by Roppe, Laura
Lennox runs to the corner of my room, still clutching the box, and hunches over like a dog with a bone. I move toward him, but Dad puts his arm in front of me and pulls me into a bear hug. I flail my arms and legs, trying to break free from Dad’s grip, but he’s too strong. I want to pull out my eyelashes and gnaw at my fingernails. I want to do something, anything, to make the pain in my chest go away.
“No, Shaynee,” Dad yells. “No.”
Lennox looks every bit as maniacal as me. I didn’t know he had it in him. “Why haven’t you opened it yet?” he shouts. “Your birthday was a month ago.”
A guttural sound emerges from my throat. It’s a sound I’ve never heard my vocal chords make. It sounds more animal than human. I want to bang my head against the wall. I’m running out of ideas for relieving this awful pain.
Dad hasn’t loosened his bear hug around me, and I’m becoming too exhausted to fight him anymore.
Lennox continues his verbal assault. “Mom wanted you to open this on your sixteenth birthday. What are you waiting for? She knew what she was doing when she left this for you. You have to trust her, Shay.” Lennox gulps at the air. Tears stream down his face. “You’re disrespecting Mom by not opening it. She’s talking to you, as plain as day, and you’re not listening.” He clutches the box to his chest and throws his head back. He lets out a sobbing wail.
My legs suddenly feel weak.
“Tell her, Dad,” Lennox commands, his eyes blazing. “Tell her to open it.”
Dad is quiet. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and then closes it.
I’ve lost the will to fight. I go limp in Dad’s arms.
“Jesus, Dad!” Lennox shrieks. “When are you gonna do something around here?”
Dad bows his head. His arms loosen their grip around me.
Lennox wipes his face with his sleeve. “Well, if you’re not gonna open it, then I will.”
I’m instantly at full attention. “No,” I hiss, lurching out of Dad’s arms and pushing Lennox forcefully back.
Lennox teeters back, his face registering total shock, and I yank the box out of his hands.
“Shaynee,” Dad yells, his voice harsh, “don’t touch your brother.”
I whip my head toward Dad, trembling and pressing the box against my heaving chest. I’m a wild animal caught in a trap. My head hurts. My hands tremble.
Dad shifts his weight, unsure what to say or do next. “You don’t have to open the box,” he whispers. He looks at Lennox. His eyes are pained. “Leave her alone about the box. It’s hers. She never has to open it, if she doesn’t want to.”
Lennox stares at Dad, dumbfounded. “But—”
“She doesn’t have to open the box!” Dad repeats, this time shouting. I can’t remember the last time I heard Dad shout at Lennox. It feels oddly exhilarating.
Lennox slides down onto the floor, right where he stands, like a sailboat suddenly caught in dead air. He puts his face in his hands. “Why didn’t Mom leave a box for me?” His voice is small. “How come she only left one for Shay?” He sounds like he did when he was five years old, way back when he was cute. His shoulders shudder with his sobs. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“Oh, Lenn, she did. I should have told you. But she asked me to surprise you on your twelfth birthday.”
Lenn turned eleven back in September, just three weeks before Mom died. Back then, Mom presented him with her prized guitar, the one she got from her daddy as a little girl. “When you play this, we’ll always be connected, Lenny-baby,” she said then.
Dad walks over to Lennox and musses his hair. “You can open it tonight. You don’t have to wait.”
Dad pulls Lennox off the floor and looks over at me with pleading eyes.
I glare at him.
“Hey,” Dad says to Lennox, “let’s go to your room to talk some more. We’ll give your sister a little space.”
After they leave my room, I stand for a moment in a daze. I feel as if I’ve just hiked up a ten-mile mountain. My legs are weak; my head is dizzy. My eyes hurt. My throat burns. I walk over to my dresser and gingerly place the silver box on top of it. Then I lie down on my bed, facedown.
And I sob.
Again.
Suck it, Lennox. Thanks a lot.
My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text. I don’t even have to glance at the screen to know it’s from Tiffany. I know the source of the text not because I’m psychic, and not even because Tiffany is particularly predictable. (Well, okay, she’s totally predictable—she’s texting to say she’s sorry about telling Sheila about my sob story.) No, I’m certain the text is from Tiffany because, over the past five months or so, I’ve received texts from a grand total of three and a half people: Dad, Lennox, and Tiffany. (The “half” is Kellan, who texts me only when he’s trying to find Tiffany.)
For the first couple weeks after Mom’s death, I was the toast of Text Message Town. “Sorry to hear about your mom,” the overflowing messages all said. Or, “So sorry for your loss.” Or, “Hey, if you need anything at all, just give me a call.” When I returned to school after two weeks, I was just as popular in real life, too. People at school who’d never even glanced at me before continuously expressed their condolences everywhere I went. “Oh, Shaynee, I’m so sorry about your mom,” they said. And, “If you need anything... ” All my teachers joined the Pity Shaynee Project, too: “Just let me know what you can handle, and we’ll work out a modified homework schedule.” (Well, all my teachers except for Mrs. Minton, who I’m pretty sure was forged from steel in a robot factory).
And then, all of a sudden, the condolences and pats on my shoulder faded away and were replaced by... silence.
Nowadays, no one other than Tiff, Kellan and my teachers says a word to me, condolence or otherwise. I guess they just don’t know what to say. I’ve never been much of a talker, anyway, so not chatting about manicures and boy bands and juice cleanses and hashtags suits me just fine. I’m not missing out on anything, really. What do I have to talk about with anyone, anyway? Which cheerleader is hooking up with Chaz Alvarez this week? Whether glitter eye shadow has jumped the shark? Whether neon is the new black? How about... how my soul shriveled up and flaked off in one unfathomable day? Or how I’ve fallen headfirst into an abyss filled with darkness and silence and nothingness and rage? How about how I’ve awakened to a wet pillowcase every single morning for the past six months? Or, hey, maybe how my heart hurts so much, so goddamned much, it literally physically hurts, as if someone has been whacking my heart with a meat tenderizer? It’d be better not to have a heart at all.
Maybe my classmates would like to hear about how I’m on the verge of throwing up at any given moment, thanks to the scent of Mom’s perfume still wafting through the house, even after all these months. Or maybe they want to know about how rail-thin and frail she became at the bitter end, or how her sunken eyes flickered with such deep apology in that very last moment, I had to turn away? I’m sure they would all love to hear me say, “How can one person cry this many tears without actually dying?” I’m sure they want to hear me admit, “I died that day, too.”
Sure they do.
And so, when no one talks to me at school, I don’t talk to them, either. It’s just that simple. Last month, when Tiffany was absent for four straight days with a nasty case of strep throat, I literally didn’t utter so much as a sound the entire time (except for when I stubbed my toe on a bench in the girls’ locker room).
The whole nobody-talks-to-Shaynee thing is fine with me, really. The thing that’s a little bit disturbing, though, if I’m being totally honest, is that no one even looks at me anymore. Maybe they don’t want me to think they’re staring at me with pitying eyes. Maybe they don’t want me to think they’re analyzing my every sigh and furrowed brow and orphaned expression. And so they simply don’t look at me at all. I don’t mind. Mostly. But sometimes, occasionally, if I’m being totally honest, it sucks ass.
I wipe my eyes and pull my phone out of my po
cket. Shocker. I’ve got a text from Tiffany. I’m sorry, the text reads, followed by a purple heart. I luv u, Peaches. Xoxo Typhani. I smile through my tears. I can’t help myself.
I roll over and plug my phone into the charger on my nightstand.
The silver box stares at me from across the room on my dresser. I look the other way, only to be faced with my stupid guitar glaring at me in the corner.
I gather up my pajamas, robe, and fuzzy slippers and head for the bathroom. Once inside, I lock the door. I put my pajamas on the counter and turn on the water, cranking the handle all the way to the left. I undress and look at myself in the mirror.
Steam begins to cloud up the mirror, but I can still see myself looking back at me. My eyes are puffy and red. My face is blotchy. My hair hangs against my face without fanfare. I look like hell.
“You’re so gorgeous,” Mom always used to say. “One day soon, Daddy’s gonna have to chase the boys off with a bat.”
Not any day soon, Mom.
But hey, I will give myself this: I look pretty damned good for a corpse.
Chapter 4
Lennox and I rush into the house, our backpacks strapped to our backs and a grocery bag in each hand.
“We’ve got, like, two hours ‘til Dad gets home,” Lennox says with excitement. “Maybe even less.”
“I know,” I mutter, putting my grocery bags on the kitchen counter. “Divide and conquer, dude.”
“I’ll put up streamers and hang the birthday banner,” Lennox chirps, putting his bags next to mine. He flings his backpack on the ground as he heads to the closet where we keep wrapping paper and birthday supplies. “Do we have tape?” he shouts over his shoulder as he rifles around in the closet.
“In the junk drawer,” I shout back, unpacking the grocery bags onto the counter. I motion toward a drawer at the far end of the counter where we keep a mishmash of random things like scissors, tape, and stamps. Lennox races around the house, collecting his necessary gear, smiling all the while. The boy is straight-up giddy.
I pull out Mom’s recipe binder from above the fridge and begin flipping through the pages. I finally find what I’m looking for: Mom’s recipe for chicken enchiladas. It’s Dad’s favorite. I flip again. Mom’s double-fudge chocolate chip Bundt cake recipe. This one is everyone’s favorite. I read the recipes carefully several times, cross-checking the ingredients with my purchases and making sure I understand every step of the instructions. Two hours later, our house is bursting with colorful streamers and “Happy Birthday” signs and the delicious scents of chicken enchiladas and chocolate cake.
Lennox is beside himself with anticipation, peeking out the front window. “Where is he? He should be home by now.”
As if on cue, we hear the garage door lifting up.
Lennox shrieks gleefully. “Let’s hide.”
“That’s so lame,” I shout, even as I crouch behind the big blue armchair in the family room.
I hear Dad open the back door. “Surprise!” Lennox and I yell, popping out from our ever-so-clever mutual hiding place.
Dad feigns shock. “For me?” he asks, smiling. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Of course we should have, Dad.” Lennox laughs and runs to him. “Happy Birthday.”
“Happy Birthday, Pops,” I add, shuffling toward him. “Wow, Daddy-o. Forty-three big ones. You’re growing up so big and strong.”
“What’s that amazing smell?” Dad asks. “Could it be... ?”
“Yes, it could,” I answer.
Color instantly rushes into Dad’s cheeks. The simultaneous look of joy and pain in his eyes makes me look away.
“Thank you,” Dad croaks out. “That was really sweet of you two.” Dad clears his throat.
There is an awkward silence as Lennox and I wait for Dad to regain his composure.
“Well, let’s eat,” Dad finally says. “I’m starved.”
Fifteen minutes later, an entire pan of enchiladas is gone.
Dad goes on and on about what a great cook I am, but I know the enchiladas aren’t right. I don’t understand it—I followed the recipe exactly; but they don’t taste the way Mom always made them. I can’t put my finger on what’s different. I know Dad is wondering about it, too, but isn’t saying anything.
“Delicious,” Dad says again for the fifteenth time. “Thank you so much.”
“And that’s not all.” Lennox practically sings. “We have another surprise for you. C’mon, Shay.” He jumps up from the table and runs to the kitchen counter. I follow him. After placing fifteen multi-colored candles on the cake (because forty-three would be a fire hazard, we decide), we approach the kitchen table, presenting our blazing cake.
“Happy birthday to you... ” Lennox starts to sing, and I join him. By force of habit, we begin harmonizing, our voices blending seamlessly. We dramatically hold out the last note on “youuuuuuuu” for an impossibly long time, our harmonies rivaling One Direction’s (or, as Mom would have insisted, the Backstreet Boys’).
Dad’s face radiates pleasure. “Aw, Shaynee,” he says softly. “It’s great to hear you sing again.”
I blush. I feel tricked.
Dad blows out the candles. Lennox and I clap.
Half the cake is gone when Lennox commands, “Presents.” Lennox pulls out his laptop from the cabinet in the family room. “I made you a music video,” he says proudly, placing the computer in front of Dad on the kitchen table. Dad watches the video with a huge smile, nodding and laughing as Lennox bops around on screen, lip-synching the words to his own original hip-hop composition while wearing bizarre costumes, riding his skateboard, and popping out of bushes holding “Happy Birthday” signs. The whole thing is totally strange but thoroughly entertaining, I must admit. Somehow, Lennox managed to record his song and film and edit an entire music video all by himself. He’s evil, yes, but undeniably talented, too.
“Amazing,” Dad beams. “I love it, buddy.”
The little punk. All I got Dad was ...
“I love it,” Dad says, holding up the blue tie I’ve given him. It’s the exact robin’s-egg-blue of Dad’s eyes. When I saw it, I immediately thought of him. But, yeah, I know, it’s still just... a tie. “Thank you,” Dad says. “It’s great.” He smiles at me and I grin back, but I feel kinda lame after watching that amazing music video from Devil Boy.
“Did Mom give you a box to open for your birthday?” Lennox asks Dad, practically panting with anticipation.
Dad purses his lips and inhales deeply. “She did,” he replies, his voice tinged with false gaiety.
“Well, let’s open it,” Lennox shouts, as if Dad has just said “Who wants ice cream?” The kid is totally missing the subtext here. He’s such a knucklehead.
Dad pauses. He looks at Lennox’s face. “Okay,” he finally says.
When Dad returns from his room, he places a flat box, wrapped in silver paper, onto the table. A tag hanging from a giant silver bow reads, in Mom’s handwriting, “Happy Birthday, Michael. Love, Karen.”
For a moment, Dad sits staring at the box. Or maybe he’s staring at Mom’s handwriting on the tag. That’s what I’m staring at, anyway.
Lennox is silent for half a minute, but then, when it’s clear Dad isn’t going to take the next logical step without some prodding, he goads, “Open it.”
Dad looks at Lennox and smiles. His smile looks totally forced to me, but Lennox beams in the warm glow of it.
Dad gently tears away the silver wrapping paper to reveal a flat box with a lid. He pauses, and then lifts the lid off the box. Inside, there’s a large, square picture book. A photo of Mom and Dad as teenagers adorns the cover. They look impossibly young. Mom’s dark hair is long and flowing. She is in the middle of a full-throated laugh. Wow, Dad’s shoulders are broad. His shaggy hair is so blonde. He has his arm around Mom and he looks at her like he just won the lottery. They’re sitting around a campfire.
Dad lifts the book out of the box and places it on the table in front of him. The captio
n under the picture says, “Michael and Karen: A Love Story.”
My skin breaks out in goose bumps.
“Open it,” Lennox says.
Dad obeys.
As Dad flips through the pages, we see pictures documenting Mom and Dad’s life together, right from the very beginning, when they were teenagers. There they are at Dad’s prom. Mom looks stylish and confident in her silver strapless gown. Dad looks like a total dork.
“Is that a mullet?” Lennox asks.
“No,” he says defensively. “I was growing out a flat-top.” His voice quavers when he speaks.
The caption under the picture reads, “Once upon a time, a long time ago, a boy and a girl fell deeply in love.”
“Nice tux,” Lennox says. “Dapper.” His tone is sarcastic, and it’s no wonder—Dad’s wearing a snazzy silver bowtie and cummerbund to match Mom’s dress.
Dad turns the page. Now there’s a picture of the two of them at Mom’s prom a year later, during Mom’s senior year. Again, she looks flawless. Her dress is fuchsia. A white lily is strapped to her wrist. Dad’s wardrobe choice is much improved from the prior year: classic black-tie. And, thank God, his hair has grown out nicely and has become strikingly bleached-out by the sun. The caption reads, “From the first day they laid eyes on each other in high school, the boy and girl were inseparable.”
Dad turns the page. “The boy loved to surf.” There’s a shot of Dad with his prized long board. Dad holds his board in one arm and flexes the bicep of his other arm like he’s The Hulk. He’s grinning mischievously. Mom stands next to Dad in a polka-dotted bikini, posing like a swimsuit model.
“The girl loved to sing.” There’s Mom with her guitar—the same one Lennox now owns—her mouth opened wide in mid-song. Dad sits off to the side, his eyes glued to Mom, enraptured.
Dad clears his throat and turns the page. “The boy and the girl got married.” Mom and Dad stand next to a wedding cake. Mom raises her fist into the air in triumph, smiling from ear to ear. Dad looks over at Mom with unadulterated adoration. Wow, that man in the picture really loves that woman. I mean, he really, reeeealllly loves that woman. My stomach flips-flops.