Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  I look beyond her shoes to the mess she’s already created in the foyer: her coat slung over the banister, a coffee mug on the antique bureau, her purse on one stair, her briefcase on another, and her keys—for some reason—on the floor.

  “How about we stay home? I’ll make tea and you can change out of your work clothes.”

  Mom looks up. Almost-formed tears cling to her eyelashes as she blinks with surprise. “But it’s Friday, we’ve got manicures. And look at that chip on your nail.”

  “I can just touch it up. We could reschedule. What if we go on Monday?”

  “We always go on Friday. We’ve got appointments.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but a smudge of mascara under her left eye stops me. She’s been crying. “Okay.”

  Mom nods. “Go on, put away your bag, then we’ll leave.”

  I obey, climbing the stairs to my bedroom, hanging my bag on its hook on the back of my door, swapping my wallet and phone into a purse, and grabbing that instead. I allow myself one forlorn glance at my bed, flipping over the pillowcase so I can’t see the mascara tear stains from last night. Then I head downstairs to where Mom is waiting, keys in hand.

  7

  Jonah

  2:29 P.M.

  HALF-PAST GUILT

  Mom meets me at the door wearing my baby sister in a sling around her neck. She’s also wearing a burp cloth, a splatter of baby spit-up, and a frazzled expression. She looks like a walking advertisement for birth control, but she claims to love her new life as a stay-at-home mom.

  “Jonah, buddy—” she begins, reaching up to unwind the sling and smiling hopefully.

  I step to the side before she can get it off. “Hey, Mom. I’ve got to get going, I’m meeting Carly.”

  “Could you change your plans? Have Carly come here instead?”

  “No way in hell—”

  She cuts me off with a disapproving frown and mouths the word “language” while covering Sophia’s ears.

  I look around for Paul, because Mom’s still rational most of the time. I don’t see him. “She can’t even talk yet.”

  “But she can listen. Is that the example you want to be setting?” She’s smiling though, so at least she recognizes she’s being insane.

  “Damn, I guess I’m a crappy big brother then. You wouldn’t want a screwup with such foul language around Sophia.”

  She laughs. “I’m glad to see the swear jar was effective. We’ll have to charge this one a dollar instead of a quarter.”

  “That one” will be able to afford a dollar a swear. I’m sure Paul will pay her allowance in gold coins if she asks.

  “Oh, please, Jonah. Our babysitter canceled, and Paul and I have dinner reservations. You’d really be helping us out.”

  She must be desperate if she’d ask me. Paul always hovers when I’m holding Sophia—like he needs to be ready to swoop in and rescue his precious daughter in case I decide to shake or drop her. And Carly—well, if I see Sophia as a reason to use birth control, Carly views her as an argument for abstinence.

  I try to look sorry. “Maybe if I’d known earlier, but we’ve got plans.”

  Mom sighs and runs a hand through her hair, smearing some of the spit-up from her shoulder. If this lifestyle wasn’t a prison of her own making, and if I wasn’t trapped in it too, maybe I’d be sympathetic.

  But my life is waiting in Hamilton.

  “It’s okay. Have fun. Tell Carly we say hi.”

  I turn to go up the stairs just as Sophia wakes and starts to wail. Mom begins to bounce her and coo, “Shhh, baby girl. Please, please shhh. For me?”

  Dammit, she sounds so pathetic. And exhausted. I sigh and make a 180, holding out my arms. “I can wait a little while. Go take a shower or a break or something.” I even tolerate the hug she gives me along with my sister.

  “Twenty minutes tops, I promise! You are my best son ever,” she calls from halfway up the stairs.

  I switch Sophia to my other arm and put down my backpack. Then bob and weave around the living room, catching my reflection in Paul’s sixty-inch flat screen—I look like a poorly controlled marionette. Sophia’s noises go from a screech to a whimper. I add a singsong, “Your mom is nuts. Totally freakin’ nuts,” and my sister has the good sense to smile up at me. Then she yawns, shuts her eyes, and goes back to sleep.

  It’s so easy to make this baby happy—I’m jealous. The warm weight of her against my chest and the little sighs she gives as she nestles closer and grasps a tiny fistful of my shirt almost distract me from how long Mom’s been upstairs.

  I whisper to her, “Make a mental note of this for later: your mom is the slowest showerer ever. She uses up all the hot water and takes at least twice as long as she says she will.”

  The mom who comes back downstairs is the one my sister will recognize, but she no longer looks like the parent I grew up with. My mother used to come home from her job as an office manager at an insurance company and change into sweats or jeans with holes. My mom was nineteen when I was born—I was the oops Juliana/Jordan mentioned in English, not Sophia.

  Her mom is someone I don’t know. A woman who wakes up early to do her makeup before going to Zumba and spends an hour cleaning before the cleaning woman comes. She finds staying home “fulfilling,” can spend a whole week trying out different recipes for zucchini bread, and laughs it off whenever I comment that she looks exhausted.

  “There’s nothing like a shower to fix things. I feel so much better, you don’t even know.” Gone are the spit-up, the ponytail, and the gym clothes. She’s in her Cross Pointe costume, some extremely matching outfit with precision hairstyling and makeup application. Mom pats my head, and even that’s different now. Her gel-tipped nails are another Cross Pointe addition. I hate the way they feel when she touches my shoulder or scratches my back. Really hate the clacking sound they make when she drums them on the marble counters while lecturing me about moving on and accepting my new life.

  Her new life.

  I’m staring at her—she gives me a funny look and I try to relax my posture so she doesn’t decide now’s a good time to try out another parenting-book technique for “opening communication pathways” or some other crap.

  Mom picks up a glass of sparkling water from the coffee table and takes a sip. “Oh, good, you got her back to sleep. You can put her in her swing if you want.”

  I shrug and lean against the back of the couch. “She’s fine. I don’t want to wake her.”

  “So, what did you learn in school today?” she asks with a wink, knowing I hate this clichéd question. At least it’s not “What’s a goal you’ve set for this weekend?” or “How would you describe your current emotional outlook?” or “Can you tell me one thing you did today to make the world better?” or any of the other obnoxious conversation starters she’s gotten from her library of What-do-I-do-with-my-teen? books.

  I roll my eyes as she reaches out and touches my hair—ruffling it and then smoothing it back into place.

  “You need a haircut.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I used to keep it short so it didn’t get in my way on the diamond, but now that I’m not playing, I can’t be bothered.

  “I miss seeing you, bud. You’re always running off to Hamilton or you’re locked in your room.”

  I open my mouth to say “then you shouldn’t have moved,” but what comes out is, “Miss you too.”

  “Do your Sox play this weekend? Now that we get every channel known to man, I’m sure we get all their games. Want to order Chinese and watch? I’ll get Paul to take the baby to the park so it’s just you and me. It’ll be like old times.”

  I want to give in—except it won’t be like old times. Dad won’t be there to spill popcorn whenever a batter strikes out, and Mom will pay more attention to whether or not I’m using a coaster than to the lineup.

  I should say no, but her eyes are pleading. “Maybe.”

  “Good.” She smiles. “Sophia looks so comfortable with you.”

&nb
sp; “She’s pretty cute,” I admit.

  “Am I making you late?” Mom asks.

  “I’ve got a few minutes.” I don’t remember the last time Mom and I had a conversation that didn’t include her telling me everything I’m doing wrong. I can be a few minutes late to see Carly if it means prolonging this. I give Sophia a gentle squeeze; maybe I’ll put her in the swing after all. Then I’ll talk Mom into making her famous nachos while we catch up.

  “If you’ve got some time, you don’t mind if I just duck out for my manicure, do you?”

  “What?” I freeze halfway to the swing and spin around to face her.

  “I won’t be long. Paul should be home any second. He’s running late because one of his clients needed a last-minute appointment before a race tomorrow.”

  She says this with such expectation. All my nostalgia and goodwill vanish. None of it was real.

  “What the hell? Are you kidding me?” This time I’m not swearing for her amusement, but she pretends not to notice.

  “Come on, Jonah. I’ll give you gas money.” She reaches inside her purse and pulls out her wallet, looking at the bills instead of me. “Forty dollars for twenty minutes? Sound good?”

  The way she holds out the cash is like she’s daring me to protest. And I could use the money. Back in Hamilton, I had a job, but Mom and Paul made me quit when we moved so I could “focus on school work and making friends.” Now, if I need money, I’m supposed to “ask Paul.” I don’t even like asking him to pass the salt; I’m not going to beg for handouts.

  I take the cash.

  “Will you make me nachos?” The question is a fragment of the conversation I thought we might have, and it slips out in a sulky voice.

  She’s already putting her wallet away, leaning down to kiss Sophia on the forehead. “Right now? I’m on my way out.”

  “What about for the game?”

  “The game?” Either she’s distracted by locating her keys on their hook, or she’s already forgotten.

  “The Sox game?” I prompt.

  She pauses. “Right. Sorry. I really want to do that, Jonah. We’ll find a time and, yes, I will make you a huge plate of nachos.” She reaches for my hair again. I shift out of her reach. “Did I already tell you to say hi to Carly for us?”

  I nod. She tosses a hasty “thank you” in my direction and shuts the door to the garage behind her.

  Carly’s first impatient text arrives ten minutes later. Where R U?

  Haven’t left yet. Soon. It’d better be soon. Paul better be home soon like Mom promised.

  My phone beeps again and I hope for a teasing pout-faced picture or a tempting: If u were here right now …

  For the first couple of months after the move my phone never stopped beeping. She flooded it with I MISS U messages and updates about everything/everyone. But lately they haven’t been as frequent or friendly.

  I click on her text:

  I hope U don’t think Im waiting all nite.

  I call. Voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. When Carly gets like this, face-to-face is the only way to reason with her. And I should be leaving soon, definitely before four. Plenty of time to have dinner and some us time before Jeff’s party.

  I pace with Sophia in my arms. My sister’s like me that way: she craves constant motion. Paul, the king of not-fidgeting, says it’s a baby thing and she’ll outgrow it. I hope he’s wrong; it’s the only part of me I see in her. She’s got Paul’s blue eyes, while I have Mom’s brown. Her hair is dark like his—I was a white-blond and looked bald until I was two. Other than hair and eyes, she’s a mini-Mom in ears and nose and mouth. When I look in the mirror all I see are my dad’s features, and it reminds me all over again that he hates me now.

  We pace and I bounce her, humming hybrid versions of rock anthems and the ABC song.

  Twenty minutes pass. Then thirty. Forty. How long does it take to paint nails? Where the hell is Paul?

  The garage leads into the kitchen via a half flight of stairs. Normally I’m startled by the alarm’s obnoxious beep-beep each time a door or window is opened, but I’m humming a particularly enthusiastic version of “Rubber Ducky” and trying Carly’s phone again, so I don’t hear Paul until he’s a few feet away.

  “I would appreciate if you could show enough restraint to not text while holding my daughter. If what you’re doing is so important it cannot wait, then put her down somewhere safe until you can give her proper attention.”

  His criticism hits at the same time as Carly’s voice-mail message. I hit the cancel button on my phone and wish I could mute him as well. He holds out his arms and crooks his fingers impatiently until I pass him the baby.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, responding to a “thank you” that won’t ever come.

  Paul doesn’t disappoint. He ignores me and starts examining Sophia—checking her hands and pulling out the back of her leggings to see if her diaper is clean. “Daddy’s home. It’s all right now.”

  I get way too much satisfaction from the fact that in his arms, Sophia wakes and cries.

  “Nice job. I just got her to sleep. And I think it’s pretty ballsy for you to accuse me of not keeping her safe or paying enough attention.”

  He ignores this too, but I know I’ve hit him in his most vulnerable spot. His face turns a mottled red. It starts at his collar and spreads up to his ears. I remember this from back in the days when he was my physical therapist and one of the employees in his practice would arrive late or when a client would be a no-show. Back then it intimidated me—now, it’s my goal to inspire these angry flushes as often as possible.

  Mission accomplished.

  I head to my room for a quick shirt change, deodorant reapplication, and to check the contents of my wallet.

  A quick text to Carly: Leaving now.

  I take the downstairs at a run, earning a fly-by frown from Paul as I dash through the kitchen where he’s now singing and feeding Sophia a bottle.

  “Does your mom know where you’ll be and do you need—”

  I slam the door, leaving the second half of Paul’s question in the kitchen. Thirty seconds later I’m in my car—driving away from Mom, Paul, Sophia, and their game of Happy Family—sending On my way texts to Carly.

  I’m speeding—not pushing it, I can’t afford another ticket—but I’m sixty-two miles per hour in the fifty-fives. At least I am until I hit rush-hour traffic—something I could’ve avoided if I hadn’t let Mom guilt me into waiting. The thirty-minute drive turns into forty-five, and I’m cursing every car on the road, counting down the miles until Carly’s skin is on mine, and I can taste her, taste the first beer of tonight’s party—and feel just a little bit like myself again.

  It’s only Friday night to Monday morning that I exist anymore. Only once I’ve crossed the boundaries of Cross Pointe and come home to Hamilton.

  8

  Brighton

  3:28 P.M.

  21 HOURS, 32 MINUTES LEFT

  I roll the bottle of It’s Raining Luck between my palms and let my eyes drift over the other colors lined up on the neat racks. I tune out the chatter and background noise in the spa and breathe in the dizzying scent of Friday afternoons: aromatherapy oils mixed with nail polish and acetone.

  “Really, Brighton, I don’t know why you even stop and look. We both know you’re going to get Pointe-Shoe Pink like every other week.” Mom takes the bottle from my hand and laughs as she replaces it on the wall rack. “Green glitter? Who would wear that? Take off your ring, Mina’s waiting.”

  I stick my ring in the front pocket of my purse and take the chair next to my mother’s, across the counter from Mina. She has my polish ready, a pale wash of pink half a shade darker than my bare nails.

  “Evy’s flight lands at five thirty. We’ll go pick her up from here,” Mom announces while settling herself into her chair and paying Mina and Pearl so she won’t have to handle money with wet nails. “Your sister is going to be the death of me.”

  “Why
? What’d she do this time?” Freshman year she’d organized a naked race around campus on the last day of finals.

  “She was almost mugged last night,” Mom answers as she dips her fingers into the bowls of warm water and beach stones Pearl has set before her.

  “What happened? Is she okay?” I ask shrilly. Mom gives me a don’t-cause-a-scene look.

  “She’s fine. Honestly, Brighton, what kind of mother do you think I am? Would I be here if she wasn’t?” She gives me a look of pure exasperation.

  “Sorry.”

  “Now, this is Evy’s version of the story, so you know it’s exaggerated, but according to her, she turned to them, told them they’d picked the wrong girl. She told them she was a black belt—which we both know is not true, unless she spent her spring semester in a karate studio, and even then, she would’ve told us about it in detail. And she screamed at the two would-be muggers until they backed down. Then she got in her car, locked the doors, called the cops, and followed them until the cops arrived.” Mom removes one hand from a bowl and rubs her temples—leaving watery streaks in her foundation that roll toward the collar of her crisp white shirt, but don’t drip; like they know stains aren’t tolerated in Mom’s world. “Your sister has far too much ‘fight’ and not an ounce of ‘flight’ or common sense.”

  “What am I?” I ask. “Fight or flight?”

  Mom smiles indulgently at me. “Baby, you’d manage to make friends with them. But, barring that, flight. You hate conflict.”

  “And Evy loves it.”

  “Evy’s more like me. You’re just like your father.”

  “How so?” I lean forward, sloshing water over the edge of my bowl and causing Mina to tut and tug on the hand she’s jabbing with cuticle scissors.

  I need this—concrete answers to this comparison everyone keeps making. I want to know more than we had the same eyes, or we both ran Key Club. I need to know real things. I feel like I’m forgetting everything that matters.

  Mom’s face softens to sadness and I backtrack, “You don’t have to talk about that, sorry.”