Just Visiting

by Dahlia Adler

  No response, just a slight rocking motion.

  I exhale softly, afraid I’m pushing the limit. Afraid I’m not going to get my message across. Afraid that maybe it’s too late for anyone to. I try again, because I can’t not.

  “Once upon a time, you made the decision not to let your life revolve around him, and that’s when you were still together. How can you let it revolve around him now? Especially after what he did to you?”

  She surprises me by actually responding. “I need to fix things. He needs to know he has someone to come home to.”

  “He has a family, Reagan.”

  “Yeah, and they weren’t enough to keep him here two years ago. Only I was, and I failed, and now he’s probably…” She sniffles and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “I owe him something for failing. I owe them something.”

  “No, you don’t,” I say more forcefully than I mean to, Sean Fitzpatrick’s cruel voice springing into my brain. “You don’t owe those people anything. Where would you be right now if he’d succeeded? You wouldn’t have me to tell you about the morning-after pill, or Dev to pay for it. You would have a two-year-old child, and you broke up with him because that isn’t the life you wanted. This is. And you’re blowing it after everything you’ve worked for to get it.”

  “Oh, yeah, my life is so fucking glorious,” she says, rapping her knuckles on the tile floor.

  “Forget right now. You always say life starts when we get out of this place. I just want that to be the right life, and I think we owe it to ourselves to see if KU is it.”

  She motions for me to hand her a tissue, and when I do, she honks into it loudly. Then she cleans herself up for a minute at the sink before turning to me. “You already applied, didn’t you. That’s what the portfolio is for.”

  She doesn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. “Not yet,” I say, “but I’m going to by Friday. The deadline for scholarships is next week. And yes, that’s what the portfolio is for. Miss Lucy’s been helping me with it. The application itself is quick, no essay or anything. You could fill it out in under an hour. And they take application fee waivers—I checked.”

  There’s no response as she ties her curls back into a baby ponytail with an elastic band from the little tray I keep on the counter, and washes her face in the sink. I watch her in the mirror that hangs over the basin, and when she’s done wiping her face with my hand towel, she nods, just once.

  I do my best to suppress my smile. “Come on,” I say, getting to my feet. “You can use my computer.”

  Reagan’s an impressively loud typist, which doesn’t usually bother me, but I need to focus if I’m going to get some more sketches done for Miss Lucy to critique on Monday. The portfolio’s not due to KU for another few months, but I need to have one to Miss Lucy by the end of the week if I want to be considered for her week-long workshop during winter break. I leave Rae alone in my room and hide out in my dad’s study across the hall, with the door closed to block out the noise.

  I’m in the middle of drawing a pattern based on an old picture of me with my abuelo—he’s wearing these awesome striped pants I have to work into a design—when my phone startles me by ringing into the complete silence I’ve created. “Tia Maria,” I mutter aloud as my pencil goes flying across the page. I push the drawing aside and grab my cell phone, smiling when I see the caller ID; at least it’s someone worth messing up for. “Hey there.”

  “Hey,” Steve replies brusquely, sounding all out of breath. “Are you with Reagan?”

  “Yeah, why—oh no!” Reagan was supposed to work today. Of course. “I’m so sorry. I swear, it was an emergency. You know she’d never miss work otherwise.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Now, yeah. I think. I’m not sure.” I sneak into the hallway and peer into my room. Her fingers are still flying on the keyboard. I duck back into the study. “She’s had a really, really bad day. Are you totally swamped? I could come and help.”

  “I already called Mitch when neither of you answered your phones the first thirty times I called. He’s here.”

  “Oh. It was an emergency,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.

  “I know,” he says, his voice dropping. “I’m glad you guys are okay. I was worried.”

  It warms me up to hear the caring in his voice. He really is, as my mom would say, one of the good ones. “I’m sorry, I should’ve called.”

  “It’s okay. Is everything fine with you?”

  My phone beeps with a text message, but I ignore it; whoever it is can definitely wait. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It wasn’t about me. Though I am a little tired. For some reason, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I say playfully.

  He laughs lowly, clearly in hearing range of coworkers or customers or both. “So sorry to disturb your sleep.”

  “Totally worth it.”

  “Glad you thought so too.”

  My phone beeps again. This time it’s call waiting, and a quick glance reveals I don’t recognize the number. “I gotta run,” I tell him with a sigh, “but maybe I’ll come by for dinner?”

  “I’ll make sure I’ve got a bacon tuna melt ready.”

  “Perfect.” We hang up, and I switch to the other call. “Hello?”

  “You’re there!”

  The relieved voice is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “I am. Who is this?”

  “It’s Dev. I just texted you. Sorry, I got your number from Jamie.”

  I shudder a little at the idea of the two of them talking about me, but quickly push past it. “I was on the phone; I haven’t seen your text yet. What’s up?”

  “I just want to check and make sure she’s okay.” He sounds nervous saying it, his voice quiet and rushed.

  “She’s fine.” I keep my voice down even though I know she can’t hear me over her typing. I feel like a traitor for even talking to him after the things he said to her, but it’s obvious he’s hurting too, and at least he’s not a big enough jerk to stick her with the bill or pretend it never happened. “She feels like garbage”—physically and emotionally, I try to inject venom into my voice—“but she’ll be fine.”

  “Does she hate me?”

  I’m surprised to hear the question; I’d thought it was the other way around. “You’re the one who blew up,” I remind him icily.

  “I know. I…Look, I’m glad she’s okay. I have to go.”

  “Do you want to talk to her?” I ask quickly before he can hang up, though I know Reagan would kill me for asking.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I gotta go.” And then he’s gone.

  I’m still staring at my phone, trying to decide if I should tell Reagan he even called, when I hear a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call; I can tell from the quick but light tapping that it’s Reagan and not my mother.

  She peeks her head in. “All done. Happy?”

  I am. But looking at her, and hearing Dev’s frantic exit in my mind, I can’t help feeling guilty for it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  REAGAN

  Thanks to Vic, I get my KU application in by the scholarship deadline, and then spend the next couple of weeks finishing off and submitting three more, with a blessing to the god of application fee waivers. Vic and I help each other edit our essays, work together to pick the best of the best for her portfolio, and to her credit, she never brings up Dev or Wichita. Despite the agony of waiting for responses, for the first time in a long time, it feels like I can breathe.

  And then Thanksgiving comes.

  The Reyeses invite me over, but my mother quickly nixes that idea, declaring she’s “goin’ ta make the yummiest southern feast y’all ever did eat.” I beg Vic to save me one or twelve of her mother’s pumpkin empanadas, and spend the day cooking with my mom instead. To my surprise, it’s not a terrible afternoon—we actually laugh together for a few seconds when she pulls the sweet potato pie out of the oven and realizes her affinity for extra marshmallows has turned the entire top into a goopy w
hite mess. But when five o’clock hits, Sheila Black shows up on our doorstep with Jimmy in tow, snapping at full volume about how her asshole ex and his slutty wife screwed them over for the holiday, and that dark, cloying, acrid fog of Myrtle Grove—of Charytan—settles in my lungs again.

  “I’m gonna go change for dinner,” I say to no one who’s listening. My jeans and tank top are fine, but Sheila’s probably here for half an hour of ranting, and I really don’t need to hear this routine again. I close my door behind me, crash on my bed, and read Howl’s Moving Castle for the billionth time until the sound of Sheila’s ranting subsides and I think they must be gone. Then I throw on my favorite comfy gray cardigan and step back into the main room.

  “There you are!” my mother says from the table, where she, Sheila, my dad, and Jimmy are gathered around in its four seats, each at one of our four settings. “I thought you must’ve left for that girl’s house.”

  Fifty shades of rage bubble up under my skin, but then Jimmy says “Hi, Rae Rae!” and it makes me smile and say hi back.

  “Of course I didn’t go to Vic’s house,” I say calmly. “I said I’d be here.”

  “Well, our meal just got a little more family-style,” my dad jokes, as if it’s no big deal that this family doesn’t seem to include me at all. He must’ve come home just after Sheila showed up at our door. “Come on and join us, Pumpkin!”

  “Where?” I ask. “And what am I supposed to eat on?”

  “Reagan, don’t be rude,” my mother scolds, helping herself to some green bean casserole.

  I’m about to respond when the flash of gold on her hand catches the light. She’s wearing it again. On Thanksgiving.

  “Take. That fucking. Ring. Off.”

  “Reagan!” Of all people, it’s Sheila who jumps to admonish me first. I promptly ignore her.

  “I’m serious. Take that ring off now. You have no business going through my stuff and wearing it.”

  “Well that’s very selfish of you,” my mother says. “It’s a beautiful ring, and you never wear it, so no one should? It’s meant to be seen. You never appreciated it, or that young boy.”

  This is a joke. It has to be. This is the world’s least funny and never-ending joke and somewhere in an alternate universe Fitz is laughing his ass off at my misery.

  “You know absolutely nothing about me or ‘that young boy,’” I spit. “If you had—if you’d been a half-decent mother when he was in my life—you never would’ve let me wear that ring in the first place. And you sure as hell don’t get to wear it. That’s mine, and I want it back. Now.”

  I’m shaking, and I make the mistake of letting my gaze falter for just a moment, to see Jimmy staring at me in a mix of awe and horror. I quickly train it back on my mother until she pulls the ring off her finger and puts it down on the table with a tremendous roll of her eyes. I snatch it, and my first instinct is to jam it down on my own finger so she can’t take it. But the very idea of ever wearing it again makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

  Instead, I shove it in my pocket, grab my car keys, and storm out of the house.

  I’m just about to step into the driver’s seat of my car when I hear, “Pumpkin, wait.” I turn to see my dad walking toward me, his broad shoulders in a slump beneath his dusty flannel shirt, and I stop.

  “I’m not going back inside,” I warn him, “in case that’s why you’re here.”

  “I know you’re not,” he says wearily. “I don’t blame you. Your mother loves you, but I know sometimes she’s not the best at showing it.”

  It’s what he wants to believe—needs to, even—and because he’s the reason I have a roof over my head at all, I lie and say, “I know. I just can’t be here right now.”

  He nods. I hate that these fights break his heart, but as much as I do believe he loves me, he’s always loved her more, and always will. “Are you going to that girl’s house?”

  “Yes, I’m going to Vic’s house.” I don’t even really want to—dropping in on them feels both impolite and pathetic—but I can’t afford to spend any more on gas this month, so a long drive to nowhere is out of the question. “I’ll call if I’m sleeping over.”

  “Have fun, honey.” He kisses the top of my head, and I think he’s going to turn back to the trailer, but then he says, “I’m glad you’ll be with her next year. She takes good care of you.”

  I have to clench my jaw to keep it from dropping in shock. I had no idea my father even knew we were planning to go to school together next year, or paid much attention to her presence at all. The way he says it, I wonder if he thinks she’s more than a friend, and I’m even more impressed at how okay he sounds about that.

  “She does,” I finally manage.

  He smiles, slightly, and says, “Good. Wish her family a Happy Thanksgiving from me. Or Feliz Navidad. Whatever they say.”

  So close. “Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.” I wrap my arms around him, standing on my toes to do so.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Rae.” A quick squeeze, and then we both take off for the rest of our nights.

  Unsurprisingly, the Reyeses welcome me with open arms, even though they’ve already sat down to eat. I stuff my face with turkey, empanadas, candied sweet potatoes, and churros that taste just a little charred. Instead of talking about Fitz, we talk about Ana and Roberto’s classes, where Javi’s been traveling, Vic’s latest designs. And they ask about me, too—whether I’ll miss working at Joe’s (definitely not), what I plan to study in college (everything humanly possible), if I’ve thought about going abroad (if I find myself a generous benefactor, maybe).

  They teach me how to say the different foods in ASL, laughing as they recount the early days of Roberto’s learning it, and we tease Vic mercilessly about Freckles. We call Vic’s grandparents in Mexico City, and sip spicy hot chocolate in front of the fire until we all grow drowsy. No one even asks whether I’m staying the night; they just assume, as if it’s my home every bit as much as theirs.

  Only as I drift off to sleep next to Vic does it hit me with a pang that if I were her, I’d have hesitations about leaving this life too.

  In the weeks that follow, my mother and I avoid each other as much as possible—not a huge challenge when you’re working as many hours as I am and also studying for finals. I do stay home for Christmas Eve—after all, it’s probably my last one there for a while—and am rewarded with a gift of school supplies for next year, which makes me feel a little lighter. Joe’s is closed for New Year’s Eve, so I spend the night movie-marathoning with Vic, but otherwise, I work as many shifts as possible over winter break. By the time school is back in session, I’m exhausted as hell and I hate people and mayo and the smell of dried cola puddles more than I thought humanly possible, but I feel so ready to move on to the next phase of life, I am practically buzzing with it.

  Until I come home one day and am greeted by a big KU envelope on my bed.

  Holy shit. There’s no mistaking it’s the envelope size that screams “Accepted!” but my stomach churns with butterflies as I realize I’m not sure that’s actually what I want to see when I open it. It’s been weeks since I sat in Vic’s room, staring at the website with blurry eyes, my mind and body feeling impossible hollow. I barely remember filling out the application, but I’m staring at the evidence that it happened.

  My fingers hover over the seal, but I can’t do this alone. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and call Vic.

  “I was just about to call you! Did you get it?”

  “Yup. Did you get yours?”

  “Yup,” she says giddily. “Big envelope.”

  “Big envelope.”

  “Did you open it?”

  “Without you? Are you kidding?”

  She laughs. “Good. Put me on speaker.” I do, and rip open the envelope as I hear her doing the same on her side.

  Congratulations! You have been admitted to…

  Oh God, I’m gonna throw up.

  “Did you get in?” she squeals, so happily that
I know she did, and I can’t help but smile. “I did. Did you?”

  “I did!” she shrieks so loudly I fear my poor ears will bleed. “Rae! We got into our first college together! Aren’t you excited?”

  So typical. “Vic, we haven’t even seen the place yet. What if we hate it? What if it’s not the right place for us?” What if what we’re doing there is just too different and we fall apart? What if I can’t deal with the idea of being on the same campus as Dev? What if I just get lost in there and swallowed up and no one cares enough to pull me out?

  Hypothetically.

  “We’ll never know until we visit,” she says cheerfully, obviously not sharing any of my concerns. And why should she? Vic has talent, a plan, and a quasi-relationship with Freckles I don’t quite understand but mostly support. I have a half-assed idea of what I want to do with my life and enough ghosts to staff a haunted house. “So, when do you wanna go?”

  “Whenever. You choose.” After all, Vic’s the one who’s actually capable of getting her shit together these days. I’m just the loser along for the ride. “My schedule’s free and clear.”

  “Can do,” she says without a trace of stress in her voice, which amazes me all the more because I know she’s been busting her butt on her portfolio lately, hoping to get chosen for this winter break workshop Miss Lucy’s holding. But I swear, nothing fazes her these days. Maybe Freckles is a calming influence. Lord knows I’m not. “Are you working tonight?”

  “Nope, it’s my night off. I figured I’d catch up on AP English reading. Say hi to Freckles for me, will you?”

  “Sure.” We hang up, and I head to my car, knowing that catching up on reading—though not of the AP English variety—is exactly what I’ll be doing.

  Dear Ragin’,

  I thought I might have a letter from you, with it being my birthday and all, but—

  I toss that one aside and pick up another, skipping past the intro this time.