The Nature of Jade

by Deb Caletti

  25

  while someone pelts a hard object my way, with basically only a stick and my bad hand-eye coordination for protection.

  I know I'm making Dad sound like a dad stereotype, but it's how he is. He loves sports and understands sports, and I see him as viewing the world in this sports-themed way--win/lose, right/wrong, yes/no. The garage needs cleaning: yes. I should buy you your own car: no. You can slack off on your grades every now and then: wrong. Sports are a good idea for girls and mandatory for boys: right.

  So I can get off the athletic hook, but Oliver, who is a guy, can't. Even if he hates sports and just wants to play his viola and read his Narnia books, he's constantly signed up for soccer, basketball, Little League, and even the Lil' Dragons karate course in town. I swear, the kid has so many uniforms, I don't remember the last time I saw him in regular clothes.

  "You know talking to him doesn't do any good."

  "'Being accountable to a team builds character.'" One of Dad's expressions.

  "I hate it."

  "'There's no 'I' in team.'" "These other guys--they're machines." "'Sports are good practice for life.

  You've got to be able to hang tough.'"

  "Please, Jade." He's almost crying. I can see fat tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "He's going to be home any minute to take me to practice. It's so stupid. Guys smashing into each other, shoving each other down. What's the point} The coach calls us men. 'Okay men, in formation.'

  We know we're not men. And why? Why are we doing it? I've got homework."

  26

  '"A good athlete makes time for work and sport.'"

  "Please. I can't do this. I can't." A tear releases itself, slides down his nose. "What can I do?"

  My brother was born when I was seven. I was old enough that I can still remember him as a baby, with his tiny toes like corn kernels and chubby wrists with lines around them, as if a rubber band had been placed there too tightly. Ever since he first grasped my finger and held on (a reflex, I was told, but who cares), I felt a responsibility toward him. He was my brother, which meant I both loved him and wanted to kill him often, but that there was no way I'd ever let anyone else lay a finger on him. "Okay, Oliver. Let me think."

  "Hurry."

  "Okay, okay." Broken arm, broken leg--too drastic. Run away? Nah, he'd have to come home sometime. "Help me, Jade."

  Sick. Yeah. Really sick. Undeniably sick. "Meet me in the bathroom."

  "He's gonna be here in five minutes." "Just meet me there."

  I hop off my bed, tromp downstairs to the kitchen. Root around in the fridge. Even if we don't have any, I can whip up a batch with some catsup and mayo. But, no, the phony-illness gods are with me. There, behind the milk and the jam and the single dill pickle floating in a huge jar of green juice, is the Thousand Island dressing.

  I head up the stairs, and halfway up, I hear the garage door rising. Dad is never late when it comes to taking Oliver to sports practice. Once, I had to drive Oliver to soccer, was ten minutes late, and learned that there had apparently been a misprint

  27

  in the Bible on the Ten Commandments thing: Thou shalt not murder, thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt not be late to soccer. My father was so pissed, I practically had to get the lightning bolt surgically removed from my back.

  I shut the bathroom door behind us. Oliver rises from where he was perched on the edge of the tub, the shower curtain a plastic ocean behind him. "You're going to have to do some groaning, look bad," I say as I unscrew the cap.

  "Okay."

  I squirt a blob of the dressing down the front of the football uniform. Smear it around. Perfect.

  "Oh, gross, it looks like I threw up."

  "That's the idea, Tiger."

  "It looks so real," Oliver says.

  "Smush your bangs up with some hot water. But get a move on. He's coming. Call out for Mom.

  You're so sick, remember? Bleh." I hurry. Screw the cap back on. Hide the dressing bottle in a towel.

  "You're a genius, Jade," he says.

  I smile. Feel a rush of sisterly competence and good will. It makes me happy to help him. He's my brother, after all, and I love the little guy. It's important I stick by him. Your sibling, after all, is the only other person in the world who understands how fucked up your parents made you.

  Dad is ticked off that night, you can tell, probably because he got off work early for football practice for nothing. His dark eyes look as flat and hard as asphalt, his jaw line stone. Even his black hair looks angry, if that's possible. It's like he knows he can't get mad at a sick child, so the anger just simmers

  28

  around in there and presses from the inside out, making his face tight and his footsteps heavy on the stairs after dinner. He stays in the basement all evening, working on his train set, something he's been building for a couple of years now, since we moved to Seattle. He's got a mountain with a tunnel and the start of a town, and a place for a river sketched out on the big board that's the base. His own world. He can move mountains, and no one complains. If he goes downstairs, you don't bother him, or rather, it's just pointless to try. The conversation goes something like this:

  Me: Hi, Dad.

  Dad: Hi.

  Me: How's it going? Dad: Good.

  Me: I got a ninety-six on my calculus test. Dad: Oh, mmhmm. Great. Can you hand me that glue bottle over there?

  Me: I also built a bomb in a Coke can and set it off in the cafeteria during lunch. Dad: Oh, super.

  So we leave him alone there, and it's my personal opinion that he's immersed in the project just to get away from us anyway. I love my dad. And he's not always a father stereotype--sports fanatic, go-to-work-then-come-home-and-disappear. Sometimes he just cracks me up when he's really relaxed and he is laughing so hard at his own jokes. He's a lot of fun when he goes off his healthy eating regimen and buys a big bag of Doritos that we munch happily, our fingers orange and salty. He's an incredible basketball player, even if he's just average height, and makes the best fried chicken I've ever eaten, even if it's the only thing he 29

  cooks. And I really like it when he watches dog shows on TV and talks to our dog, Milo. Milo's a beagle and is a bit on the insecure side. He always walks around with his blankie in his mouth.

  It's like he's perpetually lovelorn, without the love part. Cover boy for Dogs Who Love Too Much. But Dad tries to boost his self-esteem. He'll watch the parading boxers and terriers combed to perfection and he'll scruff Milo under his chin and around his floppy ears and tell him what a good-looking dog he is, even if he's a bit overweight. How he is the best dog, and if there were ever a dog show around here, there wouldn't even be a contest. All the other dogs would just have to go home.

  And Dad wasn't always . . . missing in action. He used to come home when we were little and we'd all ride bikes together or he'd play board games or we'd roughhouse. Lately, though, I have the feeling he's been taking single pieces of himself out of the house, one at a time. One, and then another, and another, until all of a sudden, you notice he's not there anymore. Sure, he's busy--he gets up in the morning, goes to the gym or for a run before he heads off to work, and then after work, he plays basketball a few evenings or stays late at his office or goes downstairs to do some more building on the train. But he's most missing when he's right there having dinner with us, or when we're all driving in the car together, or watching TV. When you have a conversation with him, it's less like he's listening than he's being quiet while you talk. His eyes are looking your way, but he's not really with you. It makes me wonder if his absence is really just concealed disappointment. I get this feeling that he's lived by all these rules all his life and tried to get us to live by them too, just like he was supposed to, but now it's turned out to be something of a letdown. As if he'd followed step-by-step

  30

  instructions on how to build an entertainment center and ended up with a nightstand instead.

  The bad part about my Oliver-savin
g plan is that Oliver doesn't get dinner--his stomach needs to settle, according to Mom, so all he has is ginger ale and a couple of saltines. After we eat, I bring him up some confiscated slices of that thin, rubbery orange cheese wrapped in cellophane, a couple of peanut-butter granola bars, and a banana. He is sitting up in bed, looking as happy as a released prisoner. He's reading The Narnia Fact Book by the light of the clip-on lamp attached to his headboard. A shelf of trophies (for participation, not skill) is directly opposite him, the frozen figures packed tight and looking on the verge of a golden war, with their upraised arms and kicking feet and swinging bats.

  Oliver thanks me for the food, folds a piece of shiny cheese into his mouth. "What was Lucy's gift from Father Christmas?" he asks.

  "Days-of-the-week underwear."

  "Come on, Sis."

  "Okay. Magic potion." Close.

  "Magic dust."

  "No. Flask of Healing."

  "Sounds handy. Okay. I've got to go finish my homework." "Who was the 'sea girl'?" "Oliver, I've got a ton of math."

  '"Sea girl,'" he reads. '"An undersea girl in Voyage of the Dawn Treader that Lucy sees as the ship passes. They become friends, just by meeting eyes, though their worlds cannot meet.'"

  31

  I shut the door behind me. I pass Mom and Dad's room, see Mom sitting on her bed in her sweats, watching a travel show on television, small squares of construction paper around her. Everything in the room matches--floral duvet, matching floral bed skirt and valance above the window. It's take-no-chances decorating.

  "Jade! Come here for a sec."

  I pop my head into the room.

  "Invitations for the principal's tea next week. What do you think?" Blue on yellow, green on blue, yellow on green, green on yellow. Come meet Mr. Hunter, your principle pal at Ballard High!

  It's funny how we've developed tool-making skills over billions of years only to use them for invitations for teas and wrapping Christmas presents and folding napkins into swans.

  "I like the green on blue," I say. I'm used to these decisions. Valentine faculty parties and mother-daughter teas and graduation cruises. I've seen more invitations than the White House mailman.

  "Really? It seems a little dark. I was thinking maybe yellow on blue." "Sure."

  "That'd be zingier. Is that a word? More zingy."

  "Uh-huh." I remind myself a little of Dad right then. The travel show is visiting some amazing beach with beautiful, clear water and women in tiny bathing suits walking on the sand. "Where's this?" I ask.

  "I've lost track. Australia?"

  It doesn't look like Australia, but oh, well. I watch for a minute.

  32

  "You should have seen the pool they just showed. Wow. Water slides, swim-up bars, a lagoon."

  "You should go. You and Dad."

  "Australia's got sharks. You can't even swim in the ocean. No, thanks."

  "Then don't go in the ocean. Just tan by the pool and sip drinks with umbrellas in them. Or go to London." We'd heard the story a thousand times about how she'd planned to live in London for a year with a bunch of her girlfriends after they all got their business degrees, but how she'd married Dad straight out of college instead.

  "Jade, all right. If I want to go, I'll go, okay?" Her voice prickles. And I guess I understand. It's a role reversal from her wanting me to go to the dance. Mom sighs, looks down at the paper in her hands. It's the way I sometimes catch her looking out of the window. As if she's staring somewhere way beyond, to a place I can't see. "I'm sorry I snapped," she says. "I guess ... It just makes me feel you expect more of me, and I already expect more of me enough for the both of us."

  "Man, we're hard on ourselves," I say.

  "You're so right," she says. "Let's make it a way-after-New-Year's resolution not to be."

  "Deal," I say.

  She sets the invitations on the bed. Looks at them a long while. "Yeah, yellow on blue," she says finally.

  I tap my doorframe three times, same as always, and go into my room. I let myself be swallowed up in the comfort of my deep blue walls, the warm light of my paper lanterns, and my patron saint candles (long glass cylinders decorated with pictures of 33

  saints, lit when you feel in need of a little protection and good luck) on top of my dresser. It occurs to me, then: four people, four different rooms. We are in our own cages, unlike the elephants, who stay all together in their adopted family.

  I do a mind-blowing two hours on calculus and another brain-frying hour on research notes on Faulkner. I spend forty minutes on essays for my college applications. I spend ten minutes online talking to Michael Jacobs about how much work we have to do. I spend five minutes thinking of things I could do if I weren't such a freaking overachiever. I could read something without a theme. I could paint my fingernails. I could make an igloo out of sugar cubes.

  All the while I keep checking out the computer screen, hoping the guy in the red jacket will appear but knowing it is too late, past the hours the zoo is even open, for God's sake. I'm just so disappointed at how he hadn't come when I'd been so sure he'd be back. It was one of those times you feel a sense of loss, even though you didn't have something in the first place. I guess that's what disappointment is--a sense of loss for something you never had.

  Dad is still in the basement, Oliver is asleep, Milo is cuddled with his blankie, and Mom's light is off when I go to bed.

  I shut off my own light, prop up on one arm. The moon is almost full, bright and round in my window, illuminating the blue-black clouds hanging around while deciding on a direction. The computer screen glows an eerie greenish gray. The image on my desk is of an empty viewing area, a still, dark night. Only the trees sway a bit; that is the only movement, until I see the bulk of a figure enter the bottom corner of the screen.

  34

  I sit up in bed, get up, and bend down over the computer. Yes. It's true. A figure is there. I can only see shoulders--the night zookeeper, maybe? A watchman of some kind? At night I usually switch to the elephant house, where they sleep, so it's possible this is routine. That's what my front-stage mind is saying. My backstage mind is thinking something else. Accelerating just a small bit with crazy-but-maybe possibility.

  I send the figure a mental request: Turn around! Let me see you! If he turns around, I will know if it is the boy. Maybe if he looks toward the camera our eyes will meet, him a sea boy, same as Oliver's sea girl. Our eyes will meet from different worlds and still we'll connect. Two points in need of a line.

  The figure goes to the rail, leans over, and rests on his elbows. This is not what a watchman would do. Not what anyone who worked there would do. It is a visitor's pose, so whoever it is had snuck in. The man does not have a baby in a backpack, and it is too dark to see a jacket color.

  But he just leans there for a long time, gazing into the darkness of the elephant pen.

  It is when he leans back, tilts his head up to the moonlit clouds, that I know it is him. It is that same profile, full of questions, full of thought. My heart babamps in my chest. I feel this surge of happy. My inside voice too often screams unreliable things at me, misinformation--that I am in danger, that someone I love is in danger, that now is the time to panic, to flee. I am happy, because it is just so good to know that it can give a whispered message, a simple, quiet knowing, and that it can be right.

  35

  CHAPTER THREE

  Animals have anxiety. Primates will pluck their hairs or injure themselves in times of stress.

  Dogs are also very vulnerable. They are pack animals, and rely on the others in their pack for a feeling of safety. Separation and death are innately intertwined. When they are left alone, without their human "pack" some dogs become anxious that their owner may never return. They bark, chew, urinate, or try to escape by scratching. If left alone frequently or for long periods, some become ill, in a form of depression . . .

  --Dr. Jerome R. Clade, The Fundamentals of Animal Behavior

  Jenna's the only one of
my friends with her own car, so she's the designated driver to take us to Starbucks for lunch. As seniors, we can go off campus to eat, and so we all leave, because no one wants to sit in the cafeteria that smells like gravy and tuna fish and cut apples turning brown when you don't have to. Plus, that's when Mom and the other "concerned parents" (read: bored PTA mothers) roam around and see which kids were raised badly so they have something to talk to each other about. I know how mean this makes me sound, and I'll probably be either unable to have children of my own or end up roaming the cafeteria myself one day for saying so, but you'll notice that none of the parents of the kids who really need spying on are ever part of these things.

  The first time I drove with one of my friends, my chest got

  36

  so tight and my palms so sweaty that I thought for sure I was going to have an attack. I had to crack the window and ride like one of those dogs with his nose stuck out, even though it was January and freezing. It was nuts at first, because I kept thinking of all those teen driving accidents you see on the news, where there's this really handsome guy in his football uniform and crying girls interviewed by news reporters saying how he was the nicest person. I had to increase my exposure to the whole situation bit by bit, like Abe, my psychologist, has said, and that worked for the most part. I had to remember to breathe from my diaphragm and not my chest (hyperventilation causes a lot of the symptoms of anxiety), and I had to tell myself (a zillion times) that what I was feeling was not dangerous, just a nuisance. A problem I was making, not a real one. Restructure my thoughts. I still bring my cough drops along on the ride, because I find that if I've got a really strong flavor in my mouth, it helps me keep both my front-stage and my backstage mind off of plotting any ambush. I don't know why it works, but it does. Plus, it keeps my breath fresh.