by Deb Caletti
"Shut up!" Michael says. "Don't even listen to her." "Michael," Hannah says. "You know, maybe . . ." "Someone had their tongue down someone's throat, is what I heard," Kayla says.
"What?"
"Brittany Hallenger caught them," Kayla says.
What I feel then is the ground, and it seems like it has been moved, taken away. My head feels strange, too, like I could black out. Like there's no oxygen, suddenly, an important connection from lungs to heart to brain snipped.
"Let's go," Jenna says.
"Come on, Jade," Akello says.
"We're not finished," Kayla says. "Lunch isn't even half over."
Michael and Akello get up. Jenna, too. I go with them, and we get in the car and leave Kayla and Hannah sitting there. We
231
go from the cool air conditioning to the sunny May air, the stifling heat of the car smelling of warmed vinyl.
"I don't want them in my car," Jenna says.
"I don't want them in my life," Michael says.
"I hope she chokes on her fucking Frappucino," Akello says.
No one speaks on the ride back. No one speaks, and Jenna squeezes my hand, and Akello offers to carry my backpack. Which means it was true. What Kayla had said back in the cafe, it was true.
I sit through Biology and Government, and I get through by trying to focus on each and every word that is said. If I look out the window of the class, I'll see my mother's car in the parking lot, and I cannot, cannot, cannot (count the words on my fingers, starting with my thumb) think of that, or of the library or of Mr. Dutton, do not, do not, do not. I walk home. I don't take the bus. I count sidewalk tiles. I don't go to the zoo, can't face the elephants and their warmth and love and family life right then. I don't know what to do. I have no idea. I just open the door of my house, and it seems like a strange door. One of those bizarre moments when a familiar object seems completely foreign.
I have no plan. Maybe my backstage mind has a plan, because I drop my backpack to the floor with a thud when I hear her in the kitchen. Her, not Mom. Just her. In the kitchen-- our kitchen, Dad's kitchen, this family's kitchen.
I am in the doorway. She's emptying the dishwasher, of all things. I don't know why this seems so extraordinary and why it pisses me off so much. The dishwasher--it seems so innocent. It's innocent to put away our glasses and forks after kissing another man.
232
"Good day at school?" I say. The sarcasm drips from my words like an icicle from a rooftop.
"Yes," she says. She turns, eyes me warily. She holds a plate in her hand.
"That's what I heard. I heard you had a really good day." The anger--it's there. Suddenly, it's there, in a boiling rush. So much anger, it scares me. I don't know how much is there, how much I have inside. I didn't know that rage could sweep up like a wave, washing over everything else, drowning good things. It is bigger than I am. God, it's huge.
"Jade. What is the matter with you?"
"You disgust me."
She just stands there with her mouth open.
"Mr. Dutton and his books. The librarian, for God's sake. What a Goddamn sex symbol. You were seen, do you know that? Seen and talked about. You embarrassed me. You humiliated me."
"Jade." She is frozen there, shocked. Holding that plate. She has her jeans on, and the white blouse, opened too far at the neck. Silver jewelry. Is that what she wore? Was there more? Had she slept with him too?
"Who saw?" she says finally.
"Who saw? Who saw? That's what matters here?" There is guilt in those words. "Are you having an affair with him?"
"Jade, no! It's not that! It's not. . . what it seems."
"Oh, what--you were rehearsing for the school play? You're probably in my school play now, too, right?" I want to cry, but I don't. Anger is taking all the space. It overtakes every piece of me.
Mom's face twists. "I'm sorry." She bends over, grasps the 233
plate to her stomach. A sound escapes: grief. Just this cry of grief.
My heart wants to feel pity, it tries to, but I shove it away. Goddamn her. What was she thinking How could she want to wreck our lives? '"I'm doing this for you, Jade,'" I mock. "'I'm doing all of this for you.' For me. Right." My voice rises. I'm yelling. My throat is raw with rage. "You were doing it all for you. It was never about me. You, you, you! If you wanted to do something for me, you would have left me alone. You would have let me have room to breathe."
I am screaming at her. This is not me. This is some cyclone inside, a furious evil person. I turn and run. Up the stairs to my room. I slam the door so hard I can hear one of the pictures that hang along the stairwell wall drop to the floor.
I sit at the edge of my bed. Clutch my pillow. My heart is pounding so hard. For a moment, I fear I won't catch my breath. She'd taken my air, yes, she had. I concentrate. Desert. Calm. In, out.
Goddamn her. In, out.
"Jade, please." Her voice comes through the door. None of this is happening, which is a good thing. It's at a distance. It isn't my life falling apart.
"Get away from me."
"I want to explain." Muffled voice. Crying. "Explain to Dad."
I count this phrase on my fingers. Explain to Dad. Explain to Dad. Explain to Dad. Breathe.
"Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen. Jade! Jade, I was so lonely. I am so lonely." She is crying hard now. "He was ... a friend to me. Okay? He took interest in me."
"Obviously," I say.
234
"Please," she cries. "Please . . . My life. It's always been so . . . decided."
I say nothing. I pick fuzz off of my bedspread. Build it into a pyramid.
"Your dad . . . I've been . . . alone. A long time. Roger was kind to me. I felt like ... I remembered I was a human being. A woman."
I don't want her to say that. I hate that she says that. Right then, I hate that word, woman. It sounds dirty.
"I'm going to tell Dad," I say. "Of course I'm going to tell him. He should know." I don't know if that's true or not. That I will tell him. That he should know.
"Jade, no. I'll tell him. I'm going to tell him." She is crying. "Let me." Her words come in bursts.
"What happened today-- it was my fault. I'm sorry someone saw. I'm sorry I did it. That was all that happened. I swear to you. That was all. It won't happen again. I love you. I love all of you."
She is sobbing, hard. "God. Oh, God," she cries.
I rise from the bed. I open the door. Mascara drips down her face, which is red and puffy and small-eyed. Tears have dampened her blouse. Pain radiates from her body in waves. Maybe I should put my arms around her. Maybe I should, but I don't.
"I'm sorry for you," I say.
And then I shove past her. I take her car keys, swipe them off the counter. Hey, otherwise she might use them to see her lover, the librarian. I get in the car. I get the hell out of that place that's supposed to be my home.
I drive until I reach the water. I park the car, but by then it has already started. It's too late. I grip the steering wheel, fighting
235
the feeling of no air. No air and the reality of what has happened are colliding forces, a shaking earth causing animals to flee and buildings to fall, and the sea to rise in one overpowering wall of water. I guess I manage to get the car door open, because an eternity later, Sebastian is standing there, the mail in his hand. "Jade?"
"Are you all right? What's going on?"
I can t. . . "Come here. Come here. It's okay." He helps me from the car. "Panic. I can't. . .
Breathe." "It's okay. It is."
He holds me to him. Strokes my hair. I think I might throw up. I can't throw up. It would be horrible if I threw up. But I might. His hand is firm, rhythmic. He strokes my hair. "Breathe with me," he says. "There, now. Like this. It's okay. See? You're okay. Everything is fine. I've got you."
The desert. His arms. The timeless, endless desert. Love, timeless and endless, too. Breathing, in and out. I start to cry. And he just keeps
me tight in his arms and kisses my hair. "It's all right,"
he says.
Tess is home, but heading out. She changes her mind. She hangs her little knapsack-purse over the chair and pours me a glass of ice tea with a slice of lemon and listens with a care that is both efficient and gentle.
"Lost hearts," Tess sighs.
"Don't be sorry for her," I say. "After what she did." Tess sighs again. Bo wakes from his nap in the other room,
236
calls out "Da!" and Sebastian goes to him. "Jade," Tess says after a while. "You know how much I care about you. But you want everything to be either black or white. I've noticed this. You want to put things into separate compartments--right, wrong, good, bad. But not much works that way.
Even black and white--mostly, it's just shades of gray."
"Are you saying what she did was okay? 'Cause if that's what you're saying, I don't agree."
"It was hurtful, yes, it was. But right or wrong? Was your dad wrong to spend so much time alone? Was your mom wrong to feel lonely? Were they wrong to grow apart?"
"They have Oliver and me."
"I don't know. The older I get, the more I just see how we've all got the same struggles, and then all I can feel is compassion."
"She chose to kiss that man, and that was wrong." I don't understand how Tess can't see this.
"And where is the beginning of that wrong? Where is the start of that thread? Good luck finding that. Go back eons. Did she do it because of him? Did he do it because of her? Because of their parents? Because of their parents' parents? Because of some deep, archaic need?" Tess is getting a bit worked up. Her eyes are blue and focused, and she leans into me so close I can smell her clean, laundry-soap scent.
"Maybe she did it because she made the choice to."
"Does the river make the choice to erode the rock?" Tess says, eyes blazing.
"I feel like I've walked in on open-mic poetry night down at the Flamingo," Sebastian says as he rejoins us. Bo is sweaty from sleep. Still groggy, his head rests on Sebastian's shoulder.
237
"I'm trying to tell her that everything is so interconnected that it is often impossible to sort out who impacts who, and how."
"'Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.' Or something like that, right? I got a C in physics," Sebastian says. He winks at me.
"More like we've got this big knotted ball of history and behavior and needs and drives."
"Sounds like a mess," I say.
"A real tangle. But, oh, what a lovely one."
"I'm angry at her," I say. "I don't want to try to understand her."
"Right," Tess says. "You're pissed and you want to lash out but it's too hard to hurt something you understand." "Yeah," I say.
"Well, when you're ready for compassion, that's where to look. The way we're all just creatures doing the best we can."
Tess leaves to do some errands and attend her FFECR meeting. Evening comes and Sebastian makes me scrambled eggs, and I read Bo's favorite story over and over to him before Sebastian calls halt and Bo disintegrates and finally winds down to sleep. I don't want to go home.
Sebastian puts Bo to bed and I do the dishes. I am putting the milk carton away when Sebastian appears in the kitchen, takes my wrist, and brings me outside. We sit on the dock for a while, watching the ripples in the water, the city lights dancing on waves. It gets cold, so Sebastian goes inside and gets some blankets. We lie on the hard wood dock and wrap ourselves in the blankets and look up at the stars. I settle into the crook of his arm. I hear crickets, the drifting voices of someone's television, canned sit-com
238
laughter. The water smells seaweedy, and a twinge of melting butter still clings in the air.
"Today ..." I say. "In the car . . . My anxiety. I'm sorry." I feel the shame, inching around my insides.
"What are you sorry for? It's all right. I'm sorry you have to deal with it. It seems awful."
"It's like being held underwater," I say.
"God, that's got to be tough."
"I'm embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? Are you kidding me? I have a kid. You still accept me."
"Of course. He's part of you. He's great. Anxiety's not great."
"But it's part of you. Jade? I love you. All of you."
My heart soars. I find his hand in the dark. "I love you, too," I say. I want to cry. Happy cry, sadness, acceptance. The whole knotted ball that Tess was talking about. He loves me and I love him, and it is simple and immense, too.
We are quiet for a while. The dock creaks and groans with a passing wave. "You know, you handled it just right. In the car. It helped," I say.
"I'm glad." He turns toward me a little under the blanket, and his breath is warm in my ear. "Bo, sometimes he gets himself worked up, and he just struggles.... If I hold him, and just rub his back, or his head ..."
Sebastian strokes my hair. We start to kiss. We kiss for a long while. His hands are gentle.
I guess that's the only thing that is necessary to know about Sebastian and me on that hard dock, the blanket around us. He is careful, so very careful with me. Then, I realize the importance 239
of having another person who sleeps beside you, the survival-necessity of having a shoulder to shake awake during the middle-of-the-night terrors, those times when it is dark and you feel too alone.
I come home really late that night, and the house is quiet and dark. Milo doesn't even wake up to greet me, but when I go upstairs, the bathroom light is on and Oliver is coming out, his eyes all squinched up from the shocking blast of fluorescent brightness after dream darkness.
"Jeez, Sis, you scared me."
"Oliver, flush! God, don't be gross."
"I was sleeping!"
"If you're awake enough to pee, you're awake enough to flush."
He peers out of the slits of his eyes at me. "You're just getting home. You have your coat on."
"Congratulations, Sherlock," I say.
"You're going to be in trouble," he says.
"I'm eighteen, remember? I don't even have to live here."
"Don't say that," he says. "You wouldn't leave me."
I suddenly want to hug him, my little brother in his p.j.'s and with his sleeping hair. "How was tonight? Was everything okay?"
"Mom and Dad stayed in their room all night talking. I watched Titanic Mysteries on TV. I opened a new bag of Doritos and ate them for dinner and no one even said anything. Why is Mom crying?"
"I don't know, Oliver."
"He's being a butt."
240
"I don't know." I've had enough talk tonight about laying blame.
"If you ever don't live here, you can take me with you," he says.
I do hug him then. There had been so many changes, just in one day. I feel new and old at the same time. I feel like the first person ever to make love to someone else. I almost want to cry, from the loss of the old, from the moving forward. Part of me wants to hold on--it's going so fast.
"Jade, you're squishing me," Oliver says.
241
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Animals lie, and they do so when the benefits of the lie outweigh the risks. Piping plovers fake broken wings and hobble around in acted-out injury to distract predators from a nest, and apes will hide food when other apes walk past. Monogamous European passerines, most notably the pied flycatcher, will hide their mated status, pretending to be "single" in order to possess several unknowing mates in several locations . . .
--Dr. Jerome R. Clade, The Fundamentals of Animal Behavior
Everything in my house felt careful. Like we all understood that we were in a fragile place, and care was being taken not to break us. Door handles were twisted so that doors could shut quietly, steps were soft, voices low, and eye contact was avoided. Anger was too dangerous--anger would have shattered the hairline cracks snaking through our glass. Everything felt held in midair, just waiting, in temporary balance, in suspension. Like those surfers in
Riding Giants, or Jake Gillette's parachute as he leaps off the skateboard ramp. We all moved carefully, slow moves, a Queen of Hearts in hand, gently placed on top of the card house. Will it hold? Will it fall? Nothing went forward or beyond, except for Dad and the building of his train set. He kept hammering and sawing, and the sounds coming from downstairs were both persistent and somehow mournful, a reminder that going forward always meant loss, too.
242
Even Milo was quieter lately. He would stretch, rump in the air and front legs reaching out, then he would lie back down again, his chin on his paws, paws on his blankie. His toenails clicked more quietly and slowly on the wood floors. He would sit patiently while his food was being scooped, his chin up, eyes watchful.
That night, after Milo eats, Oliver tosses Milo's old stuffed hedgehog in his direction. Milo wags, leaps after it, and then just slides flat on the rug, the hedgehog held between his paws.
"Give it here," Oliver says. He wears his white karate uniform, with its wide and swingy pant legs and cuffs, its thick, stitched belt. He claps his hands, but Milo just looks his way and stays put. Oliver makes a quick grab for the hedgehog, but speed is unnecessary. Milo lets him have it.
Oliver dances the hedgehog toward Milo, gives the hedgehog an enticing growl, but Milo only sighs through his nose.
"What is wrong with you people," Oliver says.
"For your information, Milo isn't people. Milo is a dog."
"You're all acting dead or something. When are you going to start talking to Mom again?"
"I'm not not talking to Mom," I say.
"That is just . . . bullshit." He tries the word out. Says it as if he's just robbed a bank and is showing off the loot. "Oliver."
He apparently likes the sound, and so he says it again, adds a flourish. "Bullshit. Mega-bullshit. I don't like what's going on here. It's like everyone's under a spell."
"The White Witch?" I suggest.
"Always winter and never Christmas," he says.
243
I think about this. He is right in a way. We are under a spell. Lies are delicate. You have to hold your breath around them.
"Hi-yah!" Oliver karate chops the hedgehog, but Milo merely rolls on his side, exposing his white stomach in a display of canine submission.