The Moment Before

by Suzy Vitello

  There is nothing about truth in the creed, only faith. Maybe faith is what’s important. Truth just gets in the way. Maybe shoving truth down everyone’s throats is only a way to invite more pain into your life. At the end of the day, maybe the story of how Sabine died, at the hands of a reckless stoner, maybe that’s the right answer. Maybe that’s the tale that goes down in history because it’s the one that works. Dad’s heart will heal. My heart? Well, I’m young.

  We carry a bag of poppy seed bagels, cream cheese, sliced salmon, tomatoes and red onions into the pink aluminum house. I’m holding a fistful of irises wrapped in dark green tissue. My grandparents are in their easy chairs watching an old Doris Day movie, terrycloth towels draped over the headrests of their La-Z-Boys, to absorb the grease from their scalps. It’s one of the things that pains Mom to see, these hints of dying dignity, but, as she says, old age has its own set of priorities.

  “Oh, Sonia, with all the worries, you didn’t need to do this.” Nona says, but anyone can see, she’s really happy to see us. “How is he, John?”

  “Lucky, actually,” says Mom. “It’s too soon to tell how much heart muscle was damaged, but he’s stable and the doctor thinks he has a good chance at a full recovery.”

  Nono turns off the overly loud TV, and calls from the adjoining room. “Does he have a good heart man working on him?”

  Doctors with specialties are all “men” with Nono. You don’t see a dermatologist, it’s a skin man. And if there’s something wrong with your knees or your hips, you see a bone man.

  “St. Vinnie’s is the best place on the West Coast for the heart,” Mom says, echoing Connor’s assurances.

  Mom doesn’t mention anything about the drunk driving, and it occurs to me that Dad’s heart attack will be the story we spin. The booze didn’t cause the accident, a stressed-out heart did. A wave of sadness bowls me over because I understand, for Dad’s sake, why this half-lie must be woven into our fabric, joining all the other lies that are thick as a shawl now. How easy it seems to be to tell yourself the story you want to hear. Dad was a victim, not the cause of his situation. Just like Sabine.

  “Well, happy Mother’s Day, Ma,” says Mom.

  I hand Nona the flowers, and she makes a fuss. Then directs me to run water into one of the fourteen cut-crystal vases she keeps in the curio. “You don’t look so good, Nipote,” she says.

  The fact that I’ve had three hours of sleep and my heart broken, well, that might have something to do with it. Maybe you should get your own heart man, says Sabine, making a rare appearance, her first since Dad’s heart attack.

  I want to tell my dead sister to leave me alone. You got your way. I’ll keep your secret.

  Nona suggests we all eat the bagels and have some iced tea, so we sit down at the Formica table, Nono abandoning his La-Z-Boy, but looking longingly over at it every few minutes.

  Mom is trying to lighten things up over brunch, and she brings up Mrs. Cupworth and her generosity. “Brady really must have impressed that woman,” she says.

  “That the society lady at the Art Night? The one who made the principal look like he saw a ghost when she got up there and pointed her finger? She bought our Brady’s picture?”

  “She’s a huge supporter of the arts. This thing she’s doing, it’s not just for me. She wants to make the studio space available continually.”

  “Nono and I gotta fill out the ballots,” she says, reminded about the arts funding initiative. “The election. I don’t know who to vote for. It’s this idiot or the other idiot.”

  Our bagel brunch goes on like this. Normal Nona and Nono blather. They go from the election to the takeover of the bagel store by a bigger bagel store to echoing Mrs. Cupworth, whether or not it’s warm enough to plant tomatoes, and then, finally, we talk about Dad’s heart attack. And Dad and Mom.

  “We’ve had our problems, but in a weird way, this crisis has served as a wakeup call for us. We’re committed to working things out. And getting Brady back on track.”

  Getting Brady back on track?

  As if she’s reading my mind, Nona says, “I didn’t think our little Nipote was off the track, Sonia. Look what she had to deal with.”

  Nono adds, “She’s smart girl. She’ll be fine.” Then he reaches over and pinches my cheek with his overgrown, thick fingernails.

  “You don’t know everything, Ma,” Mom continues. “About Brady.”

  Sabine’s electric candle is unplugged in the next room. St. Agatha is withholding judgment.

  Nona says, “What I know is our Brady is a special girl. Her heart is full of life. You and John, you raised a good girl.”

  “Amen,” says Nono.

  Mom nods and dabs at some fallen poppy seeds with her index finger. “Yes, she’s smart. And good. But the world is a different place now. The drugs in the school. The casual sex. Navigating a girl through that—it’s one landmine after another.”

  I am tired of being talked about as though I’m not in the room. “Drugs? I don’t do drugs. And I don’t have, uh, casual sex.”

  “Of course you don’t, Nipote,” says Nono, squeezing my cheek again.

  “It’s not you I don’t trust,” says Mom.

  “Boys are boys, Brady,” adds Nona.

  “Connor’s not like that,” I blurt. “In fact, Sabine? She had Nick believing that she and Connor were fooling around, just to get him jealous. If ever there was a girl you should have navigated, well, it wasn’t me.”

  President Kennedy glares at me from the wall. Sabine says, Thanks a lot, Midge.

  So there it is. I’m that fallen apostle called out on canvas in Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Judas, skulking in his green and blue robes, clutching the bag of money. I put a hand over my mouth because I know the next thing that comes out will be about Dad’s drinking.

  And all around the table, our own last supper, our brunch, is silence.

  Finally, Mom calmly gets up and starts clearing the table. I get up too. It is Mother’s Day, after all. Wordlessly, we scrape, rinse, wash, and dry. Wrap up the leftover bagels. Nona and Nono go back to their Doris Day movie. It’s not the Que Sera Sera flick, but one just as adorable.

  When we are done, we offer them kisses and promise to call with updates about Dad. The whole ride back to our house, Mom says nothing. But after we get in the house, and she’s had a chance to call Dad and talk to the doctor, she sits me down at the edge of her bed. For the first time, I see lines around her eyes and mouth. A little gray around her hairline. I’m seeing, in Mom, the old lady she will one day be, and my heart aches for her. She puts an arm around me, and guides my chin so we’re looking eye to eye. She says, “Sometimes love takes a wrong turn, Brady. I’ve taken a wrong turn here and there in the name of love. I want to spare you that pain. You’re my daughter, and I want you to skip right over the heartaches and go directly to the right choice.”

  Her dark Panapento eyes. Her eyebrows tweezed just so. She says, “That’s not fair of me, I realize. You have to make mistakes in order to grow. But I’m begging you. Pleading with you. Do not fall in that murky well right now. Not now.”

  twenty-five

  The Monday after Prom is always a waste. Hungover students. The fallout of whatever breakups or hookups went down. Good luck to Pale Blue Dot or any of them who think actual educating will happen.

  First thing, before trig even, Martha finds me and she’s holding a yellow rose. A perfect yellow rose. “I am so sorry to hear about your dad, Brady,” she says, offering the flower to me. Plus a card.

  My throat is dry but I manage a gracious Thank you. I say, “He’s expected to make a full recovery,” in my robot voice.

  But then, behind her happy, happy Princess face, there’s a little wrinkle. Something not quite right.

  “He is,” I insist. “Going to be fine.”

  “It’s not that,” she says, continuing to thrust the rose my way until I take it from her. “It’s just, well
, Nick told me that you’re involved with Connor.”

  “Involved? Well, not involved, really,” I stammer, sort of Judas-like.

  “And that he’s been filling your head with a bunch of lies.”

  Nick. Of course he’d be doing his best to save his hide now that he knows what I know.

  “Martha, I realize that you’re hot on Nick and all, but, he’s got a dark side. He’s guilty of more than you think.”

  “Guilty of what? You mean loving a girl who cheated on him? Repeatedly?”

  I can’t believe it. Nick’s spreading who-knows-what sort of crap about Connor. I reach my rose-wielding hand toward Martha, but she steps back, like I’m about to strike her.

  “I don’t know what Nick told you, Martha, but it’s not true. And, as far as the Connor thing. I’m not involved with him. Not anymore, anyway.”

  As soon as they’re out of my mouth, those words not anymore, a huge cavern tears open inside of me.

  Martha, though, she bounces up like a happy Jack-in-the-box. “So, you came to your senses, then? About Connor? I’m so happy to hear that.”

  Why am I even friends with this girl? The way she glows with satisfaction when the world matches up to her sense of order and the way things should be. I want to tell her that it’s only temporary. Once Dad recovers, once Mom re-busies herself with her own life, I can see who I want to see. Why should Martha be the only one on the planet who gets to do whatever the hell she wants? I glare at her. “Happy? Well, good for you, Martha. I’m glad you’re happy. Because I am not.”

  She pushes a hunk of her shiny mahogany hair back over her shoulder and grins. “Cheer up, Brady. It’s time you got back into things around here. I’d love it, assuming your dad’s out of the woods and everything, if you could come over later and help me with my Rose Festival Court speech. You’re so good with words, you know?”

  Good with words. Maybe I should show her the power of words. Let her hear Nick in all his glory.

  “I’ll come over, Martha, but there’s a few things you need to know about that boyfriend of yours.”

  “Now, Brady, can’t we just all be friends?” Martha’s Rose Festival smile is lightning rod against any negative Nick information.

  I feel trapped. And then, before I can say anything more, she pours her Martha honey all over everything. “I’ve put the word out. I hope you don’t mind, but there will be dinners delivered. There’s a sign-up schedule on Facebook. A page, actually. It’s called Johnscare. You can like it. Join it. You can write in dietary preferences.”

  “That’s way too thoughtful, Martha,” I tell her. “Really, we can manage.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Your family means so much to me.”

  It hits me that the reason I resent Martha so much is that I think that sometimes she just spouts off with things. That she doesn’t really mean them. Sabine says, Not everyone’s as true-hearted as you, Midge.

  I try to meet her kindness with some of my own. “Martha. You totally will get this Rose Festival Queen thing. Your name stamped into the brick. The whole deal.” And she will. Because the Marthas of the world do get everything they go after.

  She leans in after I say that, and she plants a tiny kiss on my cheek. A small grace.

  Throughout the rest of the day, teachers are extra careful around me. The word sorry rains down on me like confetti. And the flowers. Since when do you give people flowers when their parents are ill? I realize that everyone’s just taking Martha’s lead. Even Walter Pine. Even Cathi Serge. Wilted rhodies, an azalea cluster. It’s Brady Appreciation Day at Greenmeadow.

  And Connor keeps calling and texting. I’ve yet to give him an update. I don’t know what to say to him. He’s wondering if I’ll be over at Mrs. Cupworth’s later. He really wants to see me. He thinks about me all the time.

  My stomach is a knot the size of Blue Dot’s overhead projector.

  Finally, I text him back, Have to go to hospital after school. Dad better.

  I tap out an xo and then delete it. Add it back, delete it. Press send. I wish I could just be sitting in Connor’s truck, next to him, the two of us leaving this world where everything is broken.

  The image of Nona, the way she works a rosary, finds its way into my head. The same way that Martha pops a pill when she’s upset, Nona says a Hail Mary. It occurs to me that when people feel powerless to change the way things are, they try and find some sort of magic. Something they can grab quickly, and believe in. I don’t have that. Maybe that’s my problem.

  It turns out that I’m not going to the hospital after all because Dad’s going to some sort of recovery outpatient thing. It’s unclear whether this has to do with his heart or his drinking problem, and Mom is keeping it unclear. It’s exactly the sort of thing I wish I could talk to Connor about. Family secrets, all the craziness at home. But I’m forbidden to see Connor, so where I am going, for reasons I can’t quite explain to myself, is Martha’s house. To help her with her Rose Festival Court speech.

  Martha’s house is almost as grand as Mrs. Cupworth’s, but much less formal. There’s that pair of mastiffs that lope about. Some exotic birds that screech. Despite the full time staff, the house has a very lived-in feel. Older, worn furniture, scuffed up by pets. They’re wealthy, but total Democrats, the Hornbuckles. Evidence of their foundation associations is everywhere. Handmade Guatemalan rugs made by marginalized mountain women dot their floors. Plaques are hung askew here and there: MAC Club Tennis Task Force donor, Leukemia Society Sponsor, Healthy Rivers and Streams Coordinator. It’s like the Do-Gooder Museum at Martha’s.

  Clearly, Martha is the Do-Gooder in training.

  Right away, no sooner am I in the house, when she starts rehearsing. “My topic is on introducing free range poultry to foodservice in the Oregon schools.”

  “Nice,” I say, following Martha into the library, where there’s a podium and microphone set up.

  Martha goes through her speech a half-dozen times, and I’m not being a good listener. I’m distracted, wondering if Connor’s up the street, or at Mrs. Cupworth’s, or in Forest Park. I’ve plastered an attentive smile on, my eyes don’t leave the podium, but, truly, I haven’t heard a word. So when Martha says, “Brady? Brady? Should I go into the hand-eviscerating part or is that TMI?” I snap to attention.

  “Hand-eviscerating?”

  I’m spared from critical input though, because just then, in walks Nick. It must be one of his few lacrosse-free days, because he’s wearing civilian clothes. An Abercrombie tee-shirt and jeans. Some Day-Glo kicks and his usual indoor-outdoor sunglasses. “Brady,” he says after kissing Martha on the top of her head the way fathers often do. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at your dad’s bedside?” “Nick. Really.” Martha starts apologizing for her rude boyfriend.

  I hold up my hand. “Not a problem. I have known for a while that tact and manners are not Nick’s strong suit.”

  “Speaking of manners,” Nick says, peeking over his shades for effect. Leveling his gaze. “We saw you and that creepy pal of yours spying on us at Prom. No wonder your Dad had a heart attack. His living daughter hanging out with the guy who killed his dead one.”

  Martha punches Nick’s arm, and under her breath half-whispers, “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  But I can.

  “You know, Martha, I really need to go,” I say, grabbing my things and heading for the various rooms that will lead me, eventually, out the front door. “I’m sure Nick can help you with the hand-eviscerating stuff.”

  Before Martha can intervene, or sweet talk or use her world-class diplomatic skills to stop me, I’ve slammed the custom twelve-panel wood door behind me, and just doing that, that little act of movement and closure, makes me feel better. But a second later, I’m back to feeling furious again. That bastard parked my sister’s Volvo right in the middle of the drive. Not even over to the side, courteously out of the way of other potential comings and goings.
No, Nick is all about possession. About winning.

  I run my hand along the boxy hood, the familiar chrome door handle. It’s so unfair. He should not have this car. And then, in concert with a shrieking crow in a nearby tree, it’s Sabine. You know where the key is, little sister.

  The hide-a-key. I’d forgotten until this moment that Sabine was always getting locked out of her car, and she had run out of AAA allowances for Slim Jim assistance. Dad put a magnetic box under her car, near the driver’s side wheel. Like the sneaky spy I’ve just been accused of being, I drop to my knees, reach under, and, sure enough.

  I think about how easy it would be to just take the car. Drive down the gated Hornbuckle driveway, and leave nothing but tires tracks. Imagining Nick’s face upon discovering the missing car is almost good enough. But then I think of Dad, and the last thing I want to do is create more stress. How would I explain stealing the car?

  So I pocket the key and keep walking. A small piece of Sabine’s property, that’s all I have left. But, somehow, for today anyway, it’s enough.

  Once I’m off the Hornbuckle compound, past the tree house where Martha and I smoked our first joint a few years ago, my body wants to head right. Up the hill. To the house where, a year ago, they had an auction to raise money for a cheerleading team that no longer exists. Where a few months ago, a girl sought help to pull a car—once belonging to her sister and now commandeered by a maniac—out of a ditch. Where a month ago a girl tried to kiss a boy who didn’t kiss her back. A boy who is baffled by the sudden cold shoulder given him by the girl, who just a few days ago, spent an afternoon studying and reproducing the lines and angles that made her bones turn to jelly.

  I turn the Volvo key over and over in my hand. I owe him an explanation. At least that.

  I knock lightly, hoping, praying, even, that Connor will not open the door. Maybe his mother, the interior designer, will be home. She’ll look confused that I’m here, but she’ll be gracious, and invite me in for tea and ask how my family is doing, and she’ll go white with shock when she hears my father just had a heart attack. But he’s expected to make a full recovery, I’ll sing-song.