Under Shifting Stars

by Alexandra Latos

  “Yeah. I did.” I purposefully don’t respond to the project part of the question, but of course she pries anyway.

  “What’s your project on?”

  “I just did homework, actually.”

  “For what class?”

  “Uh, bio.” Why is she so interested in me all of a sudden? It’s Audrey she’s supposed to be worried about. “Bio reading, I mean. Lots of memorization.”

  Mom nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. “That bannister. Thank goodness you didn’t fall! Were you coming up?”

  I look over my shoulder at the empty basement, the silent TV, and the still curtains of Adam’s room. I’m very much alone down here, I realize, and suddenly I want to be anywhere else.

  “Yeah, I think I will.”

  Upstairs, Audrey is already in her bedroom, and the house is quiet again.

  * * *

  Even though I read for an hour before turning off the light, I toss and turn for hours and sleep doesn’t come. Instead I lie in bed in the darkness, staring at the light fixture Audrey and I used to call our boob light. It’s one of the many old fixtures in the house my parents never updated, and now there’s an orangish tint to the inside of the glass.

  It’s 2:15 a.m., but I need to get out of here. Out of this room I shared with Audrey, out of this house full of old memories too painful to face. I want to ride. I want to glide as fast as I can under the stars.

  So that the ’rents won’t hear my bedroom door click, I twist the knob as far as I can and hold it that way as I close the door behind me, then carefully release. I’ve only taken a step away from my bedroom when I hear it: a strange noise, kind of like a hiccup or a whimper. A line of light crisscrosses the hallway, shining up the stairs from the hallway below. Someone is downstairs.

  I don’t want to deal with it, but somehow I find myself at the top of the staircase anyway. I creep down slowly, already knowing what I’ll find, and peek through the railing.

  Mom is on the couch, clutching a photograph to her chest, her knees drawn up. She looks young like that. Like a child mourning a child. Adam’s photograph is missing from its place on the mantel.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear her say. “It didn’t mean I wasn’t happy with you. I was disappointed when I had the ultrasound . . . I admit that.” She chokes on a sob.

  I feel frozen to the spot. My hand is wrapped tightly around the bannister, and my mouth is drier than sand. I don’t know what to do. I want to say something to let her know I’m here, but I don’t know if she’ll be upset with me, like I’ve walked in on her secret.

  Mom drags in a ragged breath. “I’m so ashamed, Adam. I’m so ashamed that I wasn’t a better mother, that I wasn’t the type of mother who was just so happy to have a healthy baby.” She pauses to glance up at the ceiling. When she closes her eyes, fat tears slip down her cheeks. “But you have to believe me that I loved you. I shouldn’t have favored the girls, and for that I will never forgive myself.”

  At her last sentence, I pull back in shock, and the stair I was standing on creaks. Mom freezes and then glances up.

  “Clare.”

  “Hi.” My tone is colder than I intended.

  Mom wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. “What are you doing up? Did I wake you?”

  “No. I was on the way to the bathroom.” And I heard you.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “I said you didn’t wake me up.”

  She stands, turns away from me to wipe the remaining tears from her face, and replaces Adam’s photo on the mantel. Her hand shakes a little bit, and for a moment I think the photograph might fall and my heart does this awful leap, but she catches it just in time.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she asks me without turning around.

  “No,” I lie, but the anger is boiling within me again. Anger for Adam. Anger for Sam, who was worried about telling his mother his secret. Anger for me, who is terrified my mother won’t love me as much if I tell her I don’t always feel like a girl.

  Mom returns to the couch and pats the spot beside her. “Come talk to me.”

  I want to run back upstairs. I want to hide under my blankets with a flashlight and read Adam’s Harry Potter books knowing he’s sleeping peacefully in the room across the hall. I don’t want to have this new information, don’t want to have to ask the question that’s burning its way up my throat.

  “Would you not love me as much if I were a boy?”

  Mom’s hands fly to her mouth. “You did hear me. Oh, Clare, of course I would love you. I loved all of you the exact same.”

  “But you just said you favored Audrey and me. The girls.”

  “I think maybe I did. I know I did more things with you growing up, which I regret. But it wasn’t that I didn’t love Adam as much as you; it was that your dad and I naturally fell into a pattern of him doing things with Adam, like taking him to baseball practice, and me doing things with the two of you girls. I wish we’d taken turns so that I was just as involved as he was with Adam.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I still don’t move from my place on the stairs. I’m still processing everything I’ve heard.

  “Come talk to me.” Mom pats the spot beside her.

  “I’m really tired.”

  “Of course you are.” Mom scrubs her face with her hands. “I should get to bed too.”

  I turn and quickly go back up the stairs. At the top of the landing I go into the bathroom and sit on the closed lid of the toilet. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, but I still can’t block out the image of Mom crying on the couch alone. I can’t stop remembering what she said about feeling ashamed and how she’ll never forgive herself.

  This whole time I’ve been so worried my mom might judge me, when really she’s been judging herself.

  * * *

  I wait until I hear Mom pass the bathroom and close the door to her and Dad’s room. Then I hold my breath, open the bathroom door slowly so it doesn’t make a squeak, and sneak back downstairs.

  Using my phone as a flashlight, I lift Adam’s photograph off the mantel.

  His hair is sandy blond, his eyes blue. He has started spiking his hair with gel because it’s the cool thing to do. His smile is relaxed, calm. He gazes out at me from behind the wall of glass and I wish I could reach out and, like Alice with the looking glass, my hand would go through and I could touch his face.

  I didn’t feel like that at the funeral. The same photograph sat at the front of the church, blown up so that people could see it all the way at the back, and when I looked at it I felt nothing. Maybe it was because there was no glass. He’s waiting behind it in another dimension, I tell myself now. He’s in the upside-down, if only I can find a way to get there.

  My entire family cried at the funeral, except for me. I just felt angry. I wanted to run to the front of the church and kick over that huge photograph. I wanted to yell at everyone to go away because they didn’t understand, they could never understand. They dabbed at their eyes with tissues, but once they left the church, they would be on the way with the rest of their day.

  Our family will feel that pain forever.

  Audrey

  Clare is holding the photograph of Adam.

  She’s frowning at it and doesn’t know I’m standing there. Until I say, Hi.

  Then she jumps and blinds me with her flashlight. Audrey! What are you doing up?

  I had a bad dream. About Adam.

  Oh. Clare puts the photograph back. Straightens it on the mantel. You’re still having a lot of those?

  I nod. Why are you up?

  Clare looks at me. It feels like a long time that she looks at me.

  I couldn’t sleep, she says. I miss him too.

  I can’t look at her after that, so I look at the photograph. It’s his grade-eleven photo, the one we used at the funeral. In it he’s smiling like he had no idea. And the photographer taking the photograph had no idea. And Mom and Dad put it in a frame having no idea.

 
No one had any idea it would be his last school photo taken ever.

  Adam’s in the basement, I tell Clare.

  Yeah, I go down there sometimes to feel closer to him.

  You do? Now I’m excited. I mean, you’ve seen him too?

  Seen . . . ?

  Adam’s ghost!

  Clare’s mouth falls open. She goes really pale. What are you talking about, Audrey?

  Adam’s ghost. It’s in the basement.

  Clare suddenly grabs the sides of her head with both hands. Then she starts shaking her head back and forth. Faster and faster. Covering her ears.

  This isn’t a game, Audrey. This isn’t a stupid ghost story. It’s Adam.

  It isn’t a story! He’s down there, I swear. I’ve talked to him!

  I’m not going to stick around and listen to this crap, Clare says. I can’t believe you don’t get that Adam’s gone—all of Adam—and there’s nothing we can do to bring him back. I can’t believe I actually missed you.

  She shoves me aside and walks back upstairs. I stand at the bottom and watch her go.

  One sibling above me and the other below me. Never to be together again.

  * * *

  The next day is a Wednesday, but I don’t go to my special art period. When Marianne tells me it’s 2:30, I go to the library and draw in my sketchbook instead. Neither Monsieur Martin nor Marianne says anything about it, so I assume that it’s settled.

  But then on Friday at 2:30 p.m. on the dot, Ms. Nguyen appears at the door to my classroom.

  I’d like to walk Audrey today, she tells Marianne.

  Ms. Nguyen isn’t wearing her smock. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in normal clothes. She’s wearing a sleeveless white top with a colorful glass beaded necklace that’s wrapped around her neck twice, and cropped jeans. Her hair is down and wavy instead of up in a tight bun.

  We walk to the studio together in silence. She tells me to sit down at the table and sits down across from me.

  I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day, she says. I think I might have hurt your feelings. Did I hurt your feelings, Audrey?

  I realize that in the pause she was waiting for me to respond. Only my brother ever asked me that, I tell her. Then I blush because it was a weird thing to say.

  That’s too bad. You’re allowed to have hurt feelings. But you haven’t answered my question.

  I look off at where she stores the paint canvases. I wonder if my most recent Sirius has been stored away there too.

  No, that wasn’t it, I tell her.

  Then what was it?

  My fingers are in knots under the table. I take a deep breath.

  You said I’m special. I don’t want to be special.

  I thought as much. Ms. Nguyen sighs. I’m sorry, Audrey. I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. I was trying to make you embrace and be proud of who you are. You don’t have to stop painting Sirius just because other people want you to. Who cares what other people want? It’s your life.

  My heart starts beating faster. Almost as fast as it did that time Sharon caught me talking to the flowers.

  People make fun of me, I say.

  Kids make fun of other kids, she says. It’s part of growing up. Why do you have to change who you are to please other people?

  Because I want people to like me.

  Okay, but can I tell you a secret?

  I nod.

  It’s okay if people don’t like you.

  I feel my mouth fall open, and Ms. Nguyen chuckles.

  I know, I felt the exact same way when a friend said that to me. But don’t you think it’s better to enjoy your life than spend your time trying to make people like you? If you’re worried painting Sirius makes you a target for bullying, then do it in private. Just don’t ever stop doing something you love because someone else tells you not to do it. Okay?

  Okay, I say. Then I look down because my eyes have filled with tears and I don’t want her to see.

  She clasps her hands on the table in front of her and leans forward. Now that’s settled, one question remains: Would you still like to be in my art class, Audrey? I haven’t told your teachers about your absence the other day, and I still won’t even if you tell me you’re no longer interested. I only want you here if you want to be here.

  I am interested. I do want to be here.

  Great. So what would you like to focus on during our time together?

  I don’t know.

  I was hoping you’d say that. Ms. Nguyen smiles. I thought we could try something different. Something I wouldn’t try with all my students.

  She walks over to a cupboard against the wall. She turns around with a dark block on her palm. Do you know what this is?

  I shake my head.

  Soapstone. Have you heard of soapstone?

  In grade six we carved a bar of soap.

  Ms. Nguyen throws her head back and laughs. I love it! Did you carve it with a butter knife?

  I consider that for a moment. I think so.

  She laughs again. We won’t be using a butter knife this time, Audrey. This is the real deal. We’ll be carving real soapstone using handsaws and files. That is why I wouldn’t let other students try it. Using handsaws and files can be dangerous. But I think you’re ready.

  I smile. Maybe I don’t need Monsieur Martin. I already have an ally.

  You can make anything you like. A bear. A cat. A boat. Of course I’ll have to get your parents’ permission before we can actually start cutting. What do you think? Would you be interested in trying your hand out at sculpture, Audrey?

  My heart is beating so loudly, her voice is a hum in the background. Ms. Nguyen repeats the question.

  Would you be interested in carving soapstone, Audrey?

  Yes! I jump up and sit down. Jump up again. I don’t know what to do. I’m so excited. Sculpture!

  I thought you might be. I think you’re a very talented artist and I’ve told Monsieur Martin as much. I would love to see what you could do with sculpture.

  What should I make? All the different ideas run through my head. All my usual sketches. I can make a physical representation of them. Of Sirius. Then it might really feel like he’s real. Isn’t that what I’ve always wanted?

  I’ll prepare a permission form for you to take home this evening, Ms. Nguyen says. But for now you can sketch your ideas.

  I don’t need to sketch Sirius because I have a million drawings of him already. Ms. Nguyen goes to the other side of the room and organizes the closet. I start to draw. I don’t think about what I’m drawing. It starts out as an oval and then I draw two smaller ovals inside it. Add a circle to each oval for the heads. Arms reaching out. Legs entwined.

  I’ve seen it in my head but never drawn it. The page goes dark. I look up and Ms. Nguyen is looking over my shoulder.

  Two babies in a womb. Twins. Is this what you want to carve?

  Yes.

  She takes the pencil from my hands and shades the area behind the babies. You would have to carve this area out, she says. You could add a base here so it stands on its side rather than lies flat like a plate. What do you think?

  I like that.

  The babies are small and intricate. It will be difficult. Much more difficult than a bear or a cat.

  Or Sirius.

  She nods. Yes, or Sirius. Are you sure you don’t want to carve him?

  I can give the carving to Clare, I realize. The carving will say all the things I cannot say to her.

  That makes my decision.

  * * *

  The first thing I do when I get into the car is show Mom the permission slip from Ms. Nguyen.

  You get to carve soapstone! What are you going to carve? She seems really interested. She’s an artist too.

  I’m going to carve Clare and me in the womb, I tell her. It’s going to be a present for Clare.

  Oh. Mom smiles but it looks wrong. That’s really nice, sweetie. What made you decide to do that?

  I take the permission slip
back from her so she can start driving. Because I want things to go back to the way they were.

  And you think giving her a present that shows how much you care is the way to do it.

  I nod.

  She sighs. Audrey, Clare is in a difficult place right now. I just want you to be prepared that she might not react the way you want. I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt.

  I do up my seat belt. You can drive now.

  I’m just trying to help.

  You can drive now.

  Mom shifts and pulls away from the curb.

  Clare thinks Mom and I are closer than her and Mom, but sometimes it feels like Mom lives on a different planet than me, too. That’s because no one lives on the same planet as me.

  At home Mom signs the form. Her signature is perfect and always looks the same. That’s why it takes her forever to sign things.

  The door slams and Clare walks in. It’s the earliest she’s come home in a really long time.

  Not working on that school project today? Mom asks.

  Nope. The word comes out like a pop.

  Mom finishes signing and I snatch it away before Clare can see it. I want it to be a surprise. But I’m too late.

  Clare gestures at the paper I’m stuffing in my pocket. What’s that?

  Audrey is doing so well in school that they enrolled her in a special art period just for her. She’s carving soapstone.

  Clare’s eyebrows rise. As in actual soapstone? Using a saw?

  Yes, using a saw! Mom snaps.

  Clare’s face turns Clifford red. I wasn’t criticizing, just asking, she snaps back. Maybe I actually think it’s cool. God! She stomps out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Mom turns to me. She’s wringing her hands and looks like she wants to say something but isn’t sure what. So I speak first.

  Don’t tell Clare what my carving is going to be, okay? I want it to be a surprise.

  Mom nods.

  I go upstairs to my room. I’m working in my sketchbook when there’s a light knock on my door and then it opens immediately. I never know which one to expect when that happens: Mom or Clare.