How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  Pause.

  “Didn’t she make us pay for one once?”

  “We had to work it off, I think.” Saff nods. “We lost a book and then we had to do chores to pay her back. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. We scrubbed the floor. Do you remember how we tried to skate around the kitchen on wet rags?”

  “Yeah. I think we got that idea from an old movie.” Saff laughs, remembering. “It didn’t work as well as we thought it would.”

  Play.

  “One time, Cay, you kidnapped a book on purpose. You knew I returned books whenever we checked out new ones, but it always upset you. You still didn’t quite understand that we were just ‘borrowing’ them. So you hid a favorite library book under your mattress, and I found you and Saff, your co-conspirator, flipping through the pages in secret after bed. You couldn’t read yet, but you’d practically memorized it.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” I say, smiling.

  “Yeah, okay, it’s coming back to me now. Maybe that’s why she made us work it off. One of those life-lesson kind of things.”

  “I didn’t catch you with your stolen property until long after I’d paid the lost-book fee . . . so I kept it. I couldn’t give it back to you because what kind of a message would that be? But fourteen years later, I’m returning that book you sticky-fingered. Do you remember which one it was? If so, all you have to do is find it. I’ve asked Alicia to put it somewhere on her shelves. Your gift today is that special book. Look inside it, and on page nine you’ll find a bonus gift.”

  Apparently Alicia felt compelled to save sixty-seven picture books to commemorate Micah’s childhood. Luckily, she’s stacked them all on one baby-blue bookshelf in the guest room. None of them have a library emblem on the spine, so we lay the books out all over the room, flipping to page nine in each one.

  Saff gasps and grabs an old favorite about a llama. Stuck between pages eight and nine is a folded piece of paper with a heart on one side.

  “We loved this book,” I say, touching the smooth pages. “I wanted it to be mine forever.”

  “I remember it now. You did have it memorized. You read it to me in our closet, on top of pillows and blankets.”

  Saff opens the paper. Inside is a thick envelope. I reach into it and pull out a stack of photos. Pictures of each of us as infants, being held by Mom, by a very young Tee (sporting braces and edgy purple hair), plus lanky Luke along with a skinny version of Ryan-the-Reject, and youthful-looking Chowders. An athletic Alicia, in leggings and a T-shirt, holding a shrunken baby Saff. A plump boy toddler with brown ringlets hugging toddler-me. “Aw. That must be Micah, right?”

  Saff frowns. “Why are the Chowders in all these?”

  “Who knows.” I shrug. “Tee and Luke have been together for practically ever.”

  “But she’s like fourteen or fifteen in these pictures, and Luke’s gotta be nineteen, right? They didn’t start dating till we were in elementary school, when they were both in their twenties.”

  I’m only half-listening. I’ve moved on to photos of each of our birthdays (well—the first four for me and the first three for Saff). In the background are the same crew—Alicia, Mark, Micah (at various stages of development), Tee, Mom, Luke, Ryan-the-Reject, and the Chowders.

  Toward the bottom of the pile we find some photos of Mom in her late teens and early twenties. Loose hair, bare midriff and bare feet, tanned face shining like the sun was smiling directly down on her. Holding hands with a boy, kissing him, laughing with him. I stare at him, taking in all the periphery details.

  “Wait a second . . .”

  “No way.” Saffron cuts me off, her face reddening in splotches. “I know what you’re thinking but NO WAY.”

  “I’m breaking the rule—we’re watching the next video now. We can’t wait.”

  Surprisingly, Saff concedes. An old image materializes, one of Saff and me, both very little, holding hands. This is a video of a video. Mom’s pointing her camera at a laptop screen, which is playing this ancient video. Saff has wispy duck-fluff hair and walks in that off-kilter, wobbly new-walker way, with me holding on to her. My own hair hangs to my shoulders, still a little fine, but much thicker than hers. I’d guess we were two and one in this video. Saff plops down on her butt, as little kids do, and bursts into tears. The camera zooms in. I help her up, pat her head and mumble in nearly unintelligible toddler-ish, “Is okay, Saffy, is okay.”

  The image freezes. “Aww, wasn’t that precious? Makes my heart melt every time I see it.” I realize Mom plans on interspersing her commentary with the background video. “So, my sweets, this is video number four, and I think you’re ready for some important information. I ask that you withhold comment or judgment until I’m finished. I know it may be hard, but try.”

  “Uh. Oh.” Saff groans. She’s even splotchier than before, and I worry about the sudden onset of hives.

  The screen shifts to an image of a very young, slim, and handsome Ryan-the-Reject. His nose lies straight and perfectly placed, unlike the current, almost curved, version. “Your father is Ryan Channels.”

  Saff and I suck in simultaneous breaths, the kind you take when someone shoves you in a pool unexpectedly. The kind where you try to inhale as much air as possible before you’re submerged.

  “I’m hoping he’s doing well and is a part of your lives. Sadly, I don’t know if he will be. His parents promised me that they’d do their best to keep him involved in your world, but they also promised me that they wouldn’t tell you your dad’s identity until you’d had a chance to form your own.”

  Saff exhales. I realize I’ve been holding my breath, still feeling the shock of submersion. I release the air in my lungs, and it seeps out, leaving me depleted.

  The image changes to another photo of Ryan, this time in a bathing suit, dripping wet and lifeguard-buff. “Please don’t hate me for keeping this information from you. I never intended to keep it a secret forever. And when this all started, I certainly wasn’t planning on dying. But at the time of your births—yes, both of your births—Ryan could barely function well enough to keep himself fed and showered. I told him I intended to keep him at arm’s length. And he agreed. He knew he’d fallen into some kind of awful quicksand, and he needed to focus on his recovery without having dependents. Without worrying about child support or meeting your expectations.”

  I realize Saff and I are clamped on to each other. She’s hooked both her arms through my left one, holding on as if I’m a life preserver. If we were in the water we’d drown, gripping each other in a panic, neither of us trying to swim.

  “Please know that I did not make this decision lightly. When I was pregnant with you, Cay, I confidentially consulted an attorney about the pros and cons of putting him on your birth certificate. One of my high school friends had a child with a raging alcoholic, and I watched what happened when they divorced. The burden fell on her to prove everything, and the court wound up giving him partial custody. Any time my friend’s kid was with him, she could be sure he wasn’t sober. The idea of having no control over your safety . . . this haunted me. That’s why I purposely did not acknowledge his identity on either of your birth certificates.”

  “I can’t decide if I’m mad or sad,” I whisper.

  “I’m both,” Saff says, her voice so soft I can barely hear it. “How could she do this to us?”

  “I know that in many ways, it was wrong of me to keep your dad from you. But I did the ‘wrong’ thing for the right reasons. I hope you’ll forgive me for this. Plus, I had high hopes that he’d still be an integral part of your lives, just not in the official role of a father.”

  I visualize Ryan-the-Reject standing behind the Chowders, shuffling along. “Depends on what you mean by integral.”

  “Okay, let me backtrack, so you can understand how this all evolved.”

  The photo changes to one of a shaggy-haired Ryan wearing a football uniform. And Mom in short-shorts with killer legs, perky boobs, and long hair pulle
d back in a ponytail. They both squint at the camera, the sun clearly in their eyes.

  “Ryan and I met in high school. We had a ton in common—both athletes with enough energy to be bottled. We took honors classes, on the way to good colleges. Ryan had a gentleness that I loved. He never argued, never insisted on being right, was willing to compromise and always wanted to do the right thing. And that smile, combined with those sensitive eyes—man, those won me over every time.”

  “He does have a nice smile,” Saff acknowledges.

  “Yeah. He looks so different with his old nose, and when he was, you know, fit.” Ryan-the-Reject now has a gut that’s halfway to Santa status.

  The photo shifts to one of an accident scene. A car, scrunched like an empty soda can, somehow curling around the base of a tree. “Midway through senior year, after we’d already applied to colleges, Ryan had a massive car accident. He’d been partying—in fact we’d both been partying at my friend Rachel’s house. I spent the night and slept it off. He drove home, and on the way, he slammed into three parked cars and wrapped his around a tree. That accident shattered several things. It shattered most of the bones in his body, it shattered the skull of a homeless guy who was sleeping in one of the parked cars he hit, and it shattered his belief that he was a good person. The man’s name was Tom Brown. He’d been living in his station wagon for a few months while he tried to get back on his feet. He died at the scene, and your dad was charged with vehicular manslaughter.”

  We both inhale in unison again, as if we’ve been sucker punched.

  The screen displays a newspaper article, with an image of Ryan in a courtroom, and although the trial must have taken place long after his bones healed, he still looks broken.

  “Sorry, girls. I know it’s a lot to swallow. Ryan served four years in prison. Four years is nothing compared to the life that was lost. But it was an eternity for Ryan. He changed in there. He suffered from chronic pain due to his injuries, and chronic depression because of his regret and self-hatred about what he did. The doctors in prison overprescribed him pain medications, and he got hooked, as many chronic pain sufferers do.”

  “How sad,” Saff whispers.

  Something twists in my chest, and I hold my hand there as if that will somehow help.

  “I went off to college and met new friends, dated, had my own life, but I visited him in prison over summer break. In my mind, we were no longer together. I’d moved on. But I still loved him. And I guess I had some survivor’s guilt. It could’ve been me. I could’ve driven home that night. I might’ve, if Rachel hadn’t asked me to stay. Part of me felt responsible for him and wanted to fix him.”

  We see a photo of a slightly older Mom, wearing a pencil skirt and a silky top with dangly earrings, her hair twisted up on top of her head. Ryan sits next to her in crumpled shorts and a T-shirt, his post-break nose curved. His hair is gelled back, and he’s half-smiling, but the somber puppy-dog eyes grab me.

  “It wasn’t until his parents called me, a little over three years after he’d been released, that we really reconnected. They were worried about him, they told me. Thought he was depressed. Thought it would be good for him to spend time with old friends. I was in between boyfriends, and I might have been a bit lonely myself. It was the year after my father died of a heart attack—he’d been my only parent for most of my life. Your aunt Tina moved in with extended family, and I missed her. Financially, I’d been doing well—bought my own condo, had a great job, had a ton of friends, but all it took was one look from those eyes to suck me back in.”

  Saff pauses the video and stares at the image of our parents.

  “That photo!” Saff points to it. “Mom and Ryan don’t match at all.”

  “True. But he’s still kind of cute there.”

  “I guess,” Saff shakes her head. “I just can’t believe that our father was under our noses all this time and we didn’t know it!”

  “He’s not a bad man, girls. He’s a good man who hit trouble, and didn’t know how to grow from it. Some people trip over adversity and it makes them stronger. Some people get stuck, and that’s your dad. I always tried to see the best in him, to give him the benefit of the doubt. We wound up dating casually. I told him I no longer wanted exclusivity, but that I enjoyed his company. That was true.”

  “So basically they just hooked up,” I say.

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Cayenne, you were a surprise. A lovely, lovely surprise. I hadn’t planned to get pregnant, but once I was, I adored you immediately, even though you were the size of a raisin inside me. Ryan tried really hard to pull it together. He went to rehab, swore off prescription meds, got a job. I accepted his involvement, because I wanted a two-parent family for you.”

  Photos slide past more quickly now: Ryan painting a baby room, assembling a crib, hugging a very pregnant Mom.

  “But every small stumble set him back. He arrived late to work and was written up—he relapsed. He forgot to pay a bill—he relapsed. We got in an argument, he felt like a failure, he relapsed. Pain killers were his go-to. The second things got rough, he knew just where to find them. Then he’d feel guilty and try to start fresh again, but it was clear he couldn’t stay clean for long. By the time I was six months pregnant, we both knew I could not rely on him to step up to the plate as your father. So he agreed to this arrangement.”

  There’s a tender image of Ryan holding newborn me, and the screen stays on it for a long time. So long that I feel pressure building along the bridge of my nose and against the corners of my eyes. I won’t cry. I refuse to cry. I glance at Saff. Her face is wet.

  “Clearly I am not a quick learner. After you were born, Cay, single motherhood was harder than I thought. The sleepless nights, the funky hormones, and exhaustion from nursing. Anyway, he moved in for two months, helping me around the house and taking care of me and you.”

  The screen displays images of newborn me, smiling in that lopsided new baby way, one cheek higher than the other, blowing spit bubbles, in one of those portable infant bath tubs, and with some kind of green pureed vegetable all over my cheeks.

  “I blame my vulnerability, my post-baby body and feeling so insecure and alone in the world. So when Cay was only five weeks old, I got pregnant with Saffron. At first I freaked out. I’d been nursing. I didn’t think I could get pregnant while nursing. But clearly I could and I did. After a little while, I realized what a blessing this would be. That you’d have each other, no matter what happened between me and Ryan. And I decided this was meant to be.”

  “So we were both accidents,” I say, my voice hoarse.

  “Surprise sounds nicer.”

  “Same difference.”

  Baby-me is kissing Mom’s swollen belly. “I gave Ryan those nine months to pull his act together. He’d been so helpful to me when you were born, Cay, and I thought maybe . . . plus I did love him. I’d always loved him. We really tried, girls—we went to counseling together for months. But he was still a mess, so we stuck with the same arrangement when Saff came along. I have high hopes that he’s made a lot more progress by now, that at this point you can connect with him and feel blessed to have his company. If he’s kept his word, he should still be part of your lives, so you’ll be good judges of how he’s grown and changed.”

  Saff and I turn to each other, and I read her hesitation. We don’t know what he was like when we were little, but he isn’t exactly a role model now.

  “I beg your forgiveness, girls. I know I’ve robbed you of time with him. I hope you’ll understand why I did this and why I’m telling you now. My biggest motivator was safety—I couldn’t bear the idea of Ryan supervising you in the pool or driving you around while under the influence. Now that you’re grown, I know you can keep yourselves safe. Your own identities have been formed and you’re mature enough to view Ryan with the understanding and compassion he deserves. He’s a good man, and I wanted you to be able to fully appreciate that. I want you to be proud of where you come from, and t
o recognize that our decisions were made with love.”

  Once again the screen shifts, showing multiple images of toddler-me with baby-Saff. Kissing her head, holding her (with grownup arms supporting), playing with squishy multicolored baby blocks.

  “Life is messy, girls. It’s messy and complicated and our job is to do the best we can with the lot we’ve been handed. To grow from adversity and not crumble from it.”

  The screen freezes with an image of the four of us. Ryan holding me, Mom cradling Saff. Both of them gazing down on our heads as if they’ve just been handed solid gold. Mom’s hair is loose around her shoulders, like a shawl.

  “Okay, so that’s a lot. I dumped a ton on you. Please do me a favor, and don’t watch the next video until you’ve come to grips with this. These are all meant to be gifts, and you’ll benefit most from them if you watch with open hearts.”

  I shut down the laptop. Neither Saff nor I speak for a long time. In fact, we drive home in silence. No music, just the empty sound of air rushing past.

  Chapter 13

  It’s pitch black. I checked the train schedule before I left the house, and I know the 8:55 train from Norwalk should be along soon. I’ve never dodged at night before, but the moment the thought entered my brain, I felt compelled to do it, to quiet my mind.

  It’s all too much. My dad being Ryan-the-Reject, Tee’s upcoming surgery, these journal entries and videos dredging up the past. I can’t handle it. I feel the slight tremor on the tracks before I hear it. Train is coming.

  “Screw you, Lorelei!” I send daggers in my mind. She stole my mother. In a way, she stole my father too—if he hadn’t killed that man, he might never have struggled with addiction and he could have been my dad from the beginning. And now Lorelei’s lurking in the shadows, threatening Tee—intimidating her enough that she’s willing to surgically remove parts of her body. I understand why she’s doing it but I hate that she has to. I despise Lorelei for having so much power over my life and the people I love.