How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  Saff’s still curled into a ball, on her left side. I slip the journal back onto her desk and tiptoe back to my room.

  And I don’t feel guilty this time. Reading Saff’s journal entries is bringing me closer to her. She’s too private to tell me what she’s really feeling, but it helps me to know. It’s strange, but knowing she’s pissed off releases some pressure in me.

  Chapter 14

  The sun devours the sky, making me wish I’d doubled up on my sunscreen. Axel holds my hand as we hike up to Mesa Ridge—our second jump from the Bluffs. School let out early today, for the kind of teacher in-service/student play day we all love. “I wish I could’ve met your dad before that accident, before he got all messed up.”

  “Yeah. You and me both.” I’ve briefed Axel on every detail from the video and from our walk with Ryan/Dad.

  “He has like, coolness potential, if he wasn’t such a total loser.” We’re nearing the last loop up.

  “That should make me sad, what you just said.” I match his steps. “Or angry. But you’re totally right.”

  “We’re good like that. I can say anything without offending you.” Axel drops my hand so that he can step up onto a rock, his bare back glistening. When I first met him I thought he played football or water polo, because of the muscles in his back and arms, but then I figured out he just does a lot of heavy lifting at the sporting goods store where he works. He’s the kind of guy who’s good at every sport but doesn’t want to be tied down to one.

  “Almost anything,” I tease, stepping up behind him. “But I agree with you about Ryan. I’ve always thought of him as my step-uncle, and that’s how he still feels to me.”

  “He’s a poster child for ‘say no to drugs and alcohol.’”

  “Yeah,” I say, swiping the sweat off my nose, “it’s interesting that we both have a family history of drug addiction. I didn’t know it before, but now that I do, it makes a certain kind of sense. Do you think there’s something inside us both, something we were born with, that craves the high?”

  “Maybe. The counselor I saw after my dad died said that family history and personal use patterns are big factors in addiction. We can’t change our family history.” The ground flattens at the cliff, and Axel stops for a moment, gazing at the view. “That’s why I stay away from substances and only go for the natural highs. They’re still addictive, but they don’t mess with your brain.”

  It might be the heat from the day or the altitude, but I feel suddenly nauseous. The main reason I don’t drink is because Axel steers clear of all that. “Thank god I didn’t fall in love with a partier. I would’ve totally gotten sucked in.” Axel has probably saved me from myself.

  “Yep. I’m a good influence on you. You should stay with me forever.” He drops down onto his knee in the dirt. “Marry me. Have a busload of kids.”

  “Oh shut up.” I swat his head. “I’m never getting married or having kids.”

  “I know,” he says, grinning. “That’s why I said it. I’m not getting married or having kids either. Independence . . . that’s what I want.”

  I boost him up off his knee. “We are perfect for each other.”

  Axel pulls me in for a quick kiss, his arms resting on my shoulders.

  Leaping the lower cliff in the dark was much scarier than this. There’s no one in the blue-green water below me, and the rocks have broken off below, meaning there’s no chance of hitting one on the way down.

  “Let’s do this.” I turn in his arms and kiss him square on the lips, closed-mouthed and quick. I slip out from under him, pivot, and say, “Me first this time.”

  As I leap, my senses kick into overdrive, one at a time. The rushing of wind against my ears and the faraway whoop of Axel’s voice. The earthy smell of air as I suck it in, the salty taste of my lips. The blurred scenery smearing as I plunge. The sense of emptiness as my stomach drops out from under me. Followed by the sensory overload.

  I imagine Lorelei watching me, salivating. Clasping and unclasping her bony fingers. I lift my middle finger to the sky, flipping her off.

  This is the best feeling in the world.

  Chapter 15

  “You two come out here much?” Ryan/Dad asks, readjusting his backpack. On Friday he messaged Saff and me, suggesting we hike from the beach up to the Bluffs this weekend.

  His current housesitting gig includes the care, exercise, and entertainment of three dogs—a chocolate Lab, an English cocker spaniel, and a dachshund—one for each of us to walk. The owner travels extensively and pays extra when Ryan takes them on day trips. We’ve been walking for an hour, and Ryan’s already taken several photos of the dogs and texted them to the owner. Seems silly to me, but whatever.

  Saff shoots me a look. Once, in a misguided attempt at sisterly bonding, I told her about Axel’s and my bucket list—big mistake. Instead of considering it uber cool, she marked it as more evidence of my irresponsibility.

  I’m in no hurry to mention that Axel and I jump off these cliffs. I probably wouldn’t hesitate if Ryan was still my step-uncle, but now that he’s something else, I’d prefer not to tell him. “We like to swim here,” I answer, settling on a half-truth. “I’m not, uh, normally up for cardiovascular activity.” More accurately, I only tolerate cardiovascular activity for a goal. Like climbing the cliffs to jump. Not walking for the sake of walking.

  “Cayenne makes laziness an art form,” Saff explains. She’s wrapped the dachshund’s leash around her wrist several times, and her hand is turning a deep shade of pink. “Although you probably already know that.”

  “Sounds familiar. I think you inherited that from me,” Ryan says. I can hardly keep from gagging—resembling Ryan is the last thing I want. He tugs on the Lab’s leash and adds under his breath, “Your mom was not that way.”

  “Can we talk about her?” Saff asks, tugging at her dog. He’s buried his nose deep into some bushes, investigating. “Or does that make you uncomfortable?”

  Ryan turns to Saff, studying her, maybe thinking about how he wants to respond. “Yes . . . and yes.” He whistles, low, and Saff’s dog scampers toward him, yanking on Saff’s wrist. “I don’t like talking about her, or thinking about her, really.” He kneels and ruffles the dog’s fur. “But we can,” he says, straightening up. “We probably should.”

  “It’s just . . . that I don’t really remember her.” Saff carefully unwinds the leash from around her wrist and shakes her hand out. “I’ve got the video diary, and the journal, and photos around the house, but I don’t have clear memories of her.”

  Ryan looks up from the dog. “Jenny was great.”

  “Can you be more descriptive?” Saff asks, flexing and unflexing her fingers. She doesn’t seem angry, though I know she wrote that she was in her journal entry. She seems more curious than anything. Maybe she’s over it. Or maybe she’s ambivalent, like me.

  “Really great. Stupendous. Best woman I ever met.”

  Saff considers this and then says, “Maybe more specific?”

  “I’m no good with words. I don’t know . . . She was a rock star. Super smart, motivated, fun. Beautiful. That woman did more in her thirty-one years than most people do in sixty.” Ryan finds a large smooth rock and hauls his backpack on top of it. He unzips it, and I peek inside. He’s crammed the backpack with water bottles and small containers of nuts, granola, and dried fruit. “Hungry?” Ryan asks, maybe to change the topic.

  “Starving,” I respond, definitely to change the topic. “Anyone mind if I steal all the dried apricots? I’ll leave the raisins as compensation.”

  Saff ignores me. “You must have loved her.”

  Ryan kind of freezes, his hand in midair, going for the granola. He scoops a handful of it into his mouth, and then mumbles with his mouth half-full, “I’m no good at this kind of conversation.”

  “But we have to have it. Dad.” Now I do hear the anger in her voice. Doesn’t she know when to lay off? Clearly Ryan’s struggling with this.

  “We actual
ly don’t have to talk about this stuff. We can just hike and ingest granola. It’s okay,” I tell him.

  “No. Saffron’s right. It’s just—I’m not used to—” Ryan breaks off, his words garbled because of the handful of granola between his cheek and teeth. “Shit. This is hard for me.”

  I silently second that.

  Saff is not so silent. “We could talk about horse crap every time we walk, there sure is a lot of it up here. But I’ve missed almost eighteen years of having a father. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

  Ryan swallows his mouthful of granola, grimacing, as though he hasn’t chewed it enough first and it hurts going down. “Yes. I loved her.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving tiny speckles of granola. “But I didn’t deserve her.”

  Saff finds a seat on a rock and I perch on another one. Ryan stands, facing us, but up on the rock, we’re taller than him. Neither of us speak, just wait for Ryan to go on. “She hung out with me, but it was more like a gift, like charity, and I knew it. She didn’t want anything more.”

  Hearing this makes me sad.

  Ryan twists away from us to stare at the horizon, and both Saff and I reposition ourselves so that we can hear him. “The less she needed me, the more I adored her. And it’s not like I had many other people in my life.”

  A stream of ants crawl along the rock, searching for sustenance. Ants have a purpose. They know their path instinctively. Ants don’t bother with college apps, soul searching or reconnecting with long-lost parents.

  “I let her down over and over again.” Ryan turns back toward us, and his eyes are full. I absolutely one hundred percent do not want to see this man cry. “And I let you both down over and over again.”

  “Okay, so I get why she didn’t want you on the birth certificate. But once she found out she was dying, wasn’t that like a game changer?” Saff presses.

  “Not for her.” Ryan’s eyes dry up, the liquid evaporating so quickly that I wonder if it was ever really there. There’s low-grade frustration in his tone. Suddenly I wonder if he resents Mom for limiting him in this way. For not trusting him. For not thinking that an imperfect father was better than no father at all.

  “What about for you?” Saff shifts impatiently on the rock. “What about for us?”

  “Listen. I’ve never been a guy who could get anything done without directions. Not putting something together, not finding a restaurant, nothing. There were no directions for being a dad.” The emotion retreats. “The idea of that, of being alone and in charge, it terrified me. Plus I couldn’t stay clean. I tried.” He tosses more granola into his mouth, as if giving up on himself.

  “How hard?”

  “It’s more complicated than just willpower. It’s a disease.” Ryan crunches the granola and stands his ground. “And you were in good hands.”

  “Tee was nineteen!” Saff’s eyes catch hold of me like a fish hook, and some of the accusation pierces me, as if I should be jumping in to help her. But I only want to run away from this conversation. Why is she pushing him so hard?

  “I did try, you know. I was depressed and mad at myself for being incapable. I told myself that once I got clean for good, I’d request a paternity test and then I could take you back.” He pauses and swallows. “But by the time I got my act together, Luke had stepped in to help Tee, and I thought maybe you were better off.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  “Maybe.” Ryan shrugs. “But it’s also what your mom wanted.”

  “That’s a cop-out too.” Saff hops off the rock, like she can’t stand to sit any longer.

  “She was the kind of lady who never needed directions for anything,” says Ryan. “She just knew. Irritatingly, she was always right.”

  “Says who?” Saff steps into Ryan’s space. “I’m not buying this whole conspiracy we know better than you shit. Maybe she wasn’t right.” Wow. If I wasn’t so uncomfortable, I’d be impressed with Saffron’s gumption. “You could have stepped up. You should have stepped up!”

  Ryan studies her. This might be the first time he’s looked her in the eye so far. “You may not remember, but early on I used to take you both out for lunch on Saturdays, but you were always missing Tee, and counting the minutes until you could go back. I guess I felt inadequate and so I . . . I just stopped trying so hard.” He breaks eye contact and fiddles with the leash. “You don’t have to accept me as your father now. But I’m offering.” He backs away from her, his voice constricted. “I’m gonna take a break. I’ll be back in a few.” He and the Lab climb up toward Mesa Ridge, stepping out of earshot.

  Saff turns to me, her cheeks roasting red, like she might burst open any second. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Why didn’t you chill out?” I shoot right back at her. “What are you trying to do, push him into a relapse?”

  “That’s not fair, Cay. You’re suggesting that if I call the guy out on his shit, I’m going to make him fall apart?”

  “Basically.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thinking that got him in this mess. He’s capable of owning his decisions. Mom clearly thought he was a total loser. The Chowders expect nothing from him. And we’ve bought into the idea of Ryan-the-Reject for years. I refuse to believe that anymore.”

  “Believe what you want. But I don’t get the point of getting so carried away. I say we just see what happens. Either he’ll pull it together or he won’t. It doesn’t matter what he says right now with you screaming in his face, it matters what he does.” I climb down off the rock. “Sheesh, Saffron. I’m supposed to be the hot tempered one, not you.”

  She shakes it off, walking around the landing, rubbing the dachshund behind the ears. Ryan wanders over to us after about twenty minutes. He’s quiet. On the way back to the beach, we don’t say much, and when we do, it’s all horse-poo caliber small talk.

  Chapter 16

  “Looks like someone coated this place in Pepto Bismol,” Saff comments as we put the final touches on the living room.

  “Not bad, considering.” I check the clock. Booby party guests should be arriving soon. We’ve got a playlist jamming in the background, all women’s empowerment themed. Saff and I have channeled our energy into prepping for the party. We’ve been walking with Ryan/Dad once a week, but keeping all conversations in safely neutral territory. Neither of us have suggested watching another Mom video.

  Nonna’s clinking around in the kitchen, probably checking on her cream of beet soup, also a lovely shade of pink. We’ll serve it in bread bowls with a floating round crouton placed strategically in the center. We haven’t spelled out for Nonna that the bread bowl will be yet another image of a breast, assuming the floating crouton doesn’t migrate to the side, but I have to assume she knows.

  Saff and I return to the kitchen. Nonna’s holding a bottle of light pink wine, which she’s clearly been sampling. “Breasts are a nuisance once you get to my age,” she babbles. “They’re heavy, they sag to your belly button. Maybe I can sign up for this.”

  “Not the image I want,” Saff whispers to me. Nonna’s saggy jugs pop into my brain too, uninvited.

  “I can’t go without a bra anymore, girls. Not even at bedtime. And who sleeps with a bra?” Nonna gestures with a wooden spoon for emphasis, and little splatters of pink beet soup fling outward. Ugh. Another unwanted image.

  “How’re we going to sober her up before everyone else gets here?” Saff whispers again.

  I move the pink chardonnay out to the living room, away from her tiny “sampling” cup. We sit her down with a glass of water.

  “I liked my breasts until I was about forty.” Yep, she’s definitely drunk. “You know, in the sixties, when I was just a young teenager, I followed all the news coverage about burning bras and protesting against the Miss America Pageant. Some of that was media hype—don’t know that women were really burning bras all over the place . . .”

  Saff and I exchange a look.

  “Anyway, the point was that bras were viewed a
s symbolically oppressive. Women wanted to be seen for who they were as people and for their contributions to the world, not for how they looked. But I think plenty of women are still just as obsessed with breasts as men.” Saff and I exchange glances. “We’re obsessed with size and shape, and we’re even harder on ourselves than men are.”

  “Here, Nonna. Drink some more water.” Maybe we need to hide her in the back room until after the party.

  But as soon as the guests arrive, it’s clear we shouldn’t have wasted any time worrying. Maybe because there are no men or small children, maybe because of the giggles that start with our booby party games, maybe because of what Tee is about to do, or maybe the pink chardonnay has morphed into a truth serum—no one seems to have a filter.

  Truthfully I can’t follow all the conversations, but I hear plenty of fascinating snippets.

  “You’re gonna lose ten pounds overnight. Bam! The newest diet.”

  “You think they weigh ten pounds?” Tee cups her hands underneath her breasts as if she can weigh them.

  “At least.”

  “We could try weighing them. Do you have a food scale?” Luckily no one can find the meat scale—probably because I slip back into the kitchen and hide it in the fridge. No way do I want to watch Tee weigh her breasts.

  “Okay, question. Does anyone here get hair growth on their boobs?”

  “What?” Laughter.

  “No, seriously. I have to pluck this one hair that keeps sprouting up on my left breast.”

  “Oh, that’s normal. I get those too.”

  “It’s a mini forest for me.” Followed by jokes related to hair removal methods.

  “I think you’re a trooper to have the reconstruction, Tee,” says Vanessa’s mom, Lucy, one of the few women here I know by name. “I looked it up—forty-four percent of women choose not to reconstruct after mastectomy.”

  “More power to them! I think that’s brave.”

  “Why is that any braver than going for reconstruction? It’s actually less surgery.”