The Fix

by Natasha Sinel

  Chris looked at me curiously.

  “I thought you said the babysitting was until four,” he said.

  Now he decides to remember details?

  “I stopped at the hospital to see Sebastian on my way home.” I couldn’t lie to him. Chris and I had known each other for so long, and we didn’t lie to each other.

  Chris looked away. “I thought that was just a one time thing.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have many friends. I think it’s nice for him to have someone from school, a familiar face. It’s a really depressing place. His roommate totally freaked out, and, I don’t know,” I said. I was talking too much.

  He nodded. I could tell he was trying really hard not to be jealous, not to say anything that would give away that he was.

  “He won’t be there much longer,” I said.

  “That’s good.” He cleared his throat. “So, he’ll be back.”

  I hadn’t realized what that would mean until he said it. Sebastian would be back.

  “He’s clean now,” I said. “He probably won’t go to parties.”

  “Bummer.”

  Then he switched gears and grabbed me around my waist.

  “I thought about this the whole train ride home.” He kissed me. “Is anyone home?”

  “I don’t know.” I hoped someone was home. I wasn’t in the mood. I thought about stopping him for a minute, but saying no never came easily to me. Saying no was always more trouble than it was worth. Saying no meant telling him why, telling him how I was feeling. And I just couldn’t do it. Partly because I didn’t even know how I was feeling.

  “Well then, let’s go see,” he said.

  We walked in the side door. I peeked into the garage but Mom’s car wasn’t there.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  There was a note on the kitchen counter.

  Kids—Scott’s cooking dinner tonight. Please be home by 7.

  I looked at my watch. Almost two more hours. Forget until then. Just forget everything until then.

  Chris followed me upstairs. I looked in Gavin’s room. His comforter was bunched up at the end of his bed; his laptop was closed. Everything was quiet.

  “I guess no one’s home,” I said.

  “Good.” He nudged me into my room, closed the door with his foot, and then pushed me onto my bed. He pulled off my shirt and unzipped my shorts. I tried to get myself into it, unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt. But mostly, I was thinking about getting it done so I could be alone again and hopefully talk to Sebastian about what had happened with Luke.

  I kissed Chris back, but I wasn’t into it. I immediately felt so guilty—and something else, something more familiar. I was doing something I didn’t really want to do and I felt powerless. Confused. Worthless.

  I felt myself spiraling, falling off a cliff, trying to grab hold of something—anything—as my mind kept spinning. It wasn’t just about Chris. Something in me was changing. Sebastian, the psych ward, Mom, Avery and her innocence, little girl me, Scott, Scott, Scott.

  Chris collapsed on top of me.

  He was getting heavy, so I gently pushed on his shoulders. He lifted himself up on his hands and looked down at me, scrunching his eyebrows.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he asked. “You seem kind of far away.”

  “I’m good.” I turned my head and kissed the inside of his forearm.

  He smiled. “What should we do now? You want ice cream?”

  Sex and ice cream, and all is good. Just like baby Ben with his nap and bottle.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Let’s go to my house. We have rocky road.”

  It was comforting to hand over control and let Chris decide where we’d go, what we’d eat. I needed him to do that for me every now and then.

  We cut through the woods. As we walked by our fort, Chris straightened a branch on its roof.

  “We should really do some renovations,” he said.

  He took my hand and we interlaced our fingers. We’d been holding hands like that since I was five, getting on the bus for the first day of kindergarten, hopeful and scared at the same time. Chris had grabbed my hand to reassure himself as much as me. Now holding hands meant something different—sex, love, whatever it should mean—but it still felt the same to me. Comforting, a united front against the perils of the world. It was just beginning to dawn on me that soon after kindergarten my life at home had become perilous. I’d never really thought so. But seeing Avery, how innocent she was, was bringing out something in me, a realization, a new kind of anger. I pictured Avery’s small body, her mind that was focused on snakes and tractors, not even aware of the things I’d known when I was just a little older than her. I instinctively squeezed Chris’s hand, feeling the emotion rise up in me. He squeezed back.

  We got to the end of the path in the woods and found the honeysuckle bush that marked where the gate to Chris’s backyard was. He pushed the bush to the side and I sucked in its sweet smell as I bent down and walked through. Chris’s yellow house rose up in front of us. The planters on his deck still held the dried-up chrysanthemums from last fall. Theresa, Chris’s mom, would put something in the planters whenever she’d remember—whatever was right for the season—mums in the fall, evergreens in the winter, pansies and geraniums in the spring and summer. More often than not she’d forget, and whatever was there the last time she planted stayed there for months and months. But no one seemed to care. Not like at my house where the times for changing plants were marked on Mom’s calendar, and when the day arrived, Mom would call Eduardo and say, “Hi, Eduardo. It’s time for the ‘insert name of flowers here.’ And while you’re doing that, please clean the gutters, and the fence out back is missing a post, and can you please make sure the rhododendrons out front are trimmed? They’re a mess. Thank you.” Then she’d hang up and later that day it would be so.

  Chris and I stepped through the always-open gate, walked along the overgrown stone pathway, and tramped across the deck. Chris slid open the sticky sliding door to the kitchen. I immediately felt what I’ve always felt in his house: be who you are comfort. No judgments, no criticisms comfort. Check your attitude at the door comfort.

  Chris opened the freezer door, which was haphazardly littered with photos of Chris and his brother, Joseph, and even a picture I’d drawn when I was eight in scrawly orange and red crayon of Chris’s family plus me, all holding hands. He took out a quart of rocky road and I got out the giant bowls that said ICE CREAM in pink and green block letters. As I pulled open the silverware drawer for spoons, Lady, their ancient golden retriever, lumbered over and stuck her nose in my butt. I pushed her away gently.

  “Come on, Lady,” I said.

  I scratched behind her crusty ear. And then Peaceboy, who looked like a perfect replica of Snoopy, trotted in with nails clicking on the tile. He sniffed at Lady’s tail and she nudged him away, wanting me to continue the scratching.

  I scooped ice cream into one of the bowls. A tiny swirl of steam rose as the cold met with warm air. I realized it was the second time I’d done this today. The ice cream had worked magic on Avery’s issue, but I doubted its powers could fix mine.

  “Hi!” Theresa said, rolling up leashes in her hand. “What a spectacular day. You’re here early.”

  “It was slow. Dad sent me home,” Chris said.

  She put the leashes right on the kitchen counter, where I knew they’d stay until the next time she walked the dogs. I wished Mom could’ve seen that. She’d have a heart attack.

  Theresa sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. She put a hand through her curly mess of black hair and wiped a single drop of sweat from her natural makeup-free face. She wasn’t pretty like Mom, but she wasn’t un-pretty either.

  “Macy,” she said, looking at me.

  “Hmmm?” I tried to push the brain freeze from my forehead with my palm.

  “Chris said no Nantucket, huh?” Her dark blue eyes searched me.

  “Nope. Not ’til August anyway.�
�

  “What about your job?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I got a job at Marwood. Camp counselor. And I’m babysitting for Darren Roth’s kids.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” she said to Chris, raising an eyebrow at him.

  It was Chris’s turn to shrug.

  “Avery is such a doll,” Theresa said. “I still haven’t met the baby. Did you know Darren and Kevin built a place near us on the Cape? It’s stunning. Chris, remind me we should have them over, introduce them to some people in town.”

  Just then we heard a loud clatter-clang-bang.

  “Peaceboy upended the dog bowls again, I think,” Theresa said. She gave Chris a look and he went to check on the dogs.

  Theresa kept staring at me until I was almost uncomfortable. I let a chocolate chip dissolve on my tongue as I sat, waiting for her to say something.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “You sure? It seems like something’s up with you.”

  Theresa could say these things without sounding all mom-ish. She’d always been more like a peer, a friend. But in the end, she was a mom. Chris’s mom.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  I could tell she didn’t believe me, and I wondered if Chris had told her about Sebastian. But if he had, she probably would’ve just asked me about it directly.

  “You should come to the Cape with us,” she said.

  Just then Chris came behind me, put his arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder. The only thing worse than PDA was PDA in front of a parent, even if it was Theresa. I worked hard not to recoil visibly, but his chin on my shoulder felt like an uninvited guest.

  “We’ve got my sister and her kids coming up this weekend, so that’ll be too crazy, but how about next weekend?” Theresa suggested.

  “You should come,” Chris said.

  “Okay. I will.”

  Theresa smiled, satisfied.

  “Well, I’m off to pick up Joseph from camp. Be back soon,” she said. And then she left.

  My phone buzzed with a text.

  MOM: Come home in 10 min.

  I groaned.

  “What?” Chris asked.

  “Scotty dinner. The prodigal prince returns to court, and the queen must have her attendants surrounding her at the royal palace.” I clapped my hands twice quickly. “Come, come, ye serfs, come hither for the feast!”

  “Well, by definition, if your mom is the queen, then you, my dear, are the princess.” He clapped twice, too, and bowed with flair.

  “Hardly,” I said. “Maybe Cinderella, sweeping up ashes while her evil cousin takes all the glory.”

  He studied my face.

  “You’d look good with ashes, dirty girl. Let me make you dirtier. Come, Cinderella. We have time for one more.” He tugged my hand, pulling me toward the stairs.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, not tonight.” I yanked my hand away.

  “What’s with you?”

  “Nothing!” I snapped. “Maybe I don’t feel like being a dirty girl. Maybe ‘dirty girl’ is a fucked up thing to call someone you like.” I didn’t know where this was coming from. Chris usually made me feel respected and sweet. I cursed myself for having let my guard down with him, letting him make me feel like a real girl, like girlfriend material. I was a dirty girl. The glass slipper would never fit.

  “I was trying to be funny,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “I’ll walk you back home,” he said.

  “It’s okay. I’ll call you later.”

  I left his house and made my way toward the prodigal prince charming waiting at mine.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I took the long way and walked home slowly, kicking the rocks in the road. I pulled out my phone to see if I’d missed a call from Sebastian, but there was nothing. As I turned into my driveway, I saw Scott’s new BMW parked at the top.

  Everyone liked Scott when they met him. He was good-looking and funny and charming. He was the one person I still felt like I wanted to impress. I hated that, and I hated myself for it. It made me feel exactly like what I used to be—an annoying little sister.

  When I walked in the front door, I immediately smelled food cooking—meat, garlic, roasted tomatoes, the inevitable thick sauce. Scott was the only one of us who’d taken an interest in cooking, so Mom taught him everything she knew. He learned well: his cooking was even better than hers. It sucked that everything he made always smelled and tasted so damn good.

  “Hey, Mace!” Scott said as I entered the kitchen. He kissed my cheek, and I felt that well-known mix of excitement and disgust. Even at twenty-four, he still had his pretty-boy face, and it was flushed from the heat of the stove. His dark hair was, as always, coiffed with just the right amount of gel to make it look perfectly done but not overdone. He wore designer jeans and a black collared shirt. His shoes—some kind of soft leather loafer—probably cost as much as a semester at Berkeley.

  Gavin came in the door behind me, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said to him. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Eliza’s. Hey, Scott,” Gavin said, sliding onto a counter stool. “What’s in the pot?” Gavin was an easy conquest when food was in the mix.

  “It’s coq au vin. Apology stew.” He gave us a crooked smile. “I made it at the apartment, so I’m just warming it up, but I’ll give you a preview. How about you, Macy? You want a taste?”

  “Nope. Thanks,” I said and went up to my room.

  I threw myself onto my bed and turned on the red lamp. I loved the soft pink glow it made on the walls. My own impossible rose-colored glasses.

  I heard a knock on my door. My entire body froze.

  What’cha reading? You wanna hang out?

  “Come in,” I said, but every muscle in my body was tight.

  Mom opened the door. Ironically, I was relieved to see her.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Come down.”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Are you feeling sick?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then come down now,” she said, her voice more stern. “And I need you to finish setting the table.”

  She looked like she was going to say something else, but she turned to leave.

  There was no fighting her. I went down the stairs as slowly as possible. I could hear Super Mario Brothers music from the family room. Gavin was at his games again. And I was setting the table again.

  “So, tell me about the summer, kiddo,” Scott said to me as he seemed to glide from the stovetop to the sink. “Deb said you got a job? Gotta hand it to you, you are the responsible kid.”

  What was he trying to do with the whole kid thing? I was seventeen now, no longer a kid. A kid is what I was back then, when I was seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…. But not now.

  “Yeah. I’m a counselor at Marwood.”

  “Nice,” he said as I reached into the cupboard for plates. “Darren still there leading on all the poor women who think they can turn the gay man? I heard he settled down.”

  I grunted, trying to convey the message Do not engage with me. But he seemed oblivious to my hostility.

  “Man, he hated me. He and Deb used to get in the biggest fights about my behavior.” He used air quotes for behavior.

  Now I perked up. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I don’t even remember what stupid things I did, little pranks or whatever, but he would get so pissed. Not you, though, you were pretty good. What happened to you? What’s up with the rebel hair?”

  I looked at him, speechless.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “It looks good. Very hip, the dreads. Really.”

  “Thanks.” I could never tell if he was patronizing me or being sincere.

  After pulling out forks, knives, and napkins, I went into the perfectly quiet dining room. I set the table for four, using my handy mnemonic to re
member which side was which: fork and left have four letters, knife and right have five. My face burned a little. Did Scott think my dreads were stupid? And then I tried to convince myself that his opinion no longer held any power over me. My dreads were awesome. Trendy or not, my dreads spoke. They were strong. They were mine. I touched them gently, almost an apology for doubting them.

  “About five minutes!” Scott called out. “Deb, you opening wine?”

  “Coming!” Mom yelled from the basement steps. She came into the kitchen and put a bottle on the counter.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Stags’ Leap cab is one of my favorites. Rob won’t miss it?”

  Mom shook her head and looked at me so I knew I was meant to set the table with wine glasses. Wine with dinner most nights, unless Mom was cleansing. I carefully took the crystal glasses out of the china cabinet in the dining room, two at a time, and placed them on the table. Despite being underage, Gavin and I were allowed to drink wine with dinner too. It made Mom feel European and sophisticated.

  Gavin came in from the family room and took his seat, clueless to the whole “girl sets the table while boy plays video games” stereotype in action. Scott poured wine into each glass, carefully turning the bottle to catch every last drop. Mom folded her hands under her chin and smiled.

  “This is great, Scott,” she said. “It’s so nice to have all of you home.” Her smile faltered a second when her eyes passed over Dad’s empty chair.

  Scott lit the candles and served each of us. He heaped coq au vin on our plates, added Parmesan risotto, roasted asparagus, and warm sourdough bread.

  “So, why couldn’t Yoli come?” Gavin asked Scott.

  “She’s got an opening at the gallery tonight. It’s a big one. Lots of good publicity.”

  “You’re not going?” Mom asked.

  “Nah. I hate those things. I can’t stand those pretentious artsy-fartsies and the cheap wine and cheddar cheese cubes,” he said. Mom looked down at her plate. I knew what I was thinking—what a selfish jerk-off—but could Mom have been thinking the same thing about perfect Scotty?

  “Guess who was at Tarantula last night?” Scott said. Tarantula was the velvet-roped club in Tribeca he imagined he owned, even though Mom and Dad had paid for his miniscule stake in it.