Crawling From the Wreckage

by Michael C Bailey

  “Huh. Cool,” I say, and it is, but I have a hard time picturing my mother and Dr. Quentin having regular lunch dates. What could they possibly talk about? All they have in common is super-hero children, and I can’t imagine they’d get too much mileage out of such a narrow topic.

  “I’ve even had dinner with her family over at the compound,” Mom boasts. “Joe’s a great cook. You’ve had his baby back ribs, right?”

  And she made it weirder.

  “Oh yeah. The man is a master of the barbecue grill.”

  “That he is. And an utter sweetheart.” Mom pauses. “Farley misses you something fierce. I bet he’d love to hear from you.”

  “I’ll put him high on my list of people to call.”

  “Maybe your father should be at the top of that list.”

  I freeze, a forkful of lasagna halfway to my mouth. “He deserves more than a phone call. I should go see him, today.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. First, you should eat before your food gets cold.”

  I take my first bite of my mother’s legendary lasagna and breathe a contented sigh, but it’s a reflexive reaction. All the ingredients are there, literally, and I should be in the throes of a full-body foodgasm, but the lasagna tastes...I don’t know. Lacking. Bland. Strange. What the hell, lasagna? Where’s the magic?

  “As good as you remember?” Mom asks.

  “Oh yeah,” I lie.

  “You should let Sara know. She made it.”

  “...What?”

  “Mm-hm. Sara wanted to expand her repertoire beyond Tex-Mex and Indian food, so I let her take a crack at the lasagna recipe. Pretty good for a first effort, I’d say.”

  That has to be it. It doesn’t taste like my mother’s lasagna because it isn’t. It’s a decent simulation, but it’s not the real deal. That’s why all the flavors are off. Has to be.

  For the sake of propriety, I put on a show of eating the food with enthusiasm, complete with the appropriate yum-yum noises. Mom sits and watches me with a big grin — which is crazy awkward, but I’m not about to tell her to stop. Mom could insist on watching me sleep, and I wouldn’t turn her down, not after everything I’ve put her through.

  Sara comes home as I scrape the plate clean. Okay, maybe her lasagna wasn’t all that bad.

  “Hey, you,” she says. Her cloak is draped over her shoulder, but she’s otherwise still in her super-hero ensemble.

  “What are you doing in uniform? What if someone saw you?” I say, and then I remember. “Oh, right. No more secret identities.”

  “You told her, huh?” Sara says to Mom.

  “It came up,” Mom says, “but I’m letting you handle most of it.”

  “Oh, thanks ever so much. Is there any lasagna left or did you scarf it all down?” Sara asks me.

  “No, still plenty left,” I say.

  “Good, I’m starving.”

  “Busy day, I take it?” Mom says.

  “Didn’t start off that way,” Sara says, heading into the kitchen, “but Skyblazer called us in for an assist, so we had to fly to New Hampshire.”

  “Yeah, about that,” I say. “Who was flying the Pelican? I didn’t see any of the Protectorate around.”

  “Don’t need them anymore. I got certified to fly over the summer.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh-huh. I have all kinds of licenses now.”

  The conversation pauses long enough for Sara to heat up her leftovers. She joins us at the table and between mouthfuls tells me she spent the late winter and early spring getting her pilot’s license (at Edison’s expense, no less), and then once she was small aircraft certified, she learned to fly the Pelican. And this is all on top of getting her driver’s license.

  “You’re a pilot and a driver?” I say.

  “Yep,” Sara beams. “No more relying on Matt to play chauffeur. I can drive us wherever we want to go.”

  “You have your own car, too? What’d you get?”

  Mom jumps in before Sara can answer. “I’m letting her use Dad’s car.”

  “...Oh.”

  “Carrie,” Sara begins, but I cut her off.

  “No, it’s okay. It’s all good. I mean, no one was using it. No sense letting it sit there and rust away.”

  My performance is convincing enough to fool Mom, but Sara’s not buying it. I didn’t think it would. Telepathic connection or no, Sara knows me way too well.

  It’s okay. Really, I say, firing up the long-disused brainphone.

  I told her I didn’t want it, Sara says, her mental voice strong and clear. She said she’d rather let me use it than sell it to some stranger.

  Guess I can’t blame her for that. I smile. It’s nice to have you in my head again.

  Back at you, sis.

  “Hate to eat and run, but I have to eat and run,” Sara says, rising from the table. “Call’s in a couple of hours and I need to grab a shower.”

  “Call?”

  “For my show. I’m in the Kingsport Theatre Guild’s production of The Sound of Music.”

  I jump up so fast I knock my chair over. “What? No way! Are you Maria? You’re Maria, aren’t you?”

  “Sadly, no, but the woman playing Maria is amazing.”

  “She’s Liesl,” Mom says, “and she’s pretty amazing herself.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call my performance amazing,” Sara says with false modesty.

  “‘The golden-voiced Sara Danvers shines in the role of Liesl, imbuing the oldest Von Trapp daughter with vulnerability and endearing spunk,’” Mom says. “Direct quote from the Kingsport Chronicle.”

  “Sara, that’s awesome,” I say.

  She gestures for me to follow her upstairs. “I’ll tell you about it while I get ready.”

  Meg encouraged her to try out for the Kingsport High School spring musical, which happened to be Wicked. The chance to play Elphaba, originally portrayed on Broadway by her musical hero Idina Menzel, was too tempting to resist, so she went for it. She fell short, but not by much. Sara was cast as Nessarose and understudied for the girl cast as Elphaba, who got the role because she was a stronger actress. Ms. Moreno, the drama club adviser, suggested Sara take some acting classes and try out for community theater productions to get a little more experience, so she did. She was cast as Little Red Riding Hood in a late spring production of Into the Woods, and that led to her role in The Sound of Music. Ms. Moreno saw her in both shows and has hinted that she would be a strong contender for a lead role in the school’s spring musical — The Addams Family, of all things, but I can easily see Sara rocking the Morticia look.

  I wait in Sara’s room while she grabs a shower, and I spend the time telling myself that everything is the same as it was when I left. It’s the same bed as before, the same dressers, the same little desk where her laptop lives…

  The photo mounted on the wall above the desk is definitely new, and it takes me a minute to recognize Sara. I’ve never seen her so dolled up. She looks gorgeous. Her hair cascades over her shoulder in loose ringlets, and she’s dressed in a black formal gown, complete with matching arm-length opera gloves. She’s casting a smoldering glance over her shoulder, toward a girl seated at a grand piano. Her I recognize right away thanks to her distinctive head of platinum blonde hair: Meg Quentin, who’s dressed in a white bustier and a black tuxedo jacket. She returns Sara’s gaze with equal intensity, and it’s a miracle the picture frame isn’t melting from the heat they’re both throwing off.

  Sara returns, wrapped up in her bathrobe, her hair bound up in the traditional post-shower towel turban. “I needed that,” she says. “Ah, you noticed the photo.”

  “Hard not to. You two look amazing,” I say. “What’s this from?”

  “Meg got hired to play at this uber-fancy cocktail party in Boston, some kind of fundraiser for a women’s shelter, and she asked me to join her. We spent the night performing old torch songs. It was...” Sara sighs softly and bites her lip. “It was one of the best nights of my life.” />
  It must have been. The mere memory of it is turning her cheeks pink.

  “I guess that answers one of the questions I wanted to ask,” I say. “You and Meg are still together?”

  “We are. Team Dantin is going strong.”

  “Team Dantin? Seriously?”

  “Stuart insisted on portmanteauing us. He said we deserved portmanteau status and Dantin was the best he could come up with. His other suggestion was ‘Smeg.’”

  “Ew.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sara grabs some clothes, and I follow her back to the bathroom, so she can finish prepping and primping.

  “Since we’re on the subject of love lives, how’re the others doing?” I ask. I have a lot of catching up to do, so I might as well start here.

  Sara makes a face. “Depends on who you’re asking about,” she says. “Let’s get the bad news out of the way...”

  And the bad news is very bad: Zina dumped Matt, rather abruptly. Sara skims over the details because “I’d have to tell you, like, three other stories just to establish context,” but the long and short of it is that Zina broke up with Matt because reasons, those reasons weren’t entirely unjustified, but she didn’t handle things as delicately as she could have.

  The same could be said for Natalie’s ex Derek, who one day out of the blue announced he was planning to attend grad school out west and had no interest in taking Natalie with him. She was totally blindsided, Sara says, and it wrecked her hard.

  “She’s mostly bounced back, but it took her a long time.”

  “You’re done depressing me, right?” I say. “Now we’re at the part where you tell me how everyone else is living in a sappy rom-com and they’re all as happy as you and Meg, right?”

  “Not quite, but close. Stuart and Peggy are still together and doing well.”

  “Peggy? Do I know her?” I say. The name is ringing a bell, but it’s not ringing very loudly.

  “She works with Stuart at the youth club. I think they’d just started dating when you left, but they were keeping it on the down-low.”

  “Ah.”

  “Uh, let’s see. Oh, Edison is seeing someone, kinda-sorta, and Missy is dating Bo and Tynan.”

  “Missy’s what the who the what?”

  “Yeah, it’s an unusual situation.”

  “Inexplicable is more like it. Missy is seeing Bo behind Tynan’s back and vice-versa?”

  “No no, nothing like that. It’s more like Missy’s their official permanent third wheel. She hangs out with them a lot, joins them on dates, that sort of thing. We joke that she’s in a relationship with both of them but doesn’t realize it. Word of warning,” Sara says, holding up an accompanying finger of warning. “Missy does not appreciate the joke.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Sara finishes futzing with her hair and nudges me out of the bathroom so she can get dressed. I head back downstairs to find Mom settled in on the couch with a glass of wine.

  “You going to go check in with your father?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. I tell myself the sudden flutter in my stomach is Sara’s sub-par lasagna and not a case of nerves. “Mom?”

  “Hm?”

  “How has Dad been? Have you talked to him at all?”

  “We haven’t spoken much lately,” Mom says, but she can’t bring herself to look me in the eye. “Every once in a while, I call him to check in, see how he’s doing, but they’re very short conversations.”

  “He freaked out when I left, didn’t he?”

  “To be fair, we both did.”

  In other words, yes, he freaked out. Great. If this mountain of guilt gets any higher, it’s going to need its own Sherpa.

  Sara jogs downstairs, her phone pressed to her ear. “Uh-huh. Yeah. I’ll tell her.” She pockets her phone and says to me, “That was Edison. He says welcome back and he’d like to see you tomorrow if you’re up for it, at his office, around noon.”

  “Ah, debriefing sessions with Edison,” I say. “I did not miss those.”

  “No one does. Okay, off I go to entertain the masses.” Sara gives me a goodbye hug and says over the brainphone, Keep Friday night open. I’ve been saving a comp ticket for you.

  Why am I not surprised?

  I’ll be there, I say.

  “Have a good show, honey,” Mom says.

  Sara leaves. I should leave too, get this over with. Yep, here I go. Off to see Dad. Zoom.

  “You’re scared to see him,” Mom says.

  “No,” I say. “Maybe. Yes.”

  “He deserves to know you’re back.”

  “I know. Okay, for real, I’m going.”

  “Carrie?” Her lips curl into a giddy smile. “Can I watch you take off?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ve never actually seen you use your powers.”

  How can I refuse?

  I run back upstairs to grab my headset and tell Mom to follow me out to the backyard. It’s still bright out, so my exit won’t be quite as dramatic as it could be, but what can you do?

  “Might want to stand back,” I say, and I boot up my headset and lay in a course for Dad’s house.

  Mom’s face goes slack as I power up and rise a few feet off the ground. Her expression is one of complete awe. Okay, forget what I said about the lack of drama.

  “Oh,” Mom gasps.

  I rocket skyward, level out, and hit Mach one. The sonic boom echoes behind me like a distant thunderclap.

  That was for you, Mom.

  FOUR

  I reach Cape Cod quickly enough, but I waste several minutes orbiting high above my father’s beachside house while I work up the courage to get this over with. My internal debate is quite lively.

  He’ll be happy to see you.

  Sure, maybe, when he’s done yelling at me for putting him through the emotional wringer.

  He might yell. He might not. You’ll never know until you actually go down there, so woman up and let’s do this.

  Easy for you to say.

  Did Mom yell at you? No, she did not, and if she didn’t go ballistic...

  Good point.

  I know. So stop waffling already. Go.

  Fine.

  I descend and touch down in Dad’s driveway — which, I notice immediately, has a second car in it. He has company. Maybe I should come back later.

  Uh-uh, don’t you dare wuss out now. Get in there.

  All right, all right. God, you’re a pain in the ass.

  Each step toward the house is an act of will. I’m drenched in nervous sweat by the time I reach the door. I raise a hand to knock. It’s shaking. I wind up pounding on the door like I’m an angry neighbor come to complain about the sad state of the greenery between our properties.

  The door opens, and that nagging sense of disorientation I’ve fought with all day comes roaring back with a vengeance because the person who answers is not my father. I do know her, however; it’s my Dad’s maybe-sort-of girlfriend.

  “Oh my God, Carrie?” Tonia says.

  “Tonia. Hi,” I say.

  “What did you say? Who is it?” Dad says from somewhere within the house.

  Tonia stammers. I stammer back. Such sparkling conversationalists we are.

  “Tonia?” Dad says, appearing over her shoulder. His mouth falls open. “Carrie?”

  “Hi, Daddy,” I say.

  Dad practically body-checks Tonia out of the way to get to me.

  Over the course of my life, I’ve never seen my father cry. Tear up a little, sure, on occasion, but never all-out cry. I now have the dubious honor of being the reason Daddy’s bawling in front of me for the very first time. His entire body shudders with each breath, and he threatens to crush me in his arms. Eventually, reluctantly, he lets me go.

  “You’re back,” he says with a relieved but joyless smile.

  “Got back earlier today, yeah,” I say.

  Dad escorts me inside, and this time it is not my imagination; the house is indeed different than
I remember it — not radically, but there are some prominent changes in the décor. There are — dare I say it? — decidedly feminine touches here and there: fresh flowers in a vase on the mantle; pastel yellow summer-weight curtains, complete with matching valances; and I suppose you could call the African-American teenager sitting on the couch a feminine touch. Tonia’s daughter, I’m going to guess? Her head is clamped between a pair of oversized headphones, and she doesn’t so much as glance up as I enter. She’s lost in her own little world.

  “We were about to sit down for dinner,” Dad says. “Would you like to join us?”

  “I’m not hungry. Mom stuffed me with lasagna,” I explain, “but I’ll sit with you. If that’s okay?”

  “Of course it’s okay, honey. Right?” Dad says to Tonia.

  “Of course,” Tonia says. I’d describe her response as polite.

  “Oh, that’s Tonia’s daughter, Kelly,” Dad says. “I’d introduce you but as you can see, she’s very busy.”

  Dad whisks me into the kitchen. Tonia follows us in. She folds her arms and leans against the wall, her expression neutral. Dad lifts the lid of a crock-pot, releasing a cloud of steam carrying the mouthwatering aroma of his beef and barley soup.

  “Maybe I am a little hungry,” I say.

  “Okay.” Dad throws his hands up and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I can think of a few things,” Tonia says icily.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “Tonia, please,” Dad says.

  “Brian, this girl left you a nervous wreck for weeks,” Tonia says. “Do you remember what a mess you were? Now she shows up on your doorstep, out of the blue, and you’re going to pretend she didn’t up and disappear on you?”

  “I’m not pretending anything.”

  “Neither am I,” I say. “I know what I did.”

  “Do you?” Dad asks Tonia again to back off, but that’s not going to happen. She’s got a lot on her mind, and she’s in a sharing mood. “Do you know about the solid week Brian spent holed up in this house, so distraught he could barely bring himself to get out of bed? Did you know about the epic bender that landed him in the drunk tank?”