by Paula Garner
HER: Oh, Otis . . . I saw the picture. Did you mean for me to see it?
I was pretty sure my heart actually stopped. I ran my hands through my hair, then pulled off my T-shirt. I was starting to sweat. What was the right answer to that question?
She started typing before I could come up with anything.
HER: I probably shouldn’t say this. Argh, never mind.
ME: Please?
HER: Otis. Please don’t say please.
ME: Please.
HER: Oh God. Okay.
A pause — three or four seconds, maybe, that felt like an eternity. Then:
HER: I’ve missed you.
I stared at those words on the screen, feeling like my chest might explode. I was thrilled, ecstatic, and so very, very confused.
And then — fuck! — her green dot disappeared. Before she could tell me why, if she missed me so much, she hadn’t been in touch for three fucking years. Before she could tell me what was up with her parents and why she was coming back to town next month. Before she could tell me that the magnolia picture did its job, which was to make her think about our first kiss.
It was a warm night in May, when the magnolia was in full bloom. A light breeze stirred the scented air, sending petals cascading down around us like mammoth snowflakes. “Crazy Love”— from her dad’s playlist — floated out from the open windows of her house. Her hair trailed loose from its ponytail, strands framing her face and grazing her neck — a look so fucking sexy that to this day it can make my eyes cross. Also contributing to my disequilibrium were her new-to-the-scene breasts, which swelled stunningly and stupefyingly against her tank top. Her legs were brown and long — at that time, she actually had a couple inches on me. The moon illuminated her blue-green eyes.
In that moment, I suddenly lost all threads of whatever we were talking about. All I was aware of was the way she was looking at me.
I reached a hand out slowly, my eyes never leaving hers. Her breath caught in a small inhale of surprise as my fingertips skimmed her bare shoulder. I stood like that for what seemed like twenty lifetimes, in my mind begging her to kiss me, make a move, give me a sign, help me, help me, for Christ’s sake. And I swear I do not know which of us initiated it or how it happened, but it just did, like the pull of the moon. I didn’t understand how a kiss, how lips, could bring such staggering pleasure.
When it ended — was it seconds? minutes? — the words rose from my heart to my throat to my lips. Possibly she would not have heard them over the stereo blaring from her living room, the din of crickets, the thundering of my heart.
But her whispered reply was unmistakable.
“I love you, too.”
That was the apex of my happiness, that summer. It was also the end of it.
In August, we buried Mason.
And then Meg was gone.
Each day of that week seemed to stretch longer than the last. By this point, the sun was already up when I went to morning practice and still up when I went to evening practice, which disrupted and confused my general adaptive pessimism. On the other hand, summer solstice was only a month away. It never seemed right to me that, just as the summer began, the days were already getting shorter. This was my favorite time, right now — when the days were still getting longer and all the good stuff still lay ahead.
Willow Grove High’s graduation ceremony was Saturday morning, held outdoors at the downtown music pavilion. I went by myself with one of Dara’s extra tickets, and if I’d known how sad it was going to make me, I might have skipped it. Not so much because Dara was graduating, since frankly I sometimes felt like I’d never be rid of her, but because it meant the fracture of the closest thing I had to a brotherhood since Mason died. It hit me hard, watching some of my teammates march across that stage and out of my life. I’d never swum in high school without those guys; thanks to Dara, I made varsity my freshman year. They’d helped me improve, had supported me when I’d done badly and cheered for me when I’d done well. D’Amico especially. My freshman year, he was like a god to me, and when Coach put me on the “A” relay team with him this past season, I was giddy. I should have been happy for him to be graduating and moving on to the next big thing, but, honestly, I just felt sorry for myself that he was leaving.
And then there was Dara, the most talented one of us all, swimming on the “B” relay team, in early heats, battling it out with — and often losing to — girls who may have had two arms but didn’t have one-tenth her strength and skill. If I’d been her, I would’ve wanted to get as far away from swimming as possible. But she clung to it as if it were all there was in the world. And maybe for her, it was.
And the thing was, she was still good — not the best, but better than many, even if she was technically handicapped. She had adapted and compensated. Her dolphin kick in particular was unrivaled. Whereas most high school swimmers broke out of their underwaters long before the regulation limit, Dara powered through hers until the last possible second, using her advantage for all it was worth, cutting it so close to the fifteen-meter mark that I always feared she’d be DQ’d. But she never was. She was flawless. In most races she led the pack in those first fifteen meters, only to be overtaken when she came up and started her one-armed stroking. And even though I knew it was coming, it made my throat ache, every single time. After she finished her race, she’d stand on deck, watching the final heats intently, and I knew what she must be thinking: With two arms, she would own all those girls.
I looked for her to congratulate her afterward, but I couldn’t find her. A quick check of my phone showed a text from her ten minutes before: I’m out of here. See you later.
I figured I’d at least congratulate D’Amico, who stood outside the pavilion surrounded by family, judging by the pack of similarly tall, towheaded, blue-eyed people with him. He spotted me and stepped away, holding up a be right back finger to them.
“Hey,” he said, coming over and giving me a hug.
“Hey, congratulations,” I started to say, but to my horror, my voice broke. Still hugging him, trying to steady my voice, I said, “Good luck at Kenyon, man. You’ll be great.” Jesus. Pull it together, Mueller. If I had realized I was going to bawl, I would have texted him my good wishes instead.
“You better come see me,” he said, stepping back and smiling at me. He pretended not to notice my emotional state. “You can stay in my dorm.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Anyway, we’ve still got the summer,” he said, punching me lightly in the arm. “And hey, they need guards at the pool,” he added, stepping back to his family. “You should apply. We’d have fun.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I managed to get out.
I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, texting my dad that I was ready for a ride.
With the graduates gone, the school year tapered down for the rest of us. Summer swim club was in full swing by late May. Dara worked me like a mule, and if I complained, I got the lecture: “Three years I’ve devoted to you, Mueller. You’re not going to crap out on me now.”
“But you’re not even going to be here to train me in two months,” I argued. “What happens then?”
“I told you not to worry about that.”
But I did worry about it. I was looking for any assurances I could find that my Dara days were numbered.
We were swimming outdoors for the summer while the high school pool underwent repairs. Summer had barely started and already I was tan. Hours upon hours I swam, thousands of yards a day. Plus Dara had me weight training at the gym until I was so sore I could barely lift my arms. I ate like a pig and slept like the dead — I had energy for nothing else. I fantasized daily about how I was going to break it to Dara that I was cutting back on training. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. For one thing, I was getting visibly stronger, which I liked. I also liked the idea of my name going up on the record board at the school pool one of these days — maybe even next season, with my medley relay team, i
f D’Amico’s replacement was strong enough. And maybe even in that hundred breast slot before I graduated. Some fucker had gone a 59-low back in 2005, so I had my work cut out for me.
Mostly, though, when it came down to it, I could stand being achy and exhausted more than I could stand fighting with Dara. Besides, it helped me pass the days until Meg’s return. And since learning that my mom had invited them for dinner their first night in, anything that distracted from my obsessing was a good thing.
The night before she came back, she sent me the following message:
Tomorrow’s the big day . . . I guess we’re coming for dinner? It was really nice of your mom to invite us. My dad is pretty psyched to see your dad.
My dad was excited, too, but I could tell he was trying to keep a low profile about it. My mom was tense, but it seemed like she was trying to be positive. She and I were baking a rhubarb pie for the dinner. I hoped Meg still loved rhubarb pie. How many times had we sat drumming our fingers at my kitchen table, waiting for my mom to say the pie had cooled enough to cut into, which took eons? Mason had called it “boo-bar” pie. He always insisted he wanted a piece and then never ate it. He didn’t really like it — or any dessert that wasn’t made of chocolate — he just wanted to do whatever Meg and I were doing. Sometimes Meg would bail on our plans to go to the pool when Mason cried because he couldn’t come, too. Man, that used to piss me off. I loved spending time with her away from our parents’ watchful eyes — especially when it involved a bikini. At times like that, I thought Mason was a royal pain in the ass, and to this day I hate myself for that.
I stared at the screen and cracked my knuckles, wondering how to respond. Finally, I typed:
I’m glad our dads will get to hang out again. It’s been too long.
I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I added:
I’m glad we get to hang out, too.
I hit Send before I could change my mind. My palms started sweating as I waited for her response.
Finally, it came:
Oh, Otis. That’s so good to hear. I’m nervous. About so many things. And I know it’s time to face them. But it is very hard, not knowing how you feel. I’m afraid you hate me. I wish I knew what was going through your mind.
Okay, not hearing from her for three years had been heartbreaking, but I could never hate her. She should know that. She wished she knew what was going through my mind? She was the enigma, and she had been since she moved away.
I was tempted to put her fears at ease once and for all: Not only could I never hate you, I might say, I could never even not love you. But she had a boyfriend. And I still didn’t know what she wanted from me. I was afraid of sending her running again, before we even laid eyes on each other.
I had to err on the safe side.
A lot of things have gone through my mind, but hate isn’t one of them.
Anyway, so much has changed since we last saw each other . . . You’ll probably see me tomorrow and wonder why you ever cared what I think.
She immediately wrote back:
I will NEVER think that.
Which was exactly what I wanted her to say, what I was baiting her to say.
And then she wrote:
Remember “dumb fuck”? Is that okay to bring up? :-/ I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.
I pushed away from the desk. Why did she have to go there when I was starting to feel good?
Yeah. I remembered “dumb fuck.”
One Christmas Meg gave Mason a dump truck, and Mason, who mispronounced everything, hollered, “Dumb fuck! Dumb fuck!” I about peed myself laughing. I think we were both a little sad when his speech improved to the point where “dumb fucks” became “dumb twucks.” He had dozens of them — they were his favorite thing.
Later, after Mason died, Meg and I would craft bald-faced lies for our parents to account for our absence when what we were really doing was riding our bikes miles down a busy highway to go to the cemetery. I just kept needing to go there, kept needing to be close to him. We’d sit at his grave, her arm around me — sometimes both arms — and we’d talk about him, about things like “dumb fucks,” about things that he said or did, sometimes laughing, but most often crying. She pulled me through days that were literally unbearable.
I glanced over at the screen. What was I supposed to say to her? I didn’t want to talk about dumb fucks and Mason — not now. She was asking too much — she was ruining something that was supposed to be good. I reached over and shut my computer. Not my best moment. Not by a long shot.
I picked up the photo of Mason I kept on my bedside table. It was one I had taken myself, the October he was almost two. He was sitting in a giant pile of leaves that my dad and I had raked, tossing them up around him. The sun hit his face and he was grinning, eyes closed. It was a gorgeous picture, with all the different colors and the play of the light. But the reason I loved it was because he was so damn happy.
I went to my closet and pulled a box out from under a stack of games and puzzles. Mason’s stuff. Things I took from his room when he was gone — things my parents didn’t even know I had. A pair of his pajamas. A pacifier. A small stuffed chipmunk named Chester. A yellow blanket that some great aunt or cousin made. The copy of Goodnight Moon that I bought him.
I paged through the book, remembering the parts he would recite along with me. I stared at the last page: Goodnight noises everywhere. We’d whisper that last line — I suppose because that’s the way my mom used to read it to me, back a million years ago before Mason was even born. When my world was perfect and safe and I was blissfully oblivious of the immense suffering that lay in store for me.
I took Mason’s pajamas out and held them to my face. A trace of his warm, sweet smell lingered, or maybe it was just my imagination. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me: His huge, dark eyes . . . The way his smile curved up around the pacifier he seemed to be surgically attached to . . . His gray Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and his puffy little elastic-waisted jeans . . . His little hands reaching around and hugging my legs when I walked in the door from school . . . His warmth as I picked him up . . . The smell of toast and jelly and baby wipes . . . The thwuck of his pacifier as I’d pull it out of his mouth so I could hear him talk . . . And that joyful little voice exclaiming, “O-mit! You home!”
Here’s the truth about healing. It’s a fucking myth — an idea they try to sell you on to keep you from killing yourself. You love someone and they leave, but they never entirely go away. You feel them there, acutely, like an amputated limb.
A BEAM OF LIGHT SHOT THROUGH THE narrow space between the blinds and the window frame, waking me from a dream about Mason. It was fading fast, but I could still hear his voice, still see his face, and I clung to the filaments of the other world until there were no strands left to cling to. It was the best thing and the worst thing, when he appeared in dreams: Being with him again was such an astonishing joy. But then, waking and remembering. No matter how much time passed, it blindsided me. Waking up from a dream and realizing he was dead never failed to feel new and terrible.
The coffee grinder whirred from the kitchen. I rolled over and looked at the clock — 7:40. As the fog lifted, I realized what day it was: June 11. The day Meg and her dad flew back to town. I was going to see Meg today — in less than twelve hours.
When I went downstairs, I found my mom pulling out her marble pastry board and wooden rolling pin. She liked the marble for pastry, but she never strayed from the ancient red-handled rolling pin that had belonged to her grandmother. Someday this will be yours, she would say to me, and it will be up to you to carry on the Stratton pie-making tradition. Unless Mason turns out to be a baker! I remembered how Mason used to throw his head back and grin, eyes closed.
“Morning,” she said, turning to me, holding the rolling pin in both hands. She lifted her eyebrows, which I knew meant, Today’s the big day, eh? “Want some eggs? Or French toast?”
“Nah.” I poured a little orange
juice and sat at the table.
“You get any sleep?” Her voice was gentle.
I hated it that she could see inside my head. She knew me so well that I wasn’t even entitled to my own private thoughts. I nodded and sipped my juice.
She opened the pantry and pulled out flour and sugar. “You’re going to help me, right?”
“Sure.”
Dressed in sweats and T-shirts, both of us, we went barefoot into the backyard. The grass was lit with dewdrops, warming under the sun, and the damp-earth smell of spring gave rise to a surge of anything-is-possible feelings.
The rhubarb’s heart-shaped leaves fanned out over the edge of the garden bed, big as welcome mats. My mom cut several fat stalks, removed the leaves, and handed the stems off to me. Their color was like an inverted watermelon — deep pink on the outside, pale green on the inside.
“That should be enough,” she said, handing me the last stem and wiping her hands on her sweatpants. She wandered over to the lilac trees between our house and Meg’s former house and trimmed a few clusters of blooms to bring inside. “I don’t know why I bother,” she called to me, pulling off the leaves. “They don’t last.”
Back in the kitchen, we made the pie, not talking much. I got the easy jobs, like measuring sugar and spices. My mom rolled out pastry dough and cut up the rhubarb. When we got the pie assembled and into the oven, my mom turned to me. “You swimming today?”
I offered my ubiquitous shrug. “I’m supposed to.” I wasn’t actually feeling so good. Every time I thought of seeing Meg, my stomach seized up.
“Skip it,” she suggested, turning and wiping flour off the counter with a sponge.
Right. It’s that easy. Practice wasn’t optional, and even if Coach would forgive my missing one, Dara would castrate me. Between worries about her and worries about Meg, I felt queasy. I sat down and lowered my head onto my arms.
My mom sat down across from me. “This is a big day for both of us.”