Cornerstone

by Misty Provencher

  “I just came up to get some tea.” I say.

  “You go right ahead, honey.” Mrs. Reese pipes up, all loud and upbeat. I can tell that she is trying to restore everyone to normal and stop them from looking at me. I’m grateful for that, even though it doesn’t work.

  “Go on and help yourself to whatever you like.” she says as I dive at the pitcher of tea. “Brandon, get her some ice out of the freezer.”

  I’m about to say I don’t need any ice, but Brandon pops up in front of me. The Reese boys are like nesting dolls, definable by age, variations in hair color, and in this one’s case, overdramatic manners. He bows. “One lump or two, ma’am? Or three?”

  “Two is fine.” I say and I have to wait as he fishes out the ice and dumps it in my plastic cup. It is a mistake not to let him pour for me too. I slosh the tea right over the rim of my cup, onto the counter. Ugh. I close my eyes and imagine squeezing my own head in my hands until it pops. When I open my eyes again, my mom is mopping up the counter in front of me.

  Mrs. Reese announces that it’s been a long night and there’s school tomorrow, so everyone should get ready for bed. Despite the rebellion that rises up from the three youngest, Mrs. Reese insists and they give in. When the kitchen clears, Mrs. Reese focuses on my mom. “Coffee, Evangeline?”

  “I’d love some.” my mom says. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  I snap my head toward my mom and whisper hotly, “We’re staying?”

  She drops the soggy pile of napkins into the Reese’s trashcan and nods.

  “For a little while.” she says. I jut out my jaw and give her the I don’t agree with this look, but my mom just gives me a tiny, shake-of-her-head response, It’s fine. I bug my eyes at her and she sighs. She turns and tells Mrs. Reese, “Nali and I are going to get some air, Miranda. If you’ll start the coffee, I’m sure we’ll be back in before the pot is done.”

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Reese says and my mom walks me out of the kitchen, through the Reese’s living room, to a set of French doors. She flips the latch and we step out onto a polished, cobblestone patio.

  My mom immediately lets out an ohhh, which is the same sound she makes when she eats New York style cheesecake with her eyes closed.

  “This is gorgeous.” she says.

  She’s right. The backyard is a mini park. Twelve-foot-tall bushes fence in the yard and blot out the neighborhood. There is a huge swimming pool with a wrap-around deck on the left, still closed from the winter, and in the back of the lot, there is a koi pond that stretches beneath a chocolate-colored gazebo.

  I could be completely happy to be in Garrett’s back yard paradise, if I wasn’t so confused about what we are doing here and why we are staying. For the first time in maybe forever, all I want is to be back at our apartment, surrounded by my mom’s paper towers.

  “I want to go home.” I tell her.

  “What happened downstairs?”

  “Nothing happened.” I say and I think of myself sitting on the couch downstairs, waiting for the kiss that never came. My insides simmer. “I just want to go home.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. We need to stay so I can talk with Miranda and Basil.”

  “About what?” I ask. “Why is everyone working so hard not to tell me anything?”

  “No one’s doing that.” My mom says but she laughs, a fluttery, streamer of a laugh that doesn’t float with me. I give her my face that says Come. On. Mom.

  “Okay, look,” she says. “I’m very concerned about running into the man that attacked you again. I’m afraid of what he might be capable of, so we’re going to stick around here for a little while longer just to be safe.”

  “How much longer? I’ve got homework to do and...”

  “We’re staying the night.” she says. The words just staple themselves in the air between us. I make noises that don’t form solid sentences. I can’t have a sleep over at Garrett Reese’s house. He’ll be mortified. And if anyone else finds out, I’ll be dead before first bell tomorrow.

  “What are you talking about?” I grasp my temples with my fingertips. “They’re strangers! We don’t even know them!”

  My mom’s lips buckle in a frown. “They’re from Grandpa’s congregation, Nalena. Old friends…”

  “Are you nuts?” I yelp. “You’ve never even mentioned them…ever! How can we live ten minutes away and all go to the same school and never visit…but now we’re just dropping in for a sleep over? If they’re old friends, how come you had to introduce yourself on their porch tonight?

  “Lower your voice.” she snaps and I fire back at her, “Then be sane!”

  She takes a deep breath. “Nalena, this is just very...”

  I expect her to say complicated. That’s what she usually says. So complicated that I could never understand and I swear to God I’ll scream if she says it again now. Instead, she fidgets, rubbing her fingers, and says, “There’s some things you need to know.”

  The way she says it flips my stomach like a hamburger. Suddenly, wanting to know feels like the worst idea in the world.

  “It’s time I told you about Grandpa’s community.” she says. Her voice is quivery.

  “His church.” I say, but she shakes her head.

  “No, it wasn’t a church exactly.” A smile, almost apologetic, quivers on her lips. “I let you call it that, but it’s actually a community. It’s called the Ianua…and it wasn’t just Grandpa’s community. It’s ours too. Both of us. What we belong to is a sacred heritage, Nalena. I was never really joking about working for mankind.”

  I cock my head back and raise a lip at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Hear me out, okay?” she says. She clears her throat and rivets her gaze in my eyes. “You should be proud, Nalena, because you come from an ancestry of very dedicated people. Who we are is defined by what we do. Our community, the Ianua, maintain a vital, spiritual connection that keeps the whole human race moving forward.” My mother takes a deep breath and reaches for my hand, while I just stare at her. My fingers are like limp fish in her grasp. All I can do is stare at her. “We are direct descendants of ancient scribes, known as the Alo. We were here from the beginning of time.”

  She pauses, her eyes scouring my face as her eyebrows make the peak of a wobbly roof in the center of her forehead. I just nod and her face relaxes.

  I think she might actually be crazy. The real kind of crazy. The kind Cora always thinks she is. My mom takes another breath and continues. “I know this is a lot to bite off all at once, but I want you to understand why I do what I do. You know how people say that a person never dies as long as his or her memory is kept alive?”

  I don’t even bother to nod. I just stare at her and she keeps going.

  “Well, there’s a lot of truth in that. The Alo are the community’s memory keepers.”

  “And you’re one of them.” I pull my hand from hers with a rusty laugh, but she only gives me one serious nod. I squint at her. “Mom, what the heck are you talking about?”

  “I keep the memories alive of those who have passed. That’s what I write.”

  “Dead people?” I chuckle, expecting her to laugh with me. She doesn’t.

  “Yes, mostly the deceased.” she says.

  I lean away from her, waiting for her to bust out in giggles. I glance at the French doors and the corners of the house, searching for a face that should be sniggering around the corner, or a camcorder lens. Nothing. I look back at my mother. Her face is sullen.

  She must be exactly what I’ve been insisting she’s not. My mom is insane.

  “Why are you talking like this?” I hiss. “Are you in on some joke they’re playing on me?”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Then you’re nuts.” My laugh sounds crazy, even to me. If Jen wants to pop up and start snapping pictures, this would be the time. Instead, my mom frowns.

  “I didn’t want to explain any of this unless I had to, Nalena. Maybe I should have told you sooner, but it�
�s just so…complicated. Although I left the community, I still have my responsibilities. Writing these memories is important. It maintains the connection between Earth and the afterlife. Without it, the knowledge of those before us would just slip away. Without it, we’d never move forward.”

  I lift a corner of my mouth. “Don’t we have libraries for that?”

  “What if the books were never written? Writing a memory for someone who’s passed is like putting a book of that person’s entire life experiences into a life catalogue. We may not all have it at our fingertips at every second, but we all have access. You know what they say: those who seek shall find.” she says. Her eyes are so soft, I really think she believes everything she’s saying. Something about her sincerity draws me in.

  “You know this sounds totally cuckoo.” I tell her.

  “I know.”

  “Well,” My eyes swing back to the house, through the French doors and toward the illuminating light of the Reese’s kitchen. “Why didn’t you just stay in the community if you had friends there?”

  “I left after Grandpa was...” She presses a hooked index finger over her lips and her eyes well up. She hardly ever finishes the sentence when she tries to explain it to me. The first time was in elementary school when no one showed up for Grandparent’s Day. All I know is that Grandpa was murdered and the police never caught the man who did it. A folded newspaper clipping in her bureau drawer said that Grandpa’s murder was actually a robbery that had gone wrong. A random thing. The paper said my grandpa would be mourned widely, but it never mentioned anything about him being part of some ancient community that deals in dead people.

  “Can we just go home and talk about this?” I finger my earlobe as I watch her. She wipes the corners of her eyes.

  “Sorry, honey. Mr. Reese has already left to bring back some of our things.” She laughs weakly. “Just think of this as taking another one for mankind, okay?”

  When I don’t laugh, my mom pats my shoulder like I just need to be a good sport. And for the first time in my life, she turns away from me and just goes back into the house alone, leaving me out in the cold.

  ~ * * * ~

  Knowing that Mr. Reese is at our apartment—trying to pick his way through the stacks of my mom’s insanity so he can retrieve my jammies—doesn’t make me feel like he’s family. It just adds to my list of reasons that make me want to evaporate. Along with realizing that my mom has actually flipped her bolt.

  Crazy or not, I’m angry at my mom for not giving me a vote in whether or not we stay. I sit on the Reese’s living room couch, staring at the TV like I’m into the documentary Sean turns on, until Mr. Reese returns.

  When the front door opens, Mr. Reese hauls in more than just one night’s worth of stuff. He’s got a gym bag full of my clothes and toiletries, my school backpack, my pillow and blanket from my bed, and my Ipod. I don’t ask if my bras and underwear are in there. I know they are. I just take what he brings of mine as a dark blush saturates my face and say thanks. He lugs in my mother’s things too and then, to my absolute horror, he brings in a stack of paper and a package of ink pens.

  “If there is anything else you want me to get for you, just make a list and I’ll pick it up or I’ll have one of the boys stop in and get it for you.” Mr. Reese tells my mom. She thanks him until it’s embarrassing. He actually sounds grateful when he assures her over and over, “I am honored to be of service to you, Evangeline.”

  I appreciate having my things, but for me, there won’t be any lists. No boys, young or old, should be bringing me my underwear in a gym bag. If I need something, anything, I’m going to go home and get it myself.

  Still, I do feel better having my stuff with me. I drag out one of my school books and pull my comforter around me like a nest. Or a foxhole.

  I figure Garrett’s got to be freaking out downstairs. I’m sure it was traumatizing enough for him that The Waste had actually contemplated a kiss, let alone having me become a squatter on his living room couch.

  As I open up the history book, knowing already that there is no way I’m going to be able to concentrate, Garrett walks into the living room. I jam my ear buds in and crank my Ipod, so neither of us has to make conversation.

  I open my notebook and my cushion rises with a puff as he drops onto the one beside me. The smell of his cologne fills my nose. If confidence, strength and wanting have a smell, Garrett’s got a bottle of it somewhere. I try to hold my breath. He reaches for the wires of my ear buds and pops them out of my ears.

  “Hi.” He holds the blaring ends, swinging in his hand. I dial down the music.

  “What’s up?” I ask without looking him in the face. I have no idea what expression would be the right one. Besides the fact that he didn’t want to kiss me, I am here, camping out on his couch because my mom’s gone hairball. And I’m still feeling smothered by how desperately I wanted that kiss to happen. Even worse, it’s impossible to appear laid-back with my comforter bunched up all around me. I look like I’m being eaten by a fluffy manatee.

  “You didn’t come back downstairs.” he says.

  I want to answer, no duh and you didn’t kiss me either, but instead I say, “I was talking with my mom.”

  “Oh.” he says and his voice sounds tickled by the relief in his grin. I won’t look to be sure because the last thing I need is to be captured in his smile and start believing again that I am the only girl in the world that he would ever want to talk to. At least I know better now. He would’ve kissed me if it was any other way. He chuckles, and even though the sound pulls at my eyes for attention, but I don’t fall for that either.

  “I was worried that I made you uncomfortable.” he says.

  Despite my resistance, a jagged giggle rips out of me and then I just go ahead and make it even worse by asking, “Why would you think that?”

  He hesitates like he’s trying to put his hands on the right words. “You seem...uncomfortable.”

  He sounds so painfully sincere that I make the mistake of looking up. The minute I do, I fall right into the wide open sky of Garrett’s eyes. I forget all about my mom. The surge of Garrett’s gaze hits me immediately, like plugging a kite into a charged cloud. Instead of fighting it, I try to hold onto it and trace it back. I want to know if he feels it too, but really, there is no way of knowing if I’m generating all of it or not.

  “Are you?” he asks again. His voice rubs my temples and I am aware of how close his arm is to mine. The air is magnetized, pulling me toward him and I have to concentrate on keeping my hand in my lap instead of reaching for him. My voice feels too small when it finally works its way out of my throat.

  “No.” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He smiles. “About school tomorrow...”

  “I won’t say anything to anybody.” The words gush out of me, like the ready apology they are, and he laughs.

  “You won’t? What aren’t you going to say anything about?”

  “I...I don’t know. Anything.” There are a million things I think he probably doesn’t want anyone knowing. Like why he’d bother to try and catch the guy that broke my arm. Like how the The Waste family is having a sleepover at his house. Like how he totally lost his head and almost kissed me.

  “What I was going to say is that it’d be a good idea for us to stay close for a while. Until we...I mean, until the cops find this guy that keeps following you around, I think we should stick together.” he says.

  I light up inside and twirl.

  “Okay.” I say. He smiles and all of a sudden, I can’t wait for school tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  I remember sitting with Garrett and talking to him about music and letting him quiz me and then I’m totally embarrassed because I don’t even remember falling asleep when I wake up the next morning, to the smell of coffee. My mom is sleeping on the recliner across the room, snoring softly, and I want to put a pillow over her face so no one will hear it. Instead, I just get up and try not to trip over all of ou
r bags as I go into the kitchen.

  The minute I hit the doorway, I know it was a mistake to come into the fluorescent light. No one is in the kitchen except Garrett and he looks clean and perfect, ready to walk out the door to school, two hours before the first bell will ring. My hair might be plastered to my cheek.

  He’s got one hip leaning against the counter, absorbed with reading over one of my mom’s pages, so he doesn’t notice me right away. I think of backing away, but as I lift a foot to do it, the tiny movement catches Garrett’s attention.

  His body instantly drops into a stance of attack. The sharpened, predatory look in his eyes stops me dead.

  I see a Garrett I do not know. A cold vein of fear darts through my chest and the first mumble of a whir begins inside me. He blinks at me and with the second blink, the warrior in him vanishes, leaving the relaxed and grinning, familiar Garrett. The spinning in my chest jerks to a halt, like a rubber plug wedged between whirling gears. Although I’m sure I look harmless, aside from a raging case of bed head, I stay rooted to my spot until Garrett speaks.

  “Good morning.” he says and his chuckle unglues my feet.

  “Good morning.” I say and then I’m not sure which apology to offer him first. For having startled him into looking murderous just now, for having fallen asleep on him last night, or for still being here at all this morning. And then there are the apologies for plugging up his living room with all of my and my mom’s junk and for the brick of my mom’s writing, already spiraling in a pile on the Reese’s otherwise spotless kitchen counter.

  Garrett makes my next move for me by taking down a mug from one of the cupboards. I catch the tiniest scent of his cologne and it fills my head with all sorts of images that make me feel like I’m standing in front of him naked.

  “I made coffee.” he says. His eyes linger a second on my cheeks and then he looks away and I have no idea if I’ve fooled him or not.

  “I don’t drink coffee.” I say and add quickly, “But thanks.”

  “Not a coffee girl, huh? We’ve got tea, if you want. Are you a tea girl?”