The Summer of Impossibilities

by Rachael Allen

  I sneak down the ladder from the top bunk. It’s almost 7:30. I’ve always been an early riser. The instant the sun comes up, I can’t be asleep anymore, especially if the blinds are open like today. I quietly dig around in Sky’s suitcase. Good grief, where did she put them? I unzip a pocket. Amelia Grace tosses around under her blanket. Oops. But the heating pads I’m looking for are in the pocket, so we’re good.

  I tiptoe out to the tiny kitchen/breakfast bar/miniature living room and pop both of them into the microwave for a minute. While they’re going, I start the coffee. Sky doesn’t drink it, but my parents do, and so do I. (I may be a morning person, but that doesn’t mean my brain is ready to work yet.) The microwave beeps, and I shake the heating pads around and throw them back in for another minute. The whole kitchen smells like lavender now. Well, and sunscreen. One time my cousin Joey squeezed an entire bottle onto the floor because he said it was magic sauce, and the carriage house has never smelled the same.

  When the microwave beeps again, I pull out the heating pads and tiptoe back to the bedroom. I wrap one around each of Skyler’s hands and then pull up the covers so no one can see. Not that there’s anything wrong with her needing heating pads to get out of bed in the morning, but I can tell she’s not ready to tell Ellie or Amelia Grace about her arthritis yet, and I want that to be her choice.

  I walk through the wet grass to get to the main house but stop dead when I open the patio door. It looks like a tornado picked up a liquor store and discarded the windswept wreckage in our living room. I trace my way through upended cups and empty wine bottles—quietly, like an anthropologist studying the habits and behavior of wine moms. The coffee table is so covered with limes, salt, and shot glasses you can barely see the crisscross lines that form the repurposed window underneath.

  The room is a metaphor for our lives. The difference? I could probably have this living room put back together in half an hour.

  I make a pot of coffee over here too, because given the amount of tequila not left in the bottle, our moms are sure as shit going to need it. Then I make myself a slice of peanut butter toast and weave around the living room gathering empty wineglasses and shot glasses and martini glasses while I eat. Truth? I am not actually this nice of a person, I’m just looking for a way to keep myself occupied until it’s a socially acceptable time to text Reese. 7:58 is just plain desperate, but 9:45? Much cooler. And to be safe, I’ll text at 9:46 so it seems more organic. He was definitely the subject of my goal last night, and it’s definitely why I wasn’t feeling like sharing.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Reese!

  Oh. It’s Daddy. And I know we’re on radio silence and I judged the eff out of Sky for leaving him that Post-it, but something comes over me, and I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Scarlett.” There is so much relief in his voice. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

  “Me neither.”

  He clears his throat. Ha! That one stopped him in his tracks.

  “So, you’re at the lake?” he says after a beat.

  “Yep.”

  “Um, well, good. I saw on Valeria’s Facebook that your mom’s sisters are there. You guys having fun?”

  “Yeah. Tons.” I try to squeeze as much venom into the words as I possibly can. It does not go unnoticed by my father.

  “Scarlett, I’m trying here.”

  “Are you? Are you really?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Some things are too big for sorry.

  “That you got caught?”

  “What? No. You don’t understand—”

  “Pretty sure I understand a lot of things,” I snap, and I hang up the phone.

  I’m not ready for apologies. I am ready for scorched earth and destruction and karma in its most sledgehammer-y form. There’s a wedding picture on the table in front of me—my parents wrapped in each other’s arms, looking so blissful it’s gross. How can something so good go so wrong? They seemed happy. I mean, yeah, I guess they were fighting more the past year or two, but shouldn’t there have been signs? Like, big ones? How can something be crumbling around you without you even realizing it?

  The smell of coffee hits me from the kitchen, so I take a couple deep breaths and pour a cup and take it upstairs to Mama. She’s still in bed, her brown hair tangled around her head, her mascara a study in smudges—one black stripe across her cheek, another across her pillow. I set the coffee on her nightstand, and she jumps.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t ever be sorry for bringing coffee, baby.”

  She sits up in bed so she can take a sip. Even with her hair and mascara and stuff, she’s pretty. “Are you doing okay?” She squeezes my arm and asks it with Concerned Mom Eyes, so what she really means is “Are you cutting?”

  “I’m fine.” My voice has spines in it. “So, Daddy called me this morning with some crappy apology.”

  I brace myself, but her eyes soften. “At least he’s trying.”

  Wait. What?

  “He’s been calling me too.”

  “And you answered?”

  “Well, no. But it’s nice to see the effort.”

  Hitting a button on his phone is effort? “Right. I have to get back downstairs.”

  “Scarlett—”

  “Sorry, I just realized I forgot to heat up Skyler’s heating pads,” I say before rushing out the door.

  I can’t do this with her, or I’ll say something mean. How is she not more angry? I’m furious. Like a firework going off inside a glass jar and everything exploding because there’s nowhere for all that pressure to go. I pass by the table with my parents’ wedding picture again, those blissful smiles digging into me. I don’t want to let a picture affect me so much. I want to keep my cool. To be the kind of person who’s strong enough and calm enough to deal with things. I slam the picture frame against the table so I don’t have to look at their stupid faces anymore.

  And then I realize Ellie is standing in the doorway watching this entire meltdown play out. I also realize the frame may have made a cracking noise when it hit the table. I turn it over. Yep. There’s a spiderweb of cracks where my parents used to be. Oops.

  “Do you need some help with that?”

  Ellie and Sky could have a competition for best judgy face, not even kidding.

  “I’ve got it,” I say tightly.

  She shrugs in a way that makes me think of a wounded animal and goes to the kitchen, digging around in the fridge for eggs and spinach. Okay, but seriously, who eats spinach at eight thirty in the morning voluntarily?

  “Omelet?” she asks.

  “No, thanks. I already ate.”

  While I clean up the picture frame, she makes one for herself, cracking the eggs one-handed and folding the yellow circle of cooked egg over the spinach just so. Because of course she even makes omelets perfectly. She slips the omelet onto a plate and turns to face me.

  “My, um, cousin’s parents got divorced last year.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I try to look appropriately sympathetic, but I’m already squirming from worrying where this conversation is going.

  “Yeah,” says Ellie. Amelia Grace walks in stretching, and Ellie’s eyes go kind of frantic, but she plows ahead. “So, if you ever need to, like, talk to someone or anything, I know what it’s like.”

  My jaw actually drops. She knows what it’s like? I start to say something, but Amelia Grace puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “You wanna go canoeing? I really wanna go canoeing.”

  Which is probably the best thing that could’ve happened, because I’m pretty sure yelling “You know nothing, Jon Snow!” in your guest’s face is not in Emily Post’s guide to etiquette.

  “Yes,” I say quickly and follow her out the door.

  I know a life preserver when I see one.

  Ellie

  I position my plate on the table outside, and it takes a couple (read: twelve) tries, but I manage to get a shot of the lake and the cotton ball clouds
in the background between the porch slats. Perfect. I take a bite. My omelet got cold while I was taking all those pictures. I shrug and post the photo with the caption Eating the most glorious omelet with the most glorious view. #lakelife #summer

  I take another bite. Eggs really do taste like rubber when they’re cold.

  I’m tempted to throw the rest away, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day—they’ve done research. And it’s, like, set-in-stone research, unlike the research on egg yolks. One day they’re upping your heart attack risk with each bite, the next they’re giving you ALL the nutrients until your skin, hair, and nails shine like buffed glitter.

  I watch the lake and drink my first quart of water. Scarlett and Amelia Grace have nearly paddled to where I can’t see them anymore. I’m kind of bummed they didn’t ask me to go with them, but I keep telling myself it’s because canoes only hold two people.

  Riiight. And our moms only drank a little bit of wine last night.

  I take my plate to the sink and run back to the carriage house for my notebook before holing up on the deck again. I thought re-founding the SBDC would have felt better than this. If I have to plan out every minute, so be it, but I am going to have fun today.

  8:00–8:30 Make and eat a healthy breakfast

  8:30–8:45 Make a kick-ass To Do list

  8:45–9:30 Stretch, run, stretch

  9:30–11:30 Tennis

  11:30–11:35 Jump in the lake fully clothed, because it’s already sauna-level hot and you’ll definitely need it (consider removing shoes first)

  11:35–11:50 Quick shower/change

  11:50–12:50 Make a lunch from Pinterest

  12:50–1:45 Eat (ideally, not alone)

  1:45–2:00 Call my reps

  2:00–3:30 Go through SAT vocab flipbook while sunning on dock (take pictures in my new one-piece)

  3:30–4:15 Swim to the corner of the lake and back 4:15–4:30 Take more pictures post-swim but only if hair looks like sexy beach hair

  4:30–5:45 Shower and actually get cute this time

  5:45–6:00 Attempt colorful eye shadow (One hue only is key!)

  6:00–8:00 Some kind of dinner with our moms

  8:00–10:00 Hang out (and by “hang out,” I mean wait until it’s a socially acceptable time to convince the girls to go find boys/a party)

  10:00-10:30 Pray all five prayers back to back to back

  10:30 Party!

  Alternatively (if no party or unable to sneak out), sit on the deck while The Mom Show unfolds

  (Consider making popcorn)

  (Also consider taking video for purposes of bribery and next-morning humiliation)

  I look over my schedule. It has all the makings for a really good day. Except.

  Goals and wishes and curls of paper burning black.

  I check to make sure I’m alone before turning to a blank page near the back. I put my pen to the paper. And I hesitate. If anyone saw this—

  I think of Scarlett and Amelia Grace, paddling away from me in that canoe. Laughing. Sharing secrets.

  Screw it. I need this.

  I write down my goal, the one I wrote last night.

  I want to get these girls to be my best friends by the end of the summer.

  You can see why I can never show this to anyone ever. But they’re going to keep asking, and what am I supposed to say? That I’ve always wanted to have a best friend, but I’m defective?

  I already know how this goes. But this time is going to be different. I’m going to be different.

  I write down my plan.

  I let out a satisfied sigh. I feel so much better.

  I go back to my room and change into running clothes. Skyler’s still in bed, so I try to be quiet. Then I go back to the main house and stretch on the deck. Two of the moms (not mine) are drinking coffee and showing signs of life.

  “Did the girls get back from canoeing yet?” I ask them.

  “I don’t think so,” says Val. “But I don’t remember seeing them go either.”

  She looks puzzled and also like she might have a migraine.

  “Okay. No worries. I run by myself all the time. It’s, like, super relaxing.”

  The other mom, Amelia Grace’s, makes a pity face. I find a path by the water and run until I can’t feel my feet.

  Skyler

  In the morning, my joints are like rickety old houses. Knuckles wound tighter than spools of thread. Wrists ready to crack like peanut brittle.

  I am lucky.

  I have a sister who plies me with heating pads while I’m still asleep, so when I do finally wake up, the pain isn’t nearly as bad as it could be, and also it smells like I’m sleeping in a field of wildflowers in the middle of Provence.

  Another reason I am lucky: Today I have a plan. The excitement from making that impossibility pact last night still courses through me. This morning I am going to ask my mom about going to the doctor, and it is going to work brilliantly. I know because I’ve been practicing our conversation over and over while I snuggle under my blankets for just fifteen more minutes, and okay, maybe fifteen more after that. The other girls are gone when I get out of bed. They’re not in the big house either. Huh. Well, that’s okay. I really need to talk to my mom anyway.

  I run upstairs to her bedroom.

  Hey, Mama, I think I need to go to the doctor again.

  Hey, Mama, I need to go see Dr. Levy.

  Mama, I—

  She sits on the floor, weeping.

  My questions poof and disappear. “Are you okay?”

  I rush over and sink to the ground and hug her, all in one motion.

  “No.” The word is garbled with tears. She sobs into my hair. “I scratched the shiplap.”

  Um . . .

  “You’re crying because of . . . shiplap?”

  Perhaps this is not the best time to request changes to my medical care.

  She shakes her head, strands of hair sticking to her tear-stained cheeks. “No. Because of your dad. I was moving the nightstand, and I scratched the shiplap. Two years ago, I texted him a photo of a shiplap accent wall and said, ‘Wouldn’t this look pretty at the lake house?’ And the next time we came out here, he had already done it as a surprise.”

  The tears start fresh. “That man always did everything I ever asked him.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” I hold her against me and stroke her hair. I can feel her breaking in my arms.

  “That’s what he told me when he asked me to marry him. That he was going to spend every day of his life making my dreams come true. How did we ever let it get this bad?”

  Her questions make me feel young. And scared. I don’t know the answers to them, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s important just to sit with people.

  After a few minutes, she can talk in her normal voice again. Her eyes seem to focus on me in a different way.

  “I’m sorry to be such a mess. Did you need something, baby?”

  “Oh.” I’d feel so selfish asking now. “I was just wondering if we had any brownie mix.”

  She cocks her head to the side. I am the actual worst at lying.

  “I don’t think so, but we can always run to the store later.”

  I give her one last hug. Try not to let the defeat show on my face.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I go back downstairs and out into the backyard and flop onto the grass. It is 9:00 a.m., and I am already a failure. I don’t know how I’m ever going to find the silver lining in—Oh!

  Is that?

  I crouch down and pick up a squiggly orange mushroom. Give it a sniff.

  It is!

  I can’t believe it’s chanterelle season already!

  You have to find the ones that smell like apricots. That’s how you know. Because there’s these other mushrooms—false chanterelles—that look all orangey gold and fluted like a chanterelle, but they smell like packaged hospital air. Also, they have gills when you flip them over (chanterelles never
have true gills), but it’s easier just to sniff them.

  I run back inside for some supplies, and then I walk past mushrooms of all colors and sizes. Tiny crimson ones that look like fairy caps and white ones with tall translucent stalks. Fat brown ones of all different heights, arranged like a city in the crook of a tree. I also pass jack-o’lanterns, another one that people mistake for chanterelles, but honestly, they’re not even orange AND they don’t smell good, so if you eat one thinking it’s a chanterelle, you almost deserve the explosive diarrhea.

  I spot a cluster of orange near the roots of an oak tree and scurry closer. They look promising. I cut one with my knife and lift it to my nose. Pure heaven. I cut all the ones around the tree and drop them in my basket. My fingers hardly hurt at all this morning, even when I grip the knife.

  A confession: It’s a knife specifically for cutting mushrooms, because I am that big of a mushroom nerd. Dad and I keep them here at the lake house because we get the best mushrooms up here, especially during rainy summers like this one.

  I hope he’s okay. I know, I know, I’m supposed to hate him and stuff. Scarlett always says I’m too easy on Dad. But I haven’t forgiven him, I swear. I’m still mad, really mad. But I’m also sad. And confused. I just want to look him in the eyes and say, “Why?”

  And then I’ll let Scarlett punch him in the face.

  When I come out of the woods, Ellie is standing on the dock, soaking wet.

  “Did somebody push you in?” I wouldn’t put it past Scarlett.

  “Nah. I jumped.”

  With all her clothes on?

  “I just played tennis for two hours,” she explains.

  “Fair.”

  “Whatcha got there?”

  I blush. “Oh, um. Mushrooms?”

  She comes closer. Peeks into my basket.

  “I’m basically Katniss Everdeen,” I say.

  I’m sure she’ll start making fun of me in three, two—

  “Are those chanterelles?”

  “They are! Ohmygosh, do you like foraging too?”

  “Not exactly, but what I lack in knowledge, I more than make up for in my desire to eat fancy-ass food.”