe I’m not so sure I want to hear the answer anyway.

  “Mind what?” Aunt Nic asks. Just as soft.

  The words are hot, but I push them out.

  “Putting your life on hold,” I say. “For a baby. For me.”

  I had far too much life to put on hold for a baby. That’s what she’d said. That’s what my mother had said.

  “Oh, CJ.”

  And when Aunt Nic pulls back to look at me, I know. I’m certain I know the answer, but she says it out loud anyway. Because Aunt Nic has always been good with words. She’s good, I guess, at a couple things.

  “You are my life,” she tells me.

  SEVENTEEN

  AUNT NIC FINALLY falls asleep, her breath relaxing itself into a steady rhythm as she lies beside me on the futon. But I stay wide awake, all night, and I think. By the time Aunt Nic’s phone reads 5:27 a.m., I am sick of thinking.

  I find two guests crashed on the couch when I slip into the living room in my socks, Aunt Nic’s phone in my hand. Plates and glasses and napkins are littered everywhere. There’s no sign of my mom. Probably in her room. I tiptoe to the bathroom.

  “Nic?” Jax says groggily. It takes him seven rings, but he finally answers. “Are you okay? Is CJ—?”

  “Jax, it’s me,” I tell him. “I’m fine.” I examine my face in the bathroom mirror. Puffy eyes. Greasy curls. “I’m fine.”

  “Hold on, okay, CJ? I . . . Give me a sec.” Jax sounds like he’s thinking himself awake. I hear rustling, then a door creaking open and shut, then after a bit, Jax’s voice again. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake Uncle Oscar. We slept on the tour bus last night. That foldout couch is sweet. Anyway, I’m outside now. What’s going on? It’s early. Are you really okay?”

  The stuff that’s been jumping around in my head all night—it’s hard to put into words. But I guess I must take too long to answer, because Jax says, “Hello? CJ? You still there?”

  “I’m here.” I stick my finger under the dripping faucet, let the water plop cool onto my skin.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  “What if none of this was supposed to happen?” I ask Jax. And Jax takes a long breath, like he knows this is about to be a conversation.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  “What if I messed up what Spirit was trying to tell me?” I say. “What if . . . ?” Drip. “What if there aren’t any spirits at all?”

  Drip.

  Drip.

  “Jax?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Well?” Drip. “What do you think?”

  Drip.

  “I don’t know, CJ.”

  That’s what Jax tells me.

  “That’s not helpful.”

  That’s what I tell Jax.

  He laughs. “Yeah,” he admits. “But . . . I mean, I really don’t know. Some days I think spirits are probably just something we invented so the world makes more sense. But then other days . . . It did seem real, all those signs that led us to your mom. And there are times I’d swear Abuelo is here, watching and helping me out.”

  Drip.

  “So how are we supposed to know what’s right?” I ask.

  Drip.

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Jax tells me.

  Which is obviously wrong.

  “Of course it matters!” I say. “I mean, if Spirit is real, and they’re telling me what to do, then obviously I need to know that. Because how else am I supposed to do what they want?”

  “You do everything everyone wants you to, CJ?” Jax asks me.

  But he already knows the answer to that one. So he asks me something else.

  “What do you want, CJ?”

  The faucet drips for a long time while I think about that.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Too many drips to count.

  But at last I think, just maybe, I have an answer.

  “Hey, Jax?” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  Drip.

  “How would you feel about rescuing me for a change?” I ask him.

  * * *

  • • •

  I leave two things in the bedroom before I tiptoe outside to meet Jax.

  The first is a note for Aunt Nic. Exactly where I’m going. Exactly what I’m doing. I’m not sneaking off this time. I’m just doing something on my own.

  The second is my mom’s orange box from the house in Bakersfield. Those drawings were never mine to have. They always belonged to my mother.

  But the mushroom cap, the cement one from the sculpture, that I keep, tucked into my coat pocket for luck. I’m growing to like the weight of it, like no matter what, it’s there to keep me rooted to something real.

  I’m only outside a few minutes before Jax pulls up in the truck. As soon as I open the door, he offers me a coffee cup. The
re’s another one in the cup holder.

  “It’s from the registration lobby at the RV park,” he says as I take the cup. “It’s about nine thousand times better than Meg’s.”

  “Thanks,” I say, sliding into my seat. And then, as I shut the door, “And, you know, thanks.”

  “’Course.”

  I point Jax in the direction we need to go, and he pulls back onto the road. It isn’t until we’re merging onto the highway that I realize.

  “Wait, how did you drive here?” I ask him. Okay, I shriek it.

  Jax has got his right hand on the stick shift, working through the gears like it’s no big deal. I haven’t helped him once since he picked me up.

  Jax raises his eyebrows, like he’s so proud of himself.

  “No way,” I say.

  “Way.”

  “Well, look at you, Jax Delgado. You’re, like, a real driver now.”

  “Yeah,” he says, a laugh in his voice. “I totally mastered it, right? Just in time to go home.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly I feel like a real jerk.

  “No, CJ, I was joking, I . . .” He points his elbow in my direction, hands still on the wheel. “Ignore me—it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but it’s not your fault. Well, it is your fault, but . . .” He trails off.

  “Jax?” I say softly.

  “Yeah?”

  He is watching the road. Not me. Maybe that’s what makes it a little easier.

  “I’m really sorry. About your job, and about not listening when I should’ve, and about thinking you were looking out for yourself when you were just trying to help me. You were right, obviously, about my mom and the signs and everything. And . . . well, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t answer for a long time, though, and I can’t take it anymore. So I say, “You’re thinking I’m a horrible person, aren’t you?”

  And to that, Jax only replies, “Mmm.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh.

  Jax laughs, too. Just a little.

  “You okay?” I ask. I should’ve asked earlier, but maybe I was afraid to hear the answer. “After last night, I mean. That was really scary, with the crowd. You must’ve . . . Are you okay?”

  Still watching the road, he says, “I’m okay. It was scary, but . . . Anyway, it’s good to know that I can rescue myself sometimes.”

  “You going back to Florida?”

  “I’ve got a flight out this afternoon.” He starts to scratch that arm. “My mom . . .” Scratch-scratch-scratch. “We talked a lot last night. It was good, I think. I told her I need more help, that it’s not so . . .” He pulls his hand away from the scratching and grips the wheel tight. “I can’t count on other people to rescue me all the time, you know?” He looks at me quick. “But I also know I can’t do it by myself all the time, either. I think she gets it. She said she’d help me look into therapy or alternative schools and stuff.”

  “That sounds good,” I tell Jax.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll be back in time for the Christmas boat parade,” I say helpfully. “You can protect your stuffing from Mari.”

  “Yeah.”

  But I can’t tell if he’s happy about that or not.

  “Anyway,” I tell him, “I’m still sorry.”

  “You should be,” he says. But he laughs again, after he says it.

  “Ooh, next exit!” I tell him, pointing. He switches lanes.

  “Okay, so.” He drums his thumbs on the wheel. “Now might be a great time to tell me where we’re actually going, don’t you think?”

  In response, I point to the building that’s just appeared over the crest of the highway. The sign is lit up bright in the not-quite-dawn sky.

  “There,” I tell him.

  Cable 9 news.

  * * *

  • • •

  “You’re early.” That’s what the receptionist in the studio lobby tells me. She looks at the computer screen in front of her, then back to me and Jax. “I don’t have you scheduled for makeup for another half hour.”

  The building is huge, with glass all around. The floor is white marble. There’s a fish tank built into the wall by the reception desk, but it’s a normal-size one, not ridiculous like Roger’s.

  “I’ll wait,” I say, trying to be polite. The receptionist nods us toward a row of chairs, then picks up her ringing phone. We sit.

  “So,” Jax says, still sipping his coffee, even though it must be frozen by now. I told him he could wait in the truck, but he insisted on coming in with me. “You’re really going to do this interview, huh?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

  The truth is, I thought maybe everything would become clear to me once Jax picked me up in the truck. But it didn’t.

  The truth is, I thought maybe I’d know exactly what the right thing to do was when I got here, but I don’t.

  The truth is, when you don’t have anyone telling you which path you need to take, sometimes it’s awfully hard to figure it out for yourself.

  I kick my toe against the white marble floor. “Here’s what I’m not sure about,” I tell Jax. Then I take a deep breath, trying to get the words out the clearest I can think them. “I don’t think what Roger and I did was right. What we said about Aunt Nic, I mean, that she’s a phony. Because it was partly true, but it was a lie, too, the way we said it.”

  Jax nods and sips his coffee, just listening.

  “But I don’t think what Aunt Nic’s been doing is right, either, and I think it’s okay that people know that.” He nods some more. “I just feel like if I do go through with the interview, then I’m saying Roger is right. But if I don’t do the interview, I’m saying Aunt Nic is. And they’re both totally wrong.” I frown. “I was wrong, too.”

  “So . . .” Jax starts as he flicks at the plastic lid of his coffee cup. “Why not go in there and say all of that?”

  “The mango-glaze truth?” I ask, and he smiles.

  I kick the floor again. I remember that woman at my mom’s party last night, when Aunt Nic fessed up to everything, how bored she got halfway through all the truth Aunt Nic had to tell her. I remember, too, at the creepy fish mansion, when Roger tried to tell me things I didn’t want to hear, and I only got angry. Mango-glaze truth may be more real, but chocolate-frosting truth is a whole lot easier to swallow.

  “You think it’s better to tell people a half-truth they’ll actually hear?” I ask Jax. “Or a whole truth they won’t?”

  Jax lifts his coffee to his mouth without sipping, then lowers it again. “I think,” he says, jerking his head toward the clock on the wall behind the receptionist, “you have about twenty minutes to decide.”

  I sigh. I know this is my decision to make, but still. It would be awfully nice if someone made it for me.

  “One thing I’ll say?” Jax tells me, and I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “This person who’s doing the interview?” He nods his head down the long hallway. “She’s probably expecting you to tell the story you and Roger came up with before. If you tell her another story, she might not like it.” I nod. I’d thought of that. “If she doesn’t like what you say in your interview,” Jax goes on, “then they might not put it on the air.” I’d thought of that, too. “And if they don’t air the interview”—he flicks his cup again—“you probably won’t get any money.”

  I blink at the fish tank on the wall. “Yeah.”

  “I thought you needed that money to live with your mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  Maybe, I hope, watching the fish in the tank, there’s still time for me to get another sign—from Spirit, or anyone else out there in the sign-giving business. Maybe if I just pay enough attention, a miniature octopus will pop up inside the fish tank, with a miniature message in its miniature tentacles, and tell me exactly what to do.

>   I wait and wait.

  “You okay, CJ?” Jax asks me.

  I’m staring right at the fish tank when I say what I do next. Because I still wish there’d be a sign, even though I know there won’t be. Even though this is one decision I can make all on my own.

  “I’m not going to live with my mom,” I say. It feels good, actually, to say the words out loud.

  In the reflection of the fish tank glass, I can see Jax nod. One short bob of his head. “And the signs from before?” he asks. “That you thought were pointing . . . ?”

  “I’m not going to live with my mom.”

  I already have a home, that’s what I know now. I’ve had a home my whole life.

  And just as I’m thinking that—I swear, that exact second—I hear the lobby door swoop open, frigid air filling the room, and from behind comes a voice shouting, “CJ!”

  I whip around, and there’s Aunt Nic. Not a sign or a spirit or anything, just a real person who runs at me and squeezes me into a hug like she thinks I’ve been on Mount Everest instead of just a few miles away like I wrote in my note, and she says, “Will you stop running off, you wretched child? You’re going to make me go gray, and I will not look good with gray hair.”

  And I let her hug me, hard. And I hug her back. And then, because she needs to know, I say, “I’m here for my interview. And I might say some things you don’t like.”

  Aunt Nic opens her mouth to respond, but the receptionist interrupts her.

  “Miss Ames?”

  Both Aunt Nic and I look up.

  “Sorry,” says the receptionist. “I meant CJ. We’re ready for you now. I’ll take you back.”

  Aunt Nic still has her grip around me, from that hug. Which is why her voice is so clear in my ear when she tells me, “It’s your story, too, CJ. Say whatever you need to say. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

  I pull away and turn to the receptionist. “You ready?” she asks me.

  Jax gives me a tiny nod of encouragement. Aunt Nic gives me one, too.

  “Ready,” I say. And I follow the receptionist down the hall.