by Sarah Dessen
“I can’t believe this,” my mother muttered to herself, bemoaning the rumbling thunder as she passed my half-open door. “It’s like we’re cursed or something.”
I sat down on my bed, then reached into the bag, pulling out the package. It was heavy in my hands as I shifted it into my lap, my fingers already loosening the wrapping paper.
“Honestly,” she called out, over another thunderclap, “how are you supposed to plan for a day like this?”
The paper was coming off now, wrinkling, ripping, and even though I knew there was something familiar in the shape that was emerging, I couldn’t place it.
“The lawn, the catering, the tent,” my mother said, passing by again. “What happens now?”
I just sat there, looking at my gift, feeling my heart beating loud in my chest, then lifted my hand and pressed it over the one on the sculpture in my lap. A lot of things were beginning to make sense, while others were more confusing than ever. All I knew was that this heart in hand was mine. I’d wanted a sign, and all this time it had been so close by, waiting for me to be ready to find it.
My mother’s last question was still echoing in my head as outside my window there was the biggest thunderclap yet. It shook the house, the windowpanes, the very earth, it felt like. And then, just like that, it was pouring. She’d gotten her answer. And so had I.
Chapter Twenty
When I came downstairs, all hell was breaking loose.
I’d put my heart in hand on my bedside table next to my angel, then stood up, sure now of what I had to do. As I came into the kitchen, though, I found my mother and sister in a frenzy of furniture rearranging, pushing chairs and couches up against walls in an attempt to somehow open up space for seventy-five people in our dining room, foyer, and living room.
“Macy,” Caroline said to me, rushing past carrying an end table, “do something about the stools.”
“Stools?” I asked.
“The island stools,” my mother shrieked as she passed going the other direction, dragging a settee. “Put them against the wall. Or in my office. Do something with them! Just get them out of here!” Her voice was loud, wavering, crazy sounding, and for a second I just looked at her. But only for a second. Then I did exactly as I was told.
I’d seen my mother under pressure. I’d seen her grieving. But I’d never seen her look as out of control as she did just then, and it scared me. I turned and looked at Caroline, who just shook her head and went back to pushing one of the recliners against the den wall. There was no way a person could carry this much stress for much longer, I thought. Eventually, something had to give.
“Mom,” I said to her as she passed by again, reaching out my hand to touch hers. “Are you okay?”
“Macy, not now!” she snapped. I pulled my hand back: now, even that was too much. “Please, honey,” she said, shaking her head. “Not now.”
For the next twenty minutes, I could see the tension building, in her neck, her features, the shaking timbre of her voice as one bad thing after another kept happening. When the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. When the superintendent called to report that one of the windows in the model townhouse was leaking from all the rain. When the lights flickered, went out, then flickered back on again, still not seeming too steady. Each time, I watched my mother react, her body tensing, her voice rising, her eyes moving wildly across the room, scanning for one thing or another. Whenever she caught me watching her, I’d quickly look away.
“I’m worried about Mom,” I said to Caroline as we tried to push the huge, oak-framed couch in the living room a foot or so backwards. Even with both our weights, it wasn’t even budging. “I don’t know how I can help her.”
“You can’t,” she told me. “It’s not worth even trying.”
“Caroline.” I stopped pushing. “God.”
She pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Macy,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Just then, I heard the front door open and someone’s heels clack into the foyer.
“Good God,” Kristy said. “What the hell is going on here?”
I let my arms go slack, grateful for an excuse to do so, and turned around. There she was, standing in the foyer, carrying a stack of foil-covered pans. Monica was beside her, holding a cooler with a couple of cutting boards balanced on top. Bringing up the rear, carrying several long loaves of French bread under each arm, was Delia.
“We’re having,” I said to Kristy as the lights flickered again, “a little bit of a crisis.”
There was a rattle, then a clank, as Bert appeared in the door, forcing Delia to step aside as he pulled one of the banged-up stainless-steel carts over the threshold. Outside, the rain was still coming down sideways.
“Crisis?” Delia asked. “What kind?”
Then in the powder room to her right, there was shriek, a crash, and everyone fell silent, the only sound the rain pelting the windows. Then the door opened, and my mother emerged.
Her cheeks were flushed from all the exertion of moving things, her lipstick smeared in one corner. She was still wearing my shoes, which were markedly too small for her, and there was some sort of dirt stain on the hem of her skirt. She looked tired. Beaten down. Or maybe even just beaten. And in her hand was the decorative soap dish from the powder room, which was now in two pieces.
It was just a soap dish, innocuous enough that I couldn’t even remember when we’d gotten it. But my mother, staring at it in her open palm, was for some reason close to tears. I felt something rise up in my chest, and realized I was afraid. Terrified. I was used to seeing my mother many ways, but never weak. It made me feel small enough to disappear.
“Mom?” Caroline asked. “Are you—”
But my mother didn’t seem to hear her, or even notice that any of us were there. Instead, she started down the hallway to the kitchen, taking slow, deliberate steps. She reached up, wiping her eyes, as she turned the corner toward her office, not looking back at any of us. A second later, I heard the door shut with a click.
“Oh, my God,” I said.
“It’s just a soap dish,” Kristy offered helpfully. “I bet she can get another one.”
Beside me, I could see Caroline already turning to follow, assuming, of course, that she would be the one to handle this. But I’d been waiting for a chance to talk to my mother for too long, always finding myself thwarted in one way or another, by my fears or her own. It was time to try again.
So as Caroline started down the hallway, I put my hand on her arm. She looked up at me, surprised. “Let me,” I said, and then I went to my mother.
When I pushed the door open, she was standing behind her desk, her back to me. And she was crying, her shoulders shaking. The sound of it immediately brought a lump to my throat, and I wanted to turn and run. But instead, I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
She didn’t turn around. I wasn’t even sure she knew I was there. But as I stood watching her, I realized how truly hard it was, really, to see someone you love change right before your eyes. Not only is it scary, it throws your balance off as well. This was how my mother felt, I realized, over the weeks I worked at Wish, as she began to not recognize me in small ways, day after day. It was no wonder she’d reacted by pulling me closer, forcibly narrowing my world back to fit inside her own. Even now, as I finally saw this as the truth it was, a part of me was wishing my mother would stand up straight, take command, be back in control. But all I’d wanted when she was tugging me closer was to be able to prove to her that the changes in me were good ones, ones she’d understand if she only gave them a chance. I had that chance now. And while it was scary, I was going to take it.
I crossed the room, coming up behind her. I had so many things I wanted to tell her. I just didn’t know where to begin.
Finally she turned around, one hand moving to her face, and for a second we just stood there, staring at each other. A million sentences kept starting in my head, then trailing off. This was the
hard part, I thought. Whatever was said next started everything, so it had to be strong enough to carry the rest that would follow.
She took a breath. “I’m—”
But I didn’t let her finish. Instead, I took one step forward and slid my arms around her neck. She stiffened, at first, surprised, but I didn’t pull back, moving in even more and burying my face in her shoulder. At first I didn’t feel her own arms sliding around me, her body moving in to enclose mine. I could feel her breath in my hair, her heart against my chest. After all this time, it could have been awkward, all elbows and hipbones. But it wasn’t. It was perfect.
And as I held her, I kept thinking back to that night at the clearing, and what I’d told Wes. For once, I’d just let her know exactly how I feel, without thinking first. Finally, I had.
Somewhere in the midst of all this, down the hallway, I could hear Caroline’s voice. She was in the kitchen, explaining our crisis to Delia, detailing every little thing that had gone wrong. As she did so, my mother and I held tight, leaning into each other. It was like that part of the roller coaster where the click-clack-click stops as you reach the top of the hill, and you know for sure that the uphill part is finally behind you, and any minute you’ll begin that wild rush to the end.
I was ready. And I think she was, too. But if she wasn’t, I could get her through. The first step is always the hardest.
“Okay,” I heard Delia say. “Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”
“Ho-ly shit,” Kristy said, shaking her head. “Now that’s some rain.”
“Kristy,” Delia said in her warning voice.
Caroline sighed. “No, she’s right,” she said. “It really is.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Monica added.
It was, indeed, still raining. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the lights had continued to flicker, although that could have been attributable to the wind, which was, yes, still blowing. Hard. A few minutes earlier, on the TV, our local weather girl, Lorna McPhail, had stood there in front of her Doppler map, eyes wide, as she explained that while a shower or two had been in the forecast, no one had expected this sort of incident.
“Incident?” Caroline had said as Lorna turned back to her map. “This isn’t an incident. This is the end of the world.”
“Nah,” Bert told her as he passed behind her with a trayful of wineglasses, “the end of the world would be much worse than this.”
Caroline looked at him. “You think?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Absolutely.”
Now, it was seven sharp, and our first arrivals were still sitting in their cars, optimistically waiting for a break in the torrential downpour. In a minute, they’d get out, come up the walk, and step inside, where everything was ready. The canapés were warming in the oven, the bar was stocked with ice and beverages, the cake that said in red icing WILDFLOWER RIDGE-A NEW PHASE BEGINS! was displayed on the table, encircled by flowers and stacks of brightly colored napkins. Plus, the whole house smelled like meatballs. And everyone loves meatballs.
After Caroline detailed our situation, I’d listened to Delia do what she did best: move into action. Within fifteen minutes, several of the tables and chairs we’d rented had been brought inside and assembled throughout the house (“bistro-style,” she’d called it), then topped with thick vanilla-scented candles she’d had stashed in the van from a bridal shower weeks ago. The lights were dimmed in case they went out entirely—while making everything feel somehow cozy—and she’d put Bert and Monica to work doubling up on baking appetizers, reasoning that if people were well fed, they’d hardly notice that they barely had room to turn around. Caroline was sent to find a soap dish, and Kristy was stationed by the door with a tray of full wineglasses to offer up the minute people stepped inside (slightly buzzed people, Delia reasoned, would notice less as well).
Meanwhile, my mother and I were sitting on the edge of her desk, the Kleenex box between us, looking out at the rain.
“I wanted this party to be perfect,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.
“No such thing,” I told her.
She smiled ruefully, tossing a tissue into the garbage can. “It’s a total disaster,” she said with a sigh.
For a second, neither of us said anything.
“Well, in a way it’s good,” I said finally, remembering what Delia had said to me, at that first party, all those weeks ago. “We know where we stand. Now things can only get better. Right?”
She didn’t look convinced. But that was okay. So she didn’t fully get it yet. But I had a feeling she would. And if not, there was more than enough time, now that this had finally begun, for me to explain it to her.
When we came out into the kitchen a few minutes later, Delia was laying out crab cakes. She took one look at my mother and insisted that she go upstairs and take a hot shower and a few deep breaths. To my surprise, my mother went with no argument, disappearing for a full twenty minutes. When she came back down, hair damp and wearing fresh clothes, she looked more relaxed than I’d seen her in weeks. There is a certain relief in things getting as bad as they could be. Maybe this second time around my mother was beginning to see that.
“What did you say to her?” my sister asked me, as we watched her come down the stairs.
“Nothing, really,” I said. I felt her looking at me, but this was partially true. Or true enough.
Kristy was at the front door, tray in hand, as my mother passed her. “Wine?” she offered.
My mother paused, about to demur politely, but instead she took a deep breath. “What is that wonderful smell?”
“Meatballs,” I said. “You want one?”
Again, I expected a no. But instead, she reached for a wineglass, took a sip, and nodded at me. “Yes,” she said. “I would love one.”
Now, as she stood with all of us in the front window, there was one last thing I was wondering about. I’d held off as long as I could, hoping someone would offer an explanation, but finally there was nothing to do but ask outright. “So,” I said, still looking out at the cars, “where’s Wes?”
I saw Monica and Kristy exchange a look. Then Kristy said, “He had to run some pieces down to the coast this morning. But he said he’d stop by on his way back, to see if we needed him.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
An awkward silence followed this, during which I, and everyone else, just stared out at the rain. Gradually, though, I became aware of someone sighing heavily. Then clearing her throat. Repeatedly.
“Are you okay?” Bert asked Kristy.
She nodded, letting loose with another vehement a-hem. I glanced over at her, only to find her staring at me. “What?” I said.
“What?” she repeated. Clearly, she was annoyed. “What do you mean, what?”
“I mean,” I said, somewhat confused, “what’s the problem?”
She rolled her eyes. Beside her, Monica said, “Donneven.”
“Kristy.” Delia shook her head. “This isn’t the time or the place, okay?”
“The time or the place for what?” Caroline asked.
“There is never,” Kristy said adamantly, “a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.”
“Throbbing?” my mother said, leaning forward and looking at me. “Who’s throbbing?”
“Macy and Wes,” Kristy told her.
“We are not,” I said indignantly.
“Kristy,” Delia said helplessly. “Please God I’m begging you, not now.”
“Wait a second, wait a second.” Caroline held her hands up. “Kristy. Explain.”
“Yes, Kristy,” my mother said, but she was looking at me. Not really mad as much as confused. Join the club, I thought. “Explain.”
Bert said, “This ought to be good.”
Kristy ignored him, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Wes wants to be with Macy. And Macy, whether she’ll admit it or not, wants to be with Wes. And yet they’re not together, which is
not only unjust, but really, when you think about it, tragical.”
“That’s not a word,” Bert pointed out.
“It is now,” she said. “How else can you explain a situation where Wes, a truly extraordinary boy, would be sent packing in favor of some brainiac loser who severed ties with Macy because she didn’t take her job at the library seriously enough and, even worse, because she dared to say she loved him?”
“Why,” I said, feeling as embarrassed while this was broadcast as I had been the first time she’d stated it aloud, “do we have to keep talking about this?”
“Because it’s tragical!” Kristy said.
“Jason decided on the break because you told him you loved him?” my mother asked me.
“No,” I said. “Yes. Not exactly. It’s a long story.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Kristy said. “It’s wrong. You should be with Wes, Macy. The whole time you guys were hanging out, talking about how you were both with other people, it was so obvious to everyone. It was even obvious to Wes. You were the only one who couldn’t see it, just like you can’t see it now.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Monica said, picking some lint off her apron.
“Wes never felt that way,” I told her. I was fully aware that my mother—and Caroline, not to mention everyone else—was listening, but somehow I didn’t care. Too much had happened this night already. “He was always going back to Becky, just like I was going back to Jason.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
“It is true. He’s been back with her. For weeks,” I told her.
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“But I saw them together. At the World of Waffles. They were—”
“Breaking up,” she finished for me. “That was the night he saw you at Milton’s, right, and he said he had an appointment?”
I nodded, still confused.
“He was on his way to break up with her.” She paused for a second, as if she could see this sinking in, all finally coming together. “He wants to be with you, Macy. Now if it was me, I would have told you that night, but he’s not like that. He wanted to be free, totally in the clear, before he let you know how he feels. He’s just been waiting for you, Macy.”