The Moment Before

by Suzy Vitello

  I nod, but I’m sad. If I weren’t already way late and my feet weren’t killing me, I’d walk over the hill with him. It’s a good six or seven miles though, so I wave goodbye like a kindergarten kid getting on a school bus. And I’m not even embarrassed by my dorkiness.

  My cell phone has eight voicemails on it. Dad, Martha, Mom, Mom, Martha. A few from some kids in my art class. On the bus toward downtown I delete them all without listening. I’m feeling bold, but also, I don’t want to hear any other voices beside Connor’s right now. I’m replaying our conversations and my body is doing the weird crush thing—the funny belly, lava-like heat. A lightness. I totally get why people in musicals break into song when they feel this way. So weird. This boy, I hated his guts a week ago. The this-way-and-suddenly-that-way of it all. Like Sabine, cheering one second, dead the next. Life and death rubbed up against each other, a paper-thin border between them.

  I dial her number now, and she’s back, telling me to give her a “G.” Her breathless voice, never stopping for air. She lived in fast-motion to the end. Her cheer against my ear, I close my eyes and picture her in her final minutes. A bunch of cells dividing inside of her. A combination of her and Nick. Nick, who told her she was ruining his life. Nick, who sobbed at her service, telling my parents that he really thought they’d marry someday. Why didn’t she tell me about Nick? About getting pregnant? In my head, I ask her this over and over.

  She was odd that way, though. So forthcoming about losing her virginity, but taking some pill to calm her nerves. Her and Martha, always pushing the edge, and then needing something to settle them down. I remember a few days before the accident, Sabine, Martha and I rode the bus downtown to Pioneer Square. They ordered triple espressos, stirred in some brown sugar, and slammed them. On the bus home they were so amped up, they both popped little white pills. Up:Down. Crazy.

  I wonder what it would be like to crave the spotlight. To want people to watch and admire you. Maybe that’s why Sabine had so many secrets. She needed to keep some things locked in a place where only she had the key.

  There’s no way Martha knew. There can’t be. She wouldn’t have told Martha and not me.

  There are only a handful of us on the bus when it pulls into the downtown corridor. With the twin phones, one in each hand, I step out onto the street where a shopping-cart woman is picking through the barrel of a public trash bin. The homeless woman, who looks sixty, picks up her head and smiles at me. She says, “You gotta spare dollar for a grandma?”

  I return her smile and shake my head, thinking of Nona. Nona would be crushed to think of Sabine dying not a virgin—pregnant, no less. She and her countless rosaries: the black one, the mother-of-pearl one, the one supposedly blessed by the Pope. “We pray to the Virgin, Brady,” she’d said, pulling me down next to her in front of a stand of votives at Saint Mary’s. “Sabine, she died a pure girl. The Virgin protects her own.”

  It seemed ludicrous to me that Nona and her religious ilk thought of Jesus’ mother as someone who’d never had sex. Virgin:Whore. Another paper-thin border.

  The 44 stops in front of me, the door gasping open. I’m a solitary rider on this bus, and it lurches along Broadway, winds around the maze of streets to Barbur, and by the time we’re near my stop, I’ve listened to Sabine’s demanding me to have a great day a dozen times. The thirteenth time I hear her, I leave a message. “Are you OK, wherever you are?” I say into the tiny speaker of my phone.

  My blistered feet are swollen out of my shoes by the time I round my corner and my driveway looms into view. Safety, danger, safety, danger, in my head as I walk by the lawns. My house looks different somehow, as I walk toward it. Then it hits me why. Sabine’s Volvo. It’s gone.

  Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table with some documents in front of her, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She doesn’t look up when I enter. Dad’s in front of the TV in the adjoining room. He clicks it off and comes into the kitchen, where I’m rooting around for leftovers in fridge. Nothing. Onto the cereal cabinet then.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demands, slurrily.

  I don’t have to get any closer to know that if I did, I’d smell beer or whiskey off of him.

  “I had to meet someone,” I say. “A school thing.”

  He slams a fist down on the kitchen counter. “I pay your god damn phone bill every month, I expect you to call when you’re out late. You had me worried sick.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and pour milk into a bowl of All Bran and Lucky Charms.

  Dad grabs the spoon out of my hand and wags it at me. “What is going on, young lady?”

  Mom slaps her pen down. “John, please. Yes, Brady, we left you several messages. It’s common courtesy.”

  So many places I could go with this, I know. What to say. What to leave out. I squeeze a fist into my hand like I’m about to punch someone. My feet throb. “I was asked by my teacher, to go to Mrs. Cupworth’s house with her. There’s a to-do about the prize. I’ve been thinking, these last few hours, about how to handle it.” And then, for good measure, and because I want to know if I, too, can play a bluffing hand, I add, “Sorry I didn’t check in. My phone died.”

  “See, I told you, John. What do you mean, a ‘to-do?’”

  “Some people,” I begin, “seem to think that the prize was given to Martha instead of me because if they gave it to me, it would look like hush money.”

  “What people?” says Mom. “That’s ridiculous. I told you the whole lawsuit theory was half-baked in therapy the other day. Mr. Field showed me your grades, Brady. That’s why. That’s the only reason why.”

  Dad is trying to catch up. He’s still wagging the spoon in mid-air. “You should have borrowed someone’s phone. Don’t they have landlines in those West Hills estates?”

  “So, have you decided yet? About suing?” I want to know.

  “Your father and I are at an impasse in regards to that,” Mom says, her dagger-eyes peeking over her glasses at Dad.

  Dad, spews, “Making her do those ridiculous stunts—that scorpion move. If for no other reason, I’d like to make people aware. Prevent another father from having to bury his daughter.”

  Before I can stop myself, I say, “We didn’t bury Sabine. We burned her.”

  “Brady!” Mom cries.

  In one fluid motion that only an ex minor-league baseball pitcher can pull off with grace, Dad flings my cereal spoon across the room, and backhands me right across the face.

  The pain cracks through me, but I take it. I’ll have a child-services-sized bruise blooming on my cheek by morning, and I’m glad. I stand there glaring at my father, who is not yet remorseful, but I know soon will be. Rager:Regretter, says the voice of Sabine.

  “Where is Sabine’s car?” I demand.

  My father’s hand pulsates into a fist and out of it. “I gave it to Nick,” he says, before striding out of the kitchen and through the door to the garage.

  I’m still in shock, my cheek stinging, when the sound of garage door ratcheting along its chain fills the room. Then Dad’s revved engine, and the squeak of tires burning rubber down the length of our drive.

  thirteen

  There are stains the next day. On my cheek, in the driveway. Black and blue marks made by a fist and rubber tires. Mom left a note on the table.

  Hope you’re OK. Had to go into work early. Have asked Dr. Stern to meet us this afternoon at 4:00. Please don’t be late.

  My feet are two throbbing, bloody slabs of meat. There is a smear of charcoal-black under my eye and around my cheekbone. If ever there was an excuse to not go to the school … but I’m not sure I can stay home, either. Dad never returned last night, and I’m certain he’ll show up, hungover and apologetic. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. With or without our therapist.

  Plus, my feet the way they are, there’s no way I’ll be much good on foot.

  In Sabine’s room I find some padded Smartwool socks
and the orthopedic nurse shoes she’d wear when her own feet were bunioned up from dance class. To complete the frump look, the abused housewife ensemble, I choose one of Nona’s dusters leftover from her hip-surgery stay with us, under which I’ve donned a Spandex unitard. After I add a pair of I-walked-into-a-door sunglasses, I’m ready to go, and be the weird, artsy outcast they’ve come to know and avoid.

  In school, Mrs. McConnell isn’t buying it. She seems distracted all period, and her thoughts on Faulkner and duplicity and existentialism are stalled out. Even Cathi and her ever-raised hand can’t get a rise out of her. I’m not surprised when, again, she keeps me after class.

  “Take them off, Miss Wilson,” she says, pointing at my ten dollar RiteAid shades.

  My face is the sort of lopsided swollen of movie-of-the-week heroines. I can feel it. But Mrs. McConnell is an experienced sleuth. She says, “I am a mandatory reporter, you know.”

  “I was in a car accident,” I spit out. “The other day. I was driving my sister’s car, and I stopped suddenly, to avoid a dog, and my head hit the wheel. I don’t have a license. My parents don’t know I drove. Report if you must, I know I deserve it, but it’ll only add to their troubles.”

  My Classics teacher ponders my lie. She’s had decades of bullshit, and her meter is honed. But, I’m learning how to lie pretty well these days. Getting some sort of latent crash course. It’s easier to poker-face when only half your face looks normal. Finally, after circling me, and scrutinizing my outfit, she lets it go. “Ms. Bowerman told me about the Art Show investigation.”

  So now it’s an investigation?

  “Mrs. Cupworth is rankled,” I say. “But she’s been very gracious to me. And Bowerman—Ms. Bowerman—too. I hope it all works out, the article. You know, with the vote coming up and funding on the line and everything.”

  “Well, politics aside, I’m not sure if it’s the right time to be bringing you into the middle of a battle. And, I’ve said as much.”

  I’m not sure why Mrs. McConnell has taken such an interest in my well-being. Language Arts has never been my forte. I’m a solid “B” student in this class, not exactly a genius.

  “Art is pretty important to me,” I manage.

  “I know, dear. And I’ve seen your work. Promising. You have an eye for truth.”

  An eye for truth.

  “Well, if that’s all, I shouldn’t be late for Spanish,” I say, feeling naked, suddenly.

  “That is all,” she says, and, before I’m truly out the door, “Brady?”

  “Yes?”

  She points to her eye, “When you’re ready to talk about what really happened there, I hope you’ll feel comfortable enough to share it with me.”

  After last period, I immediately dash out the main doors. Sore feet or not, I can’t stand another minute in this building. I’m halfway jogging, my backpack bouncing up and down against the soft cotton of my grandmother’s housedress. And then, there it is. In the school lot. Already retagged with a new parking sticker. Nick’s managed to find time in the last twenty-four hours to wax it up, and it reminds me of the way dogs have to pee against every blade of grass in another dog’s yard. There’s even a new bumper sticker on the back. LAX: Trample the weak. Hurtle the dead.

  Really?

  My stomach lurches up into my throat. I think I’m going to vomit. I start jogging for real, and oddly, my feet feel up to the task. The bump, bump, bump of my textbooks up and down in my backpack only makes me run faster.

  It’s cool outside. Overcast and heavy. I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but I keep turning corners, crossing streets. I just want to be away from people.

  My backpack starts ringing.

  There’s a picnic table up ahead, in one of those miniature neighborhood parks that time forgot with a metal swing set and long, straight slide. By the time I extract my phone, there’s a voicemail.

  “Hello, Brady? This is Rory Davis, from the Portland Journal. I’m writing an article on the Cupworth situation, and your number was passed along by your teacher, Vanessa Bowerman. I’d love to ask you a few questions. Do you have some time to chat this afternoon or tomorrow?”

  In her practiced calm reporterish voice, she left various numbers and emails, and good times to reach her. I take a breath and realize that my heart is still beating like crazy from my accidental boot camp up the hill. Everything is happening so fast. Maybe Mrs. McConnell is right—people need to back off. Stop asking things of me. I look up and watch a mother push her young daughter on a swing. The mom is very pregnant and looks exhausted. The little girl wants more action; she wants to go higher, and she’s squealing “Do it harder, Mama.”

  I want to let that little girl know that her mother will continue to disappoint her. Not only will she make her get off the swing before she’s ready, soon, there will be a needy little infant in the house gobbling up all her time. For the first time, I try to consider what it must have been like to be an older sister. To have your parents all to yourself, and then, suddenly, not have them all to yourself. Sabine must have resented the hell out of me.

  I sit watching the mother-daughter show in mesmerized silence. I don’t call the reporter and I don’t hustle on over to the therapist’s. Instead, when at last the little girl is pried off the swing a tantrumy mess, the mother yanking her down the little grassy slope, I call Connor.

  He picks up on the first ring with a “Yo.”

  I don’t bother with any chit-chat. Like Nona after the bless-me-father in the confessional, I’m right to the point. “My parents gave Sabine’s car to Nick.”

  “Figures,” he says. Then, “Want to come over?”

  I’m so eager to get there, it doesn’t occur to me until I’m almost at Connor’s front door that I’m wearing this goofy outfit, my enormous backpack pushing me over the edge into certifiable.

  The door is open a crack and when I knock, Connor’s voice pierces the Beastie Boys on the stereo, “C’mon in.”

  Connor’s house is all Stickley furniture and high-end fabrics. His mother’s an interior designer, and his stepdad is an architect, so good taste is the vibe here, and it screams from every corner of the living room. Connor’s back is facing me and he’s fixing a sandwich on a slab of granite bar. “Hungry?” he asks.

  He’s wearing a thin brown tee-shirt and skinny jeans, and everything that’s amazing about his body is accentuated as he puts the finishing touches on the stoner haute cuisine—a white bread PB&J, with extra J.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  When he turns around and catches the grandma outfit, he tries to hide it, but he can’t. His face explodes in laughter. He’s practically snorting as he says, “Nice kicks, Nurse Brady.”

  “Yeah, well, my feet are all blistery from your enforced march through the woods.”

  “I like the apron look too,” he says, stuffing a chunk of his sandwich in his mouth. “Suits you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just, you know, you’ve got that artsy thing going on.” He reaches out to me and chucks me under the chin like you do a little kid, and, reflexively, I slap his hand down.

  “Spicy,” he says.

  “Don’t patronize me Connor Christopher.”

  He fake-pouts before cramming the rest of the Wonderbread. Then he says, “So, Nick’s managed to finagle her car, eh? Dude’s an operator.”

  I drop my backpack and sit down on a bar stool, facing a stainless steel appliance kitchen and a picture window that looks out over blossoming trees. “My folks seem to think he walks on water.”

  “You planning on sharing the counter-evidence to that?”

  I shrug. Connor leans on the counter, positioning that muscular torso right at the level of my hip. His bicep is touching distance. I’m getting distracted. Connor pivots and those green eyes of his are leveled at my cheap sunglasses. “When it comes to assholes like Nick? Sometimes life catches up.”

  “You believ
e in karma?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about the whole Hindu wheel thing, but I do believe in this saying I heard once, ‘live by the ego, die by the ego.’ That’s what’ll happen with Nick. He’s gonna burn some bridges. Big time.”

  I’m wondering about Martha, and what her reaction might be to hearing Sabine’s voicemails. The threats, the anger. “Did you know Martha’s in the running for Rose Festival Queen?” “Nope. I’m not really up on that community stuff, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “And, something else. Mrs. Cupworth and Bowerman want to make a big stink about the Art Fair, how that all went down. There’s a reporter who wants to talk to me about it. It could get ugly.”

  Connor slants his head a little. Narrows his eyes. The Beastie Boys’s Mullet Head fills the room. That meaty hand that held my sister’s foot all last year while her body contorted into bends and straddles, it strokes the sore spot on my cheek I’d all but forgotten about. And then that same hand peels off my sunglasses. His touch is soft as a kitten brushing up against a leg, but his voice goes deep and serious. “Who the fuck did this?”

  I freeze. I don’t even want to say it out loud. How can I? “It’s complicated.”

  “Brady. C’mon. Don’t bullshit me. I know a right hook plant when I see one.”

  He’s calling me on it, and I don’t know what to say. That my dad hit me because I deserved it? That he’s a stupid drunk? The world and everything I know about it died with my sister?

  It’s past 4:00, and I’m sure if I looked down at my muted phone right now there’d be a few missed calls. “I think my parents are going to split up,” I say, shocking myself with the words that I didn’t even know were in my head.

  “Welcome to the Happy-Happy Club. But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

  I wish I could just curl up and be that little kitten I’m imagining when Connor’s fingers stroke my cheek. Have those careful hands hold me, and not have to say another word. “Last night, when I finally got home, my dad was wasted and I know he’d just had it out with my mom, who, by the way, is probably cheating on him. We argued, he slapped me. Big whoop.”