How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  Sending a million hugs and kisses,

  Mom

  My hands are shaking. That thick slice of Bundt cake climbs halfway back up my throat and sits there in a hard lump.

  My mother has been dead for fourteen years.

  Chapter 3

  “I’m still in shock.” Saffron slips her flip flops off the moment she slides into Gertrude, my ancient Honda Civic.

  “Oh, come on. You know dead moms leave love notes all the time. It’s a thing.” I can’t hold back the sarcasm. The Chowders left an hour ago, but the hard cake-lump is still wedged in my throat. I learned how to swallow sadness a long time ago, only somehow it always gets stuck in my throat. At least this time it tastes like confectioner’s sugar.

  I briefly considered crumpling up the note and pretending I never saw it. But my mother had once touched that paper, so I couldn’t just throw it away. When I went back to the patio, Tee saw what I was holding and immediately launched into an explanation.

  “I was going to give that card to you girls tonight—your mom’s birthday seemed like a good time for it . . .”

  And that’s when I remembered: it’s February 2. Mom’s birthday.

  The Chowders didn’t stay long after that. Once we’d weathered their goodbye hugs, Tee promised to give Saff and me some space to process Mom’s message.

  I know I’m supposed to be touched, but honestly, I feel something more complicated. A heavy dread has settled into my chest and is turning everything below it into concrete. Trying my best to shake it off, I turn the key in the ignition and coax Gertrude out of the driveway.

  “Put your seat belt on, will you?” Saff snaps, smoothing her hair back into a ponytail. “That warning light is there for a reason.”

  Ugh. I hate the way seat belts restrict my movement. “Thank you, Mother.”

  Annnnnd silence. Because those words sting both of us. Saffron pulls the edges of her sleeves over her wrist and onto her hands, like she’s cold.

  I feel instantly regretful. “Sorry. That wasn’t cool.”

  Saffron looks out the window in silence, but after a moment she twists toward me. “If you don’t snap your seat belt soon,” she says, her voice tight, “I’m going to get out at the next stoplight and walk home. Want to do this on your own?”

  “Fine, fine,” I sigh as I click the belt. But in retaliation I turn up the music so loud that I can feel the bass vibrating against the steering wheel.

  We drive past the cookie-cutter houses, past the outlet mall, and out toward the farmlands. I pull onto a long dirt driveway that lies behind the strawberry fields. Alicia, Mark, and their son Micah live on a legit farm, complete with a cow and chickens. It’s not big enough to sell produce to local vendors, but they mostly live off what they grow.

  “We haven’t been here since that time we brought the Minions over to milk the cow. Was that almost a year ago?” I say.

  “Something like that,” Saff says tersely, clearly still irritated at me.

  I flip open the vanity mirror and check myself out. I lined my eyes at home, but my lip gloss deserves a second coat. I apply and press my smackers together for maximum coverage.

  “Saff—you want some lip gloss?”

  “My lips are just fine without the gloss, thank you.”

  I’m guessing all sisters compare. And if I’m comparing, Saffy is prettier and more petite, with these ginormous doe-eyes, but she has zero fashion sense. My face is plain, but mascara and lipstick do wonders, and I know how to cinch, layer, and accessorize to make the most of what I’ve got. Whenever I try to convince Saff to fix herself up, she shoots me down, saying there’s a whole beauty industry getting rich off women’s insecurities and she refuses to be a part of it. Sounds like a convenient excuse to be lazy, but whatever.

  We climb out of the car, dust swirling around our feet. I’m betting Saff is regretting her choice of flip flops.

  “Truce?” I hold out my hand like she’s a little kid. “Can we at least pretend to like each other in front of Alicia?”

  “Deal.” She accepts my hand, and we walk up to ring the doorbell.

  The front door swings open. “Girls!” Alicia spreads open her arms and gathers us both in, doing the double hug and forcing the two of us closer than we want to be. There’s a softness in Alicia’s hug that feels motherly. I smell Saffron’s shampoo, and the oil paints staining Alicia’s shirt. “It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you two.”

  Alicia Johnson was my mother’s best friend. They survived middle and high school together, and then attended the same university. They even got pregnant within a few months of each other. After Mom died, Alicia offered to take us in, since she was settled and equipped to raise us. But Aunt Tee said that she could do it, that she wanted to do it, even though she was only nineteen at the time and was working at FroYo Heaven for minimum wage. (I blame this for my yogurt addiction.) I’m not sure if she ever regretted putting her life on hold for us, but I do remember being dropped off with Alicia so that Tee could go off on days-long road trips with friends. That was before Luke, though. He settled Tee down for sure, and by the time they got married she was working part-time as a case manager for a non-profit hospice. I don’t know how she does it, working with dying people and their families all the time, but she says giving back is healing for her.

  So it all worked out for us, stability-wise. Now we only visit Alicia once or twice a year. This is sort of silly; she lives one town over. It’s a ten-minute drive, max. Plus she knows more about Mom’s life than pretty much anyone else. Mom was twelve years older than Aunt Tee, so she was out of the house and off to college by the time Tee was six. Meaning Tee doesn’t have any juicy stories from Mom’s past. Or if she does, she doesn’t tell.

  I used to love hearing Alicia’s stories about Mom, but I sort of lost interest by the time I was in fifth or sixth grade. That was then, this is now. Mom is not a part of our “now.”

  Which is why coming here feels stupid—what’s the point? No gift will make her any less dead.

  Alicia ushers us both inside. She’s an intriguing mix of chic and hick. Her hair is all short and stylish, complimented by large hoop earrings, and she’s in killer shape from all that farm upkeep, but she dresses like a farmer, wears zero makeup, and is pretty much always covered in paint.

  We step through the front door. “Don’t mind the mess,” Alicia says, not as apologetically as she should. Her mess requires more than an apology. Like financial compensation. Her mess could scar a person for life. “Or the smell,” she adds as we edge down the hallway, past piles of dusty books and magazines.

  “Bet you’ve missed the aroma of fertilizer and oil paints,” says Micah, who’s standing behind the kitchen counter, dicing pineapple. He’s wearing a snug “Mesa Medical Center Volunteer” T-shirt. His arms have firmed up, probably from all the yard work. His hair is just like when we were kids—no gel, just loose bouncy curls. “I keep telling Mom all these fumes are to blame for my calculus grade. They’re killing off my brain cells.”

  “Ooh, okay, I just won’t breathe while I’m here.” I cover my mouth. “I need all my brain cells. Saffy, you can spare a few, so go on, breathe deep.”

  “For the record,” Alicia says, “he only got one B in calculus, the rest are As. We should all be so lucky.” Micah is a bona fide dork, but I’ve known him since his birth, so I put up with him.

  Micah shrugs and smiles in a self-conscious way. He has what I like to call deep-dish dimples. If it’s a small smile of mild amusement, they’re subtle. But if he flashes an all-out grin, not holding back at all, his dimples indent like ditches. In fourth grade, I fit a mini M&M in each one, and he walked around with green candies stuck in his cheeks, both of us cracking up so hard I wet my pants.

  “Happy belated birthday, Micah. It was a few weeks ago, right?” I rest my arms on the counter, which is surprisingly free of clutter.

  “Yep.” Micah slides the pineapple chunks into a bowl. “I can now vote, ge
t a tattoo, and be drafted into the army. Yippee.”

  This reminds me of the sticker tattoos we used to apply to our arms, and that time I stuck one to his forehead while he slept. The heaviness in my chest lifts. “That’s how I feel too.” I’ve been eighteen for six months, but honestly nothing has changed. “Big deal, right? Only it’s nice that no one can tell us what to do anymore.”

  Alicia chuckles and says pointedly, “Micah—don’t forget to slice the strawberries.”

  Micah pauses, knife still poised in midair. “Well,” he says, looking a little sheepish, “I do still live in her house.”

  “Wuss,” I mouth, so Alicia won’t hear.

  Alicia opens a cupboard, giving me a glimpse of mismatched glasses. Luke wouldn’t be able to survive in the disarray of this house for ten minutes. “Do you girls want something to drink? When Micah’s done chopping up the fruit, we can eat it on the back porch.”

  “Just water’s great, thanks.” Saffron scoots out a stool and sits down. I can tell by the way Saff is fidgeting that she’s eager to get to the gift. I’m just as eager to avoid it.

  We chat as we slice, catching up. Micah’s already been accepted to Cal (he applied early action), although he’s still hoping for some scholarship or grant money. He’s been volunteering at the medical clinic two nights a week. His dad is still flying airplanes out of LAX. I see the look that passes between Alicia and Micah and I figure it’s related to his dad’s gambling. Micah and I used to hide in the coat closet and listen to his parents argue about it.

  “What’re your top three choices?” Micah asks.

  “For what? Dinner?” I joke, dodging the question. “Pizza, tacos or chow mein.” They don’t need to know that I accidentally-on-purpose missed the application deadline for the UC and Cal State schools, which means college may not be in the cards for me. Both Micah and Alicia could tell you that I started reading at age three, and that I could add two-digit numbers in my head by age five. But they’d also tell you that I’ve always been pretty immature. That’s why I got “the gift of an extra year” and started kindergarten when I’d just turned six. (Saff has never been immature, but Tee didn’t want us in the same grade, so she got an extra year “to grow” too.) You’d think the extra lead time would’ve put me ahead of the curve, but college applications take planning, forethought, and effort—not my favorite activities.

  I keep rambling. “Axel and I just hit our year anniversary. And Saff is still with Fletch.” I hot potato the conversation over to Saffron. She’s a tortoise. Once the questions shift to her, she sinks into her shell. She and her boyfriend are both that way. He always looks like he’s thinking of a joke but he’s too shy to say it out loud. Even though I give Saff a hard time about Fletcher, secretly I’m glad she’s with him. Because I’ll have to kill any asshole who ever hurts her, and Fletcher being her boyfriend significantly reduces the chances I’ll be charged with manslaughter.

  We pause, realizing all the fruit has been sliced and we’ve run out of small talk. Alicia’s eyes soften. “I’ve missed you girls. No excuse for that. We’ve got to make an effort to catch up more often.” I notice that the light lines around her mouth have deepened, and I wonder what my mother would look like if she was alive today. “Come, let’s go on out to the back porch. I have something for you.”

  “How cloak-and-dagger.” I pick up the fruit bowl and consider pelting Micah with a couple of strawberries for fun, but I decide it’s better just to get this gift thing over with.

  Alicia leads us to the screened porch. She brings in a red-wrapped package, about the size of a box of chocolate.

  A healthy dose of humor smooths out most uncomfortableness, so when in doubt, I always fall back on a good joke. “Oh yay, fourteen-year-old chocolate,” I say. “Saff, I volunteer you to taste each piece for me. Mold is protein.”

  “Cayenne.” Saff’s voice sounds tight, warning me.

  “Okay, okay. Maybe it’s fiber.”

  Micah chuckles and clears a spot for Saffron and me, which really amounts to shoving a bunch of decorative pillows onto the floor. I sink down on the couch, which gives under my weight. “Remember watching Disney movies out here?” I ask Micah, picturing us as toddlers, climbing all over each other. “Good times.”

  Alicia hands me the package and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  I hold the gift gingerly. I guess I feel a little creeped out. My mom touched this before she died. The congealed cake in my throat threatens to come back up.

  I force myself to unfold the handwritten note on top. For Cayenne and Saffron, the spice in my life. I love you both forever. The wrapping paper has softened over the years, and it peels away with the lightest scrape of a fingernail. I open the box. No moldy chocolates, thank god. Inside is a journal.

  “Okay, girls.” Suddenly Alicia’s all business. “You’re also going to need this.” She sets a small laptop on the coffee table. “You’ll open a desktop folder titled ‘For Cayenne and Saffron.’ Your mom requested that you begin here on this porch, because this is where you spent most of her last days together.”

  She steps back, looking almost relieved. Like her job is done. “Micah and I will give you some privacy. You can have as long as you like. And you can come back any time you want to access the files on our laptop again.”

  “You don’t have to go.” The cake crawls farther up into my throat and I feel a little desperate for them to stay, so that I can keep joking around and not have to feel anything.

  “You need privacy.” Alicia’s voice turns firm, and for a moment I feel like she’s scolding me. “Remember, girls, your mom loved you very much. This may not be exactly how you wanted to spend the day, but doing this is a gift to your mother.”

  Micah lingers for a moment before he turns and follows Alicia back inside.

  “I don’t even remember Mom,” Saff says softly. “When I think of a parent, I think of Aunt Tina.”

  “Look, we don’t need this kind of closure. Reading her journal would be like going backwards.” I stand up, only to sit back down. “Not that I’m over her death, because I could never be over it, but I’ve moved past it.”

  “Alicia’s right though. This is not just for us,” Saff points out. “It’s also for her. I think we have to do it.”

  “I hate it when you’re reasonable. Which is, like, always,” I say with a dramatic sigh. The good news is that the hard cake lump is no longer stuck in my throat. The bad news is that it’s working itself upward. I glance around for a trash can in case I need to puke.

  This suddenly strikes me as ridiculous. What, I can dodge a freaking locomotive, but I can’t tolerate thinking about my own mother? I’m an expert at trash compacting all of those icky emotions. Now there’s a tiny square of squashed reality that lies in the center of my gut. I despise crying. And puking. Or anything else coming out of my face—snot isn’t all that pleasant either. So . . . the solution is simple. I won’t. Mind over matter.

  I swallow that cake pellet down as far as it’ll go and pick up the journal. “All right. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 4

  When I open the journal, a note on flowery paper falls out. The handwriting looks different from the handwriting on the other note. I realize that Mom may have had help writing, depending on how sick she was at the time. I take a deep breath and read.

  To my sweet and spicy Cayenne and Saffron,

  I have a thousand things I want to say to you both, but I know you won’t remember. You’re too little. So I’m recording them here in this diary and on some videos.

  Why now, you ask? Because you’re both about to launch into the world. I’ve asked your Aunt Tina and Alicia to make sure you get this gift during your last semester together before Cayenne goes off to college. I want you to get them when you’re old enough to understand, and I want you to experience this together. It’s your shared history.

  Before you begin, here are my three rules. You must follow them. Why? Because I’m your mom, that’s
why. (I love saying that.)

  Watch and read every entry together.

  Play the game. It’ll be fun.

  Retain a sense of humor at all costs.

  For your next step, play Video #1.

  Saff and I sit in silence.

  Finally I say, “I guess she’d be disappointed that I missed the college application deadlines.” I reach for a smudged unicorn figurine on the coffee table and turn it over in my hands.

  “Yeah, and maybe that you’ve taken the easiest course load possible.”

  “Phsh.” I poke my finger with the unicorn horn. “I’m developing my creative side.” Yoga, photography and ceramics probably wouldn’t have gotten me into Cal, but I refuse to be embarrassed by a dead woman’s hypothetical disapproval.

  Saff takes the unicorn out of my hand and gives me a pointed look.

  I start up the laptop and easily find the folder titled “For Cayenne and Saffron.” Inside there are six video files.

  Deep breath. I open the first one and hit play. An image of my mother, Jenny Silk, materializes. The trash compactor in my gut squeezes.

  Mom sits on the couch, a baseball cap covering her head. I remember her like this—fragile-thin, bald as an egg, clothes that swim on her. All the photos we have around Tee’s house of her are before this time, before she got sick, back when she had hair so long that I could’ve wrapped it around myself. She adjusts the computer screen so she can get herself at a more flattering angle and clears her throat.

  “Hey there, sweets! You ready to play? It’s going to be fun, I promise.” She pauses, smiling at the screen. Seeing the way her smile starts with her eyes crinkling, and then the twitching of the corners of her mouth, instantly brings back tickle attacks and pillow fights, Easter egg hunts and swimming sessions in the community pool. Saffron grabs my arm. I place my hand on Saff’s like I’m comforting her, but in truth, I just want to hold her there.

  “Okay, first off, let me prep you. I’ll be filming videos for your clues. Clues to what, you might ask. And I’d say, clues to all sorts of things. Who you are, who I am, the gifts I’m about to bestow—be patient and I’ll surprise you. I know I’m beautiful”—she makes a model pose with her hand behind her head—“but don’t worry, I won’t make myself center screen each time.”