Tell Me Three Things

by Julie Buxbaum

  It’s been 747 days and still I have not yet learned how to talk about any of this. I mean, I can talk about how I bought the toilet paper, how we were broken, how I was broken. But I still haven’t found the words to talk about my mom. The real her. To remember who she was in a way that doesn’t make me keel over.

  I don’t know how to do that yet.

  Sometimes it feels like I’ve forgotten how to talk altogether.

  “It’s amazing, Dad, really,” I said, because the new house is amazing. If I was going to be held captive by a wicked stepmother, surely there are worse places I could have ended up than living in the pages of Architectural Digest. I wasn’t going to complain about its utter lack of homeyness—and not even homeyness specific to me, but homeyness in general—or the fact that I felt like I had moved into a museum filled with strangers. That would sound petty. Anyhow, we both knew that that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Mom wasn’t here. That she would never be anywhere again. When I thought about that for too long, which I didn’t, when I could help it, I realized it didn’t matter much where I slept.

  Certain facts tend to render everything else irrelevant.

  We once were three strong, and now we were something altogether different. A new, unidentifiable formation. A cockeyed parallelogram.

  “Call me Rachel,” Dad’s new wife had said the first time I met her, which made me laugh. What else was I going to call her? Mother? Ms. Scott? (Her maiden name. Actually, not her maiden name. Her previous married name.) Or even more ridiculous, her new name, my mother’s name: Mrs. Holmes? In my head, she remains Dad’s new wife; it’s a futile exercise to try to get me used to the idea. Dad’s new wife. Dad’s new wife. Dad’s new wife. Talk about three words that don’t fit together.

  “Call me Jessie,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. The fact that she existed at all had come as a surprise. I hadn’t even realized my dad had started dating. He had been traveling a bunch—pharmaceutical conventions, he claimed—and I hadn’t thought to question him, even though he had never before taken a work trip. I figured he was using work the same way I was using school: as a way to forget. I was excited to be home alone for those weekends. (Did I take advantage and throw big parties, where kids sipped beer from red Solo cups and left piles of vomit on our lawn? Nope. Scarlett slept over. We made microwave popcorn and binge rewatched old seasons of our favorite shows.)

  Then one day my dad came home and said this whole thing about having fallen in love and I noticed he had a new ring on his finger. Cold and shiny. Silver: a bitter medal. Apparently, somehow, instead of going to Orlando to learn more about Cialis, he had eloped to Hawaii with a woman he met on the Internet in one of his bereavement support groups. At first, I thought he was joking, but his hands were shaking, and he was half smiling the way he does when he’s nervous. And then came the long, terrible speech about how he knew this was going to be difficult, a new city, switching schools and all—this was the part he said fast, so fast that I made him repeat it to make sure I had heard him right. This was the part when I first heard the words “Los Angeles.”

  A step up, he said. An opportunity. A way to get us out of “our rut.” Those were other words he dared to use: “our rut.”

  I hadn’t realized we were in a rut. “Rut” seemed way too small a word for grief.

  He was tan, his cheeks pink from three days on a beach. I was still pale from the Chicago winter. My fingers probably smelled of butter. I didn’t cry. After the shock wore off, I cared a whole lot less than I thought I would. Sometimes, when Scarlett says I’m strong, I think she really means I’m numb.

  —

  Rachel is one of those teeny-tiny women who somehow use their voice to take up a lot space. She doesn’t speak so much as announce things. Call me Rachel! Tell Gloria if you want to add anything to the grocery list! Don’t be shy! She’s a whiz in the kitchen! I can’t even boil an egg! Pilates kicked my ass today!

  I find her exhausting to be around.

  Today’s announcement: “Family dinner!” Until now, I’ve mostly avoided sitting down with everyone at the dining table. Rachel’s been busy working late on a new film—an action-hero slash sci-fi feature called Terrorists in Space—that she promises is “going to kill it at the box office!” On nights my dad’s not out to business dinners with Rachel—“Schmoozing is key!” she likes to pronounce—he’s been glued to his computer looking for a new job. Theo goes out a lot too, mostly to Ashby’s house, where they steal her mother’s Zone Delivery meals.

  I tend to eat in my bedroom. Usually peanut butter and jelly that I’ve bought myself, or ramen with an egg. I don’t feel comfortable adding to Gloria’s shopping list. Gloria is the “house manager,” whatever that is. “Like family!” Rachel pronounced when she introduced us for the first time, though in my experience family members don’t wear uniforms. There also seems to be a cleaning crew and a gardener and various other Latino people who are paid to do things, like change lightbulbs or fix toilets. “Guys, get down here! We’re all having dinner together, whether you like it or not!”

  This last bit is said half jokingly, like: Ha-ha, isn’t it funny that you two don’t actually want to be doing this? Sharing a house. Eating together. Life is hil-larious.

  Maybe I hate her. I haven’t decided yet.

  I peek out of my bedroom, see that Theo is making his way downstairs. He’s wearing a huge pair of headphones. Not a bad idea. I grab my phone so I can text Scarlett while we eat.

  “Seriously, Mom,” Theo says, his ears still fully covered, so he talks even louder than usual. These people have no sense of volume control. “Do we really have to play happy family? It’s bad enough that they live here.”

  I look at my dad, roll my eyes to show that I’m not bothered. He gives me a tiny smile when Rachel isn’t looking. If Theo is going to be a bad sport, I’ll do the opposite. Play perfect child and make Rachel even more embarrassed about her spoiled brat. Pretend I’m not angry that my dad has brought me here, that he hasn’t even bothered to ask how I’m doing. I’ve mastered the game of Pretend.

  “Looks delicious. What is this?” I ask, because it does look good. I’m getting tired of ramen and PB&J. I need some vegetables.

  “Quinoa and a mixed seafood stir-fry with bok choy,” Rachel announces. “Theo, please take off your headphones and stop being rude. We have some exciting news.”

  “You’re having a baby,” Theo deadpans, and then laughs at his own joke, which is not at all funny. Oh no. Is that even a biological possibility? How old is Rachel? Thank you, Theo, for adding one more thing to my biggest fears in life list.

  “Very funny. No. Bill got a job today!” Rachel grins, as if my dad has just accomplished an amazing feat: done a triple backflip right in front of us and stuck the landing. She’s still in her work clothes—a white blouse with a jaunty bow tie and black pants with a satin stripe down each side. I’m not sure why, but she always seems to wear stuff that dangles: ties, tassels, charms, scarves. Her blunt-cut brown hair is blown straight, and its perfection ages her, despite her tasteful Botox. Too many sharp lines. I’ll grant her this, even though I’m not much in the mood to grant her anything: Rachel’s enthusiasm is generous. My dad’s salary is probably only a little bit more than what she pays Gloria. Still, I’m relieved. I can now ask for an allowance to hold me over until I get my own part-time job.

  “Let’s toast!” she says, and to my surprise pours both Theo and me each a small glass of wine. My dad doesn’t say anything and neither do I; we can play sophisticated and European. “To new beginnings.”

  I clink my glass, sip my wine, and then dig into my stir-fry. I try not to make eye contact with Theo; instead, I text Scarlett under the table.

  “I’m so excited. Didn’t take long, darling!” Rachel smiles at Dad, squeezes his hand. He smiles back. I look at my phone. I haven’t gotten used to seeing them together, acting all newlywed-y. Touching. I doubt I’ll ever get used to it.

 
“Where will you be working?” I ask, mostly because I hope my talking will make Rachel take her hand away from Dad’s. It doesn’t work.

  “Right down the street from your school. I’ll eventually run the pharmacy counter at Ralph’s,” my dad says. I wonder how he feels about Rachel making multiples of what he makes, whether it’s emasculating or attractive. When I objected to her paying for my school, my dad just said, “Don’t be ridiculous. This is not up for negotiation.”

  He was serious. None of it was up for negotiation: his marriage, us moving, Wood Valley. Before my mom died, I lived in a democracy. Now it’s a dictatorship.

  “Wait, what?” Theo asks, and finally takes off his headphones. “You are not working at Ralph’s.”

  My dad looks up, confused by Theo’s belligerent tone.

  “Yeah. The one on Ventura,” my dad says, keeping his own voice conversational, light. He’s not used to belligerence. He’s used to me: passive-aggressive. Actually, mostly passive, with the occasional storm of snappiness. When I rage, it is alone, in my room, sometimes set rhythmically to music. “Good benefits. Dental. I’ll be a pharmacy intern for a while, since I need to take an exam to practice in California. So I’ll be studying for my CPJE while you guys study for your PSAT. But, you know, it’s paid, not like an internship internship. I’ll be doing the same thing I did back in Chicago while I get certified.”

  My dad stutters a nervous laugh and wears that half smile. He’s babbling.

  “You got a job at the supermarket near my school?” Theo yells.

  “At the pharmacy counter. I’m a pharmacist. You know this, right? He knows this?” my dad asks Rachel, now completely bewildered. “I’m not bagging groceries.”

  “You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. Mom: Are you serious?”

  “Theo, slow your roll,” Rachel says, and puts her hand out. Who are these people? I think, not for the first time. Slow your roll?

  “As if I’m not humiliated enough. Now my friends are going to see him working at the supermarket with one of those lame little plastic name tags?” Theo throws his fork across the room and stands up. I can’t help but notice the splash of soy sauce on the white dining room chair, and resist the urge to find some Shout. Or is that Gloria’s job? “Give me a break. It’s hard enough without this shit.”

  Theo storms off, all ridiculous stomp and huff, like a four-year-old. It’s so overblown that I’m tempted to laugh. Did he learn to throw fits like that in theater class? Then I see my dad’s face. His eyes are sad and hollow. Humiliated.

  “Language!” Rachel says, even though Theo is long gone now, and also sixteen.

  When I was little, I used to love to play pharmacist. I’d dress up in one of my mom’s aprons and use the empty bottles my dad brought home to dispense Cheerios to my stuffed animals. Until my mother died, it never occurred to me to be anything but proud of my dad, and even then, my doubts were only about his survival skills, not his professional ones. I actually like the idea of him behind the counter at Ralph’s, just down the road from school. I miss him. This house gives us too many rooms to hide in.

  Screw Theo and his rich friends; we didn’t have dental in Chicago.

  My father is an optimist. I doubt he realized it would be this hard, or maybe, when it was just the two of us flattened in our wrestler’s house, he thought: There’s no way California could be any harder than this.

  “I can’t not take the job because he’s embarrassed?” My dad says it like he’s asking Rachel a question, and again I find I have to look away. But this time it’s not to spare me, but to spare him. “I need to work.”

  —

  Later, I sit outside on one of Rachel’s many decks. Stare at the hills, which cocoon the house with their fairy lights. Imagine the other families out there, finishing up their dinners or soaking their dishes. If they’re fighting, their fights are likely familiar, old habits rubbing each other raw in spots already grooved. In this house, we are strangers. Nothing like a family at all.

  Weird too to think about how things used to be here, before my dad and I arrived, before Theo’s dad died. Did they all sit down to dinner together, like my family did?

  I have my phone with me, but I’m too tired to text Scarlett. Too tired even to see if I have another email from SN. Who cares? He’s probably just another entitled little shit, like everyone else at Wood Valley. He’s already admitted as much.

  The screen door opens and closes behind me, but I don’t turn to look. Theo plops down into the lounge chair next to mine and takes out a set of rolling papers and a bag of weed.

  “I’m not an asshole, you know,” Theo says, and begins to roll his joint with tender precision. Fat and straight. Elegant work.

  “Honestly? You have given me no evidence to the contrary,” I say, and then regret it immediately. Couldn’t I have just said Yes, yes you are. Or Leave me alone. Why do I sometimes talk like a sixty-year-old? “Won’t your mom see you?”

  “One hundred percent sanctioned, legal, and medicinal. Got a prescription from my shrink.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “No joke. It’s for my anxiety.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and I find myself smiling back. Only in California, I think. He holds the joint out toward me, but I shake my head. My dad has had enough trauma for one day. He doesn’t need to see his Goody Two-shoes daughter smoking up with his new stepson. For a pharmacist, he’s surprisingly conservative about pharmaceuticals. “Anyhow, I think she’d be relieved it’s just a joint. A kid from school died last year. Heroin OD.”

  “That’s awful,” I say. There was a ton of drug use at my old school. Doubt the stuff they take here is any harder, probably just more expensive. “I wonder what his prescription was for.”

  Theo shoots me a look. It takes him a moment to realize I’m kidding. I tend to make jokes at inappropriate times. Go darker than I probably should. He might as well learn that about me now.

  “You know, in any other situation, I could see us being friends. You’re not that bad. I mean, Ashby could have a field day giving you a makeover, but you already have the raw material. And I can tell you’re kind of cool in your own way. Funny.” Theo looks straight ahead, delivers his backhanded compliments to the hills. “Your dad sucks, though.”

  “And you are kind of an asshole,” I say. “For real.”

  Theo laughs, shudders at some invisible wind. It cools down at night here, but it’s still too hot for the scarf he has knotted around his neck. He takes a hit, long and hard. I’ve never smoked pot, but I can see the appeal. I can feel him unwinding next to me, sinking deeper into the chair. The glass of wine has loosened me too. I wish Rachel had offered me a second. That’s a gift I wouldn’t have refused.

  “Yeah, I know. But do you have any idea how much shit I’m going to take at school because of him? Jesus Christ.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

  “No, you probably shouldn’t.”

  “This sucks for me too. All of it. Every single minute of every single day,” I say, and once it’s out, I realize just how true it is. Dad, you were wrong: it could be worse. It is so much worse. “I had a life back in Chicago. Friends. People who would actually say hello to me in the halls.”

  “My dad died of lung cancer,” Theo says, apropos of nothing, and takes another long hit. “That’s why I smoke. Figure if you can run twelve miles a day and get cancer anyway, I might as well live it up.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know, right?” Theo puts out the joint, carefully saves what’s left for later. He stands up and looks me straight in the eye. No trace of his temper tantrum left. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry about your mom.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Sorry about your dad.”

  “Thanks, I guess. By the way, can you please start eating the food in the kitchen? Gloria keeps bugging me about you. She said all that ramen is going to make you guapo.”

  “The ramen is go
ing to make me handsome?”

  “Gordo. Gorda. Whatever. It’s going to turn you into a big fat fatty fat fatty. All right, my community service is done for the day.”

  “Wow, still an asshole,” I say, but this time I let my smile seep into my voice. Theo is actually not that bad either. Not great, but not that bad.

  “So I’m probably still not going to talk to you at school,” he says, and for one fleeting second, I wonder if he could be SN.

  “I figured as much,” I say, and he gives me one quick guy nod before turning his back on me to go inside.

  CHAPTER 6

  To: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)

  From: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)

  Subject: I’m out of clever titles.

  Ever feel like your life is one long nightmare and you just keep hoping you wake up, but you never do?

  To: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)

  From: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)

  Subject: Sleeping Beauty

  ummm, yeah. things that bad?

  To: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)

  From: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)

  Subject: More like drama queen

  No. Not really. Sorry. Just feeling a bit self-pitying tonight. Never should have written.

  To: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)

  From: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)

  Subject: my fortune cookie advice

  nah, no need to apologize.

  you know, they say how happy you are in high school is indirectly proportional to how successful you will be in life.

  To: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)

  From: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)

  Subject: In bed