How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  I’m not like Tee, running scared. I confront Lorelei every chance I get. I must control her, battle her. I imagine hopping around an arena in an elaborate swordfight. Me sweating bullets, and her seeming disinterested.

  For a smart girl, your lack of creativity surprises me. She’s holding her sword between two fingers, as if it’s as light as a smoothie straw.

  Why, you bored? I’m holding my sword with two hands, and it’s so heavy I can hardly keep it upright.

  Out of my skull. How many go-rounds is this going to take?

  Only there’s no time to answer, because my insides buzz, my heart hammers, my skin prickles. In a strange way, I feel myself relax. Whir-whir-whir-whir. My mind begins to quiet, my thoughts begin to settle. Survival is all I know. I bend my legs, I revel in the adrenaline.

  Only, something is off.

  I jump too soon. Like ten seconds too soon. I miss the secondary blast of air from the train as it passes.

  The chug of the train flying by sounds like hysterical laughter. Lorelei is getting her jollies from my failure. There’s an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, a rancid dissatisfaction. I roll away from the tracks, lying there in the sand, and stare at the stars, wondering why.

  ✱✱✱

  By some strange unspoken agreement, neither Saff nor I bring up the Ryan bomb for over a week. Like if we don’t talk about it, maybe it won’t be true. Neither of us mentions watching the next installment of Mom’s video diary. I avoid the journal too, as if picking it up will infect me with cholera.

  But on Sunday, when the Chowders invite us to come over and cook soup, Saff and I accept the invitation. The Chowders live in the nice part of Pendrum Park, where even modest homes cost as much as an acre would cost in our neighborhood. Their house has a purposely rustic feel. As we walk up the red brick walkway, I play my childhood game of stepping separately on each brick.

  “Are you mad at Mom for not telling us?” Saff’s next to me, matching my steps. This is the first real conversation we’ve had in days.

  “Are you?” I shoot back. I know she is. Or I think I know she is.

  “I asked you first.”

  “Fine.” I stop walking. “Yes. And no. I’m so mad that my blood boils every time I think about her leaving us with Tee, who was practically my age at the time . . . while we had an actual father . . . a grown man, who could’ve helped out . . .”

  “I wonder what Ryan would’ve been like if he had to step up to the plate. Like if Tee hadn’t wanted to take care of us. Would he have gotten his act together?” Saff lowers her voice as she climbs onto the porch. I follow her.

  “Maybe. I think he would have if he could have, you know?”

  “Yeah. I guess Mom didn’t think he was capable.”

  “Okay—and that’s what kind of pisses me off.” I sit down on the porch steps. I speak softly now. Not a whisper, but quietly enough that no one inside will hear. “Like who was she to make that decision? How could she possibly know?”

  “Would you trust him to raise Missy and Maggie on his own?” Saff matches my volume.

  This gives me pause. “No. Good point. He could watch them for a few hours, sure, but long-term, honestly I think you and I could do a better job than Ryan. We’re way more responsible than he is. At least you are. Jury’s still out on me.” I’m kind of joking about the last part, but Saff takes me seriously.

  “Maybe.” Saff twists to face me. “But if you had to make a choice, you could choose to be responsible. Make sense? I don’t think Ryan was in a position to choose after that accident. Sounds like he really got stuck for a while.”

  “God. I hope I don’t turn into him.” The thought settles like a glob of uncooked bread in my gut. Now it’s real. Too real.

  “You won’t. But that’s part of why she waited all this time to tell us. We’re at a crossroads, you know. We’re entering adulthood.”

  “Ahem.” I clear my throat. “I am already an adult.”

  “Technically.” Now Saff’s using that I-know-better tone that makes me want to pinch her.

  Before I can act on the impulse, she adds, “Let’s go in already.”

  Inside, the smell of sautéing onions greets us. The kitchen is just off the entryway, and I can hear the sizzling on the pan. Nonna Chowder traps me in a bear hug, like always, squeezing her massive arms around me, as if the goal is to get me to pop. But now it feels different. Maybe less intrusive. More like she’s trying to absorb me and less like she’s trying to squish me.

  She pulls back and says her usual “More beautiful every day.” For the first time, I sense the pride in those words. That my beauty is part hers. Something that connects us, in some small way.

  When she moves on to squash Saff, I wonder if she also interprets this embrace in a new way. Papa Chowder calls out from his spot on the couch, “Hold the press. The Spice Sisters are here to help season the day.”

  Out of habit, I roll my eyes at the excessive dorkiness. But this, too, takes on new meaning. Now this is my dorkiness too, since he’s part of me and I’m part of him.

  Nonna ushers us into the kitchen, where she’s spread out the cookbook. “It’s corn chowder today, ladies. Out of respect for all the vegans in the world.”

  “Um. Nonna,” I say, “chowder has butter and cream. I think you mean vegetarians.”

  “Details, details.” She waves her hand dismissively. “All right. Let’s set you to chopping. I saved you from the onions.”

  “Thank you.” Saff and I speak in unison.

  We chop and season, boil and simmer, all from a somewhat distant place. This is our grandma. The only grandma we’ll ever know. All these times she’s invited us to cook with her—these were her attempts to connect with us. And Papa Chowder, parked there on that leather couch, turning the pages of his magazine, but soaking up our conversations. Suddenly I feel so guilty for all the chowder sessions we’ve missed in recent years. Neither of us understood the significance of them.

  And that does make me mad. Because although maybe Mom was right to keep us from our dad, was she right to keep us from our grandparents?

  After the soup is fully prepped, simmering on the stove, I get up the nerve to ask my question. “Is Ryan housesitting? Or is he here today?” I seriously almost said “Ryan-the-Reject.”

  Nonna freezes momentarily, her back turned to mine, as she stirs the soup. “Ryan?”

  “Yeah. Just wondering.”

  “You girls never ask to see him.”

  Saff and I share a glance. That’s because in our minds he’s always been such a nonentity. “Yeah, well,” Saff says, clearly at a loss for an excuse. “We thought maybe he’d want to hang out.”

  When Nonna turns to us, her eyes glisten with tears. There’s emotion written into every line in her creased face—some mixture of relief and concern. But still, as the wooden spoon drips chowder onto the tile floor, she doesn’t put her knowledge into words. She waits for us to say more. Papa Chowder stands up in the adjoining room, watching us.

  Saff and I rush in for a hug simultaneously, and this time it’s us squeezing her. Papa comes over and folds into the hug behind us, and we stand there for a long time.

  Papa speaks first. “We knew you’d find out soon. Your mother promised us that she’d tell you in one of the messages she left. We just didn’t know exactly when you’d get that particular message.”

  “It was so hard not to tell you,” Nonna adds. “All these years. But it was Jenny’s wish, and we loved her.”

  “And we understood why,” Papa adds. “We had concerns about that choice, and it was painful, but we understood that she was doing what she thought was best.”

  Nonna pulls herself away, with effort. “I’ll go check if Ryan’s up.” I glance at the clock. It’s nearly noon.

  A minute later Nonna bustles back, all business, saying he’ll be showering and out in a few minutes, and why doesn’t everyone sample the soup, even though it’ll be much tastier once it sits for a while. She moves
about the kitchen with purpose, pulling out crackers, pita chips and hummus, and arranging all the food on the table. Saff and I eat out of politeness, asking an array of questions that never mattered before this: about their own family histories, about how they met and got together, about their careers. We own all this now too, as our personal history. It’s something we can share with them.

  Ryan the Re—oops—Ryan-my-dad ducks his wet hair into the kitchen, avoiding eye contact. Not that he’s ever been the most social, but right now his discomfort spills all over the place. I think we all feel it, because we shift the conversation from intimate to superficial. Ryan samples the food on the table and drinks a tall glass of water. Finally, he meets my gaze. “How’s about a walk? Just me and the girls?”

  We fall over each other agreeing what a fabulous idea this is. Nonna and Papa busy themselves cleaning up and staying out of our way. Saff and I slip on our shoes and pull back our hair.

  But once we’re out on the trail that winds through their neighborhood, we focus on sidestepping clumps of manure.

  “Why exactly are there laws about picking up dog poo, but not horse poo?” I ask, just to break the awkwardness.

  Ryan laughs. “Think of the bags people would have to carry for their horses.”

  “They’d be huge,” I agree. “And the shovels!”

  “One of us should invent a horse pack to carry pooper scoopers and bags.” Saff steps around a large dump of poo.

  “Or we should change the poop laws. It’s discriminatory to force dog owners to pick up poo and not horse owners,” I point out.

  “Yes! It’s classist. Because it’s mostly rich people who own horses,” Saff says.

  “Maybe there is a horse poo law and we just don’t know.” Ryan dodges another clump.

  “Well, if there is, it’s not enforced, and I for one resent it.” I’m having fun being silly, and thinking about anything other than the real issue at hand. “It affects my wellbeing.”

  “Maybe you can sue for damages.”

  “I like the way you’re thinking,” I say. “We must be related.”

  And there! It’s out. Ryan stops and turns to us. It’s painful to watch him try to find the right words.

  Saff must feel the same way, because she speaks first. “It’s okay . . . Dad.” The word “dad” doesn’t sound natural, but she smiles anyway. “We understand. We just want to get to know you better.”

  Ryan/Dad just stares at her, still fumbling. He rubs his crooked nose as if the answer’s in there.

  I want to rescue him. I can’t stand to watch him struggling. It makes me want to turn my head away. So I say, “It’s so strange that we’ve known you forever, but I don’t feel like I really know you.”

  “You and the rest of the world,” he mumbles, his head down. He jerks it back up with visible effort. His hair is still damp. I notice he shaved today. “But I want you to know me. So I’ll try harder.”

  Saff and I both accept this, and we begin to ramble forward again, slowly.

  “Walks are good,” he says slowly. “Let’s try to take a walk every week. Makes the quiet less awkward, if we don’t know what to say, you know?”

  We both agree, not for ourselves so much as for him. He must need that—to be doing something besides just talking. Maybe Nonna does too, maybe that’s why she’s been trying to get us to cook all these years. Walking seems like a good way to connect with Ryan. Nature can soak up the silence, make it comfortable, and Ryan needs that. If we want to get to know our dad, we need that too.

  ✱✱✱

  When we get home, Saff immediately escapes to meet Fletch, leaving me to help Tee fold laundry. She always sorts in her bedroom, making her mattress a mini folding station. “How’d it go?” Tee asks, pulling a tiny Minion shirt out of the pile and smoothing it.

  I grunt. “About as well as it could’ve, considering the circumstances.”

  Tee considers me. “Ryan’s okay, Cayenne. Give him a chance. I’ve been telling you that for the last fourteen years.”

  “Yeah, but for the last fourteen years I didn’t know who he was!” I yank a pair of jeans out of the massive pile. “You were all conspiring against us!”

  “Cayenne.” Tee places a neatly folded shirt onto her bed. “To be fair, your grandparents and your father have been in your life all along. They just didn’t have the label.”

  I groan. “That matters!”

  “You’re saying you’d have been more receptive to them if you knew?” Tee grabs a floral skirt and shakes it out to minimize wrinkles. “You’d have invited them into your life and embraced them with open arms?”

  “YES!” I fold the jeans into a tight rectangle. “I should’ve at least had the option!”

  She sighs. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Cayenne. I never fully agreed with your mom’s decision. But I was also pretty young at the time, and it wasn’t my secret to tell. Besides . . .”

  Tee sets the skirt on the bed, unfolded, and pulls me close. She pats the bed, and we both sink down onto it. “To be totally honest—I wanted to raise you girls. I loved Jenny so much. She was my idol—she was my lifeline when our own mom passed away, and again when our dad did. Losing her left me in a lot of pain, and honestly, having you and your sister . . . I feel like you saved me. I had to be strong for you both. I had to grow up real fast. If I hadn’t poured my energy into you, I think I’d have allowed myself to hate the world.”

  I’ve never thought of it this way. I’ve always figured Saff and I were an inconvenience and that she had to put her life on hold for us. I never thought about her needing us.

  “So yeah, maybe I could’ve tried harder to change her mind about Ryan. Maybe I could’ve gone against her wishes and made him a more official part of your lives. But I was desperate to hold onto anything that reminded me of my sister.”

  “Do I remind you of her?” I ask.

  “You do.” She pauses, staring down at the stack of tiny clothes she’s created on the bed. “I’ve been thinking about her even more than usual lately. I wish every single day that she could’ve had the choice to avoid her cancer. It’s unfair—I get that chance and she didn’t. But I know she’d want me to do this surgery. This is my chance to tip the odds in my favor. She would be cheering me on.” Tee wipes her eyes.

  “I’m sure she would, Tee. I think you’re doing the right thing.” This is the first time I’ve said this, and maybe the first time I really believe it. As painful and unsettling as the surgery sounds, it’s her way of taking control of the Silk Curse.

  “Thank you for saying that.” She sniffles. “Because believing it’s right doesn’t stop me from feeling scared, or worrying about what might go wrong with the procedure, or wondering whether new cancer prevention techniques will pop up that are less invasive.”

  I just hug her. Tee and I don’t get the chance to have heart-to-hearts very often, and this feels good. Maybe I should fold laundry with her more often. “That’s precisely why I’m going to throw you the best booby party ever.”

  ✱✱✱

  I can’t sleep. My chest feels constricted and heavy, as if a fifteen-ton boa is winding his way around and around and around me. Lorelei doesn’t visit my dreams, because I can’t relax enough to get anywhere near sleep.

  One moment I hate Mom. HATE her, hate her. Like seething fury, a volcano in my belly. And I hate Ryan/Dad—both for being who he is and for not revealing himself to us. Just because Mom told him not to reveal his identity doesn’t mean he had to listen. He could have told us at any time, but instead he hung in the background for years. Years when we needed him or wanted him. I wouldn’t have judged him when I was seven. I wouldn’t have known how to judge him. Now I can’t extricate my judgment from my image of him.

  And the next moment . . . I totally get it. I get her wanting to keep him at a distance. I get her being worried about safety. And I get him feeling incapable. But getting it or not getting it . . . it still feels the same. The weight is so heavy it’s suf
focating.

  At about two in the morning, I find myself with the journal in my hands. I consider ripping it into tiny shreds.

  I resist. Barely.

  And I read.

  Choices

  You know that poem by Robert Frost? “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood?” Life is all about choices.

  Only in my life it hasn’t been two roads diverging, it’s been ten, maybe twenty. I could’ve taken so many different turns that would’ve led me down different paths.

  In life there is no rule book. There’s no game plan. There’s just you. Trying. Trying your goddamn best in the face of all odds. Anyone else can judge. Think they know better. Think they’d have done better.

  But just know this. I made the best decisions I could with the information I had at each moment. I might have made other decisions at other moments with different info.

  I am sure I made mistakes. I am human. Practice forgiving me. Maybe it will help you forgive yourselves the next time you hit a crossroads.

  My heart is hungry, ravenous even. I gobble up Saff’s entry as well.

  The Big NEWS —Saffron

  DNA, twisted together like pretzels.

  Genes making up every cell in our bodies.

  I cannot believe that HE is part of me.

  That I’m part of HIM.

  I don’t get mad very often.

  Sure, I feel it bubbling down below,

  Simmering maybe.

  But mostly it lurks outside of my awareness.

  This Dad thing though.

  This goddamn conspiracy to keep him at a distance.

  It SUCKS!

  It makes me so teeth-gritting ANGRY.

  But that feeling, it doesn’t fit my skin.

  Like it’s two sizes too small,

  Uncomfortable and itchy.

  Nearly unbearable.

  I don’t know what to do with this feeling.

  I don’t know how to make it go away.

  I fall asleep imagining Saffron wearing a skintight suit of anger, trying to bust out of it any way she can.

  I wake up with a jolt. Shit. I forgot to take the journal back to her room. I scramble up, journal in hand.