Well, That Was Awkward

by Rachel Vail

  Which made me cry. Seriously. I started to cry because my mother said my hands are strong and beautiful. I don’t know why. Getting to be a habit. What is wrong with me? Too bad there’s not a travel crying team. I could be a starter.

  At our corner, we walked past the pale neon light from the diner sign that tourists stand under to take pictures of one another, because some old TV show was filmed there. “Let’s sit for a sec,” Mom suggested at the steps of the building next to ours.

  “Okay.”

  Mom sat beside me, her hand warm on my back, not rubbing, just imprinting; I could feel it through my T-shirt. Our bags were lined up in front of us like pawns.

  “Do you know why Bret ran out into the street that day?”

  “Chasing a ball?”

  “She was mad at me,” Mom said.

  “Oh.” I had always pictured Bret chasing a ball, a red kickball for some reason. Maybe because Mom was so nutty about me not chasing a ball into the street and I had connected it in my mind to Bret?

  “I told her it was time for lunch,” Mom said, quieter. “She said no. She always said no to lunch. Well, to everything. And I had it in my head that we had to get lunch done, because I had things to do in the afternoon and, honestly, maybe I was a little bored, playing pretending games in the yard, and I wanted to get on with the rest of the day, so I said, ‘Bret! Now! Stop fussing!’ And she giggled and . . .”

  Mom rubbed at her left palm with her right thumb. I reached for her hand to stop her. I’d forgotten how she used to do that, and how it made my stomach all bunchy.

  “She giggled and ran away from me,” Mom said. “After, I tried to tell myself we were just playing until that car . . . but no. The truth is, I was annoyed, chasing her, feeling impatient that this was my life. She was giggling, but I think also really trying to get away from me, and that’s why she ran into the street.”

  She pulled her hand away and started rubbing the palm with her thumb again.

  I swallowed hard and asked, “Is that why you never get mad at me?”

  “Maybe.” She sniffed in hard. “Maybe it is why.”

  “How do you not just cry all the time?” I asked, still not facing her.

  “I did,” she answered softly. “For a long time it’s all I did.”

  “And then you, what? Got over it?”

  “No,” Mom said. “I’ll never get over it. Daddy, either. We were wrecked for so long. We’re still a bit, well, jagged.”

  I nodded.

  “Daddy never blamed me.”

  “I know,” I said. “He doesn’t.”

  “I don’t know if I could have been as kind to him, if it had been him in the yard that awful day.”

  “I bet you would have,” I said. “You’re the nicest person in the world.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I try, but I fail.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  Mom shrugged. “There’s some valor in trying, I suppose.”

  “Hadley said I’m the thing that lifted you and Daddy out of your depression.”

  “You certainly helped,” Mom said.

  “She said it’s my job to always be happy, for you.”

  “Oh, no,” Mom said. “That’s not correct. That’s not your job at all. You have a job, my love, but it’s not to be a . . . What did you call it? A sunshine emoji or—”

  “So what is it then?” I asked, a little ashamed of how needy my voice sounded. I hunched down between my knees. Tried to sound jokey. “My job.”

  “Just to be you,” she said.

  “That’s nothing.” I groaned. “That’s not a . . . Adults always say that: just be yourself. As if we have any choice in the matter, and as if that’s one solid thing: being yourself. Who even is myself? Which one? This nasty one? No, thanks, then. ‘Be yourself’ is stupid.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry. Sorry. I don’t even know what I’m—”

  “Gracie, I’m so sorry you’ve been feeling like you have to always be happy. That’s really unfair.”

  “I didn’t mean you made a rule or something,” I said. “I’m not accusing you.”

  “No,” she said. “I get it. I mean, you’re right: I hate when you’re sad. I want to fix it immediately. Your face was made for smiling—those dimples? What a gorgeous sunshine smile you have. When you have a flicker of sadness in your eyes, I want to take it away, wave my magic wand, say no. No being sad. No being hurt, baby of mine. No feeling confused or angry.”

  “Right! But—”

  “But that’s not fair to you. You’re right. I’ll try, okay? When you’re angry or sad or hurt or whatever, I’ll try to just sit with you through that. Instead of trying to make it go away.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t help me,” I said.

  “I know. But you and I, sweetie, we’re gonna have to allow ourselves to be not okay sometimes.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I’m basically made of Teflon, so . . .”

  “No, baby, you’re not,” Mom said.

  “Everybody says I am. Teflon Girl! It’s my superpower.”

  “Then everybody is wrong.”

  “No superpowers for me?”

  “Gracie, stop.” She placed her warm hand on mine and sat there for a few breaths before going on. “You can feel not okay sometimes. It won’t destroy you, I promise.”

  “Because I’m the least delicate person you ever met?”

  “What?” she asked. “No.”

  “I just don’t get it, is the thing.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why you’d choose to love anybody. You know? What’s the point? It seems like such a stupid bet, because you’re practically guaranteed to end up feeling not okay. Because they might not love you back, or they’ll like somebody else, or they might get over you, or they could get lost. Or die in your arms.”

  Mom took a deep breath.

  We sat there on the stoop together, and I almost started to apologize again. But instead I took a deep breath too and looked at the scraggly flowers growing defiantly around the base of the tree in front of us, its square of dirt interrupting the sidewalk. What’s the point of you? I wanted to ask them. Scraggly, stupid, pointless flowers.

  “My arms can’t forget how Bret felt in them,” Mom whispered. “The specific weight and shape of her.”

  “I bet.”

  “But after a long time, I started to feel a little happy, before sad, thinking of her. And it hit me then how much isn’t promised us.”

  “How much isn’t?” I asked.

  “Yes, isn’t,” she said. “I thought that was the deal: I’d get through the tough times with her, but I’d also be able to watch her grow up. That’s all I wanted, really. But it was too much. I don’t get to know grown-up Bret, and it breaks my heart every day.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. It isn’t worth—”

  “But what I do get is this. This second.”

  “You get to sit on this dirty stoop with four bags of groceries? Wahoo.”

  “I get to sit here under this sky right now with you, Gracie, and hear your voice and your questions and watch you figure things out and be who you are right now with all of the complexity that entails, and I get to love you. I get to hold your beautiful, beautifully strong hand right now under that big moon hanging early and low over Downtown, and to find out that you used to think the sun rose on Madison Avenue.”

  “I’m some kind of genius, that’s for sure.”

  “You are. And I get to tell you, I swear on your life, that you’re not second prize to me. You never have been. You’re exactly perfect, every detail of you, just as you are.”

  “Mom.”

  “Gracie, we don’t get anything without also taking the risk of losing it. But here’s the thing that I’m learning from you: take t
he risk. Barreling headlong into life, like you do? Like you’ve always, always done? It’s the best way to find all the mind-blowing joy and silly humor the world holds. I guarantee it’s still worth it.”

  “Doesn’t seem it.”

  “I get to have been Bret’s mom, and I get to be yours, and to be Daddy’s wife, and to talk about ethics with really smart young people. I got to eat Absolute bagels with whitefish and a thick slice of tomato last Sunday, and smell the honeysuckle yesterday down by the river when so many of your sweet friends turned out to help you find Lightning. I get to sit here with you now in front of those scraggly flowers, forcing their way up into the day, against all odds there. See them?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “That’s it. That’s all that’s promised to me. Just this bit.”

  “And that’s enough?”

  “Sometimes,” Mom said. “Sometimes it’s not.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It the sometimes it’s not that wrecks everything.”

  “Story of my life,” Mom said.

  I smiled at her.

  “But that’s when I take a breath and I realize that despite everything, I still have so much more in the story of my life than my heart can even hold.”

  I put my strong hand on her back, so our arms were braided.

  She turned to me, the tears in her eyes almost overflowing. “It’s so much, Gracie. It truly is.”

  51

  WHAT?!

  SIENNA: hey, so, um . . .

  me: ?

  SIENNA: I have to ask you something.

  me: okay but listen Sienna I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. please can we just go back to everything is fine and we’re best friends?

  SIENNA: we’re still best friends!

  me: we are?

  SIENNA: forever. I just meant I also have to, yk, talk for myself. sometimes.

  me: okay. you sure did today.

  SIENNA: I did, right? told Riley OFF.

  me: you completely slayed her. you were awesome

  SIENNA: really? it felt really good.

  me: I never meant to, like, shut you down in any way . . .

  SIENNA: I know. it’s just sometimes easier for me to, yk, hang back and let you talk for me. which I shouldn’t. but my ? is when you said you don’t like Emmett . . .

  me: I meant I don’t LIKE HIM like him! please don’t be mad at me for that you know I wasn’t being mean. I love Emmett you know that!

  SIENNA: are you sure?

  me: about what?

  SIENNA: just—any chance you maybe might LIKE HIM like him?

  me: he’s shorter than I am

  SIENNA: sure, and he doesn’t tie his shoes, but so what?

  me: Sienna. I know we said we won’t insult ourselves but let’s be honest. I am not the LIKE-like type

  SIENNA: what do you mean?

  me: have you seen me?

  SIENNA: uh, yes.

  me: come on. my nose. my hair. my, well, everything

  SIENNA: you are beautiful inside AND out, and I am obviously not the only one who knows it. ahem, somebody said something about a Rare Beauty?

  me: that’s a bead necklace.

  SIENNA: a what? I don’t think Emmett was talking about a bead necklace. do you have a concussion?

  me: hahaha maybe but seriously

  SIENNA: I am not even a little joking.

  me: about what?

  SIENNA: if Emmett asked you to go see him in the opera tomorrow night with his parents, would you say yes?

  me: just me and his parents? how is that not awkward?

  SIENNA: well, he’d be onstage so . . .

  me: right but . . .

  SIENNA: he said it wouldn’t have to be like a date.

  me: a date?

  SIENNA: I know. unless you wanted it to be a date.

  me: SHUT UP

  SIENNA: well, that’s the message. I’m just passing it along. it doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be. so—will you go? I have to text them back.

  me: them? I mean sure I guess why not

  SIENNA: okay, good, gtg. I’ll just say unclear about if it’s a date, but you’ll go.

  me: Sienna!!!!!!!

  SIENNA: finally found something I can talk about with AJ, on the upside. . . .

  me: you are the worst

  SIENNA: I am the best and you love me.

  me: completely true

  SIENNA: you Rare Beauty, you.

  me: STOP

  52

  IN BOCCA AL LUPO

  If Bret were alive, she’d be twenty-three. She would probably have her own apartment, not live here with me and Mom and Dad. But she’d have come over today; I really think she would have—to make sure the blue dress didn’t look too tight on me and to bring me something better if it did and to tell me if it looks stupid with the scarf Mom thought made it look more elegant. Bret would have brought her makeup bag and winged some liquid black eyeliner on me so I’d look just right. Mom only wears mascara and ChapStick. So that’s what I mostly wear too. Bret might have more going on, makeup-wise.

  She also probably would have told Mom to stop saying things like, “It’s kind of like a first date,” but complimented her on her super-quick repair of my yellow necklace.

  Bret might’ve told us that pants would be a better idea than a dress, because the velvet on the Met’s chairs kept trying to take their mini-bites out of my legs from the moment the dimming crystal chandeliers rose magically up to the high ceiling, and all through the opera, until I just tucked Mom’s scarf under my thighs like a booster seat. Or maybe Bret wouldn’t have been an opera fan, so she wouldn’t know about the intensely scratchy seats ahead of time, and when I got home, I would tell her about that and she’d be like, Good to know, in case she ever got taken to the opera like me.

  And then I would also tell her about sitting next to Emmett’s mom for all those hours, watching Emmett in the opera Rodelinda. He looked like a prince up there. Well, that’s what he was supposed to be: Prince Flavio. Not being weird, but just objectively, he was beautiful. And irresistible. When the bad guy threatened him with a knife, people near us gasped. When the other bad guy threatened him with a gun—for a whole song while the woman playing his mom was singing about, Sure, go ahead, shoot my kid, you terrible!—the whole audience was all like, Wait, no! Don’t shoot the kid!

  When he didn’t, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

  Emmett’s shoes for the costume didn’t have laces, so he didn’t even have the untied thing going on. He looked very glittery up there, and so comfortable. Like he really lived there, instead of in 4C.

  After the opera, we went around the side of the Met and through the stage door to wait for Emmett. It was already almost midnight, and kind of dingy where we waited, not all fancy and good-manners-designer-clothes-and-high-heels like upstairs, inside.

  A bunch of other people came through the heavy slamming door before Emmett did, but eventually he showed up. His parents both gave him hugs, and his mom tried to smooth his hair down. Onstage it had been so shiny and neat, but now it was standy-uppy again, like normal. I would tell Bret, if she were alive, that the standy-uppy-ness of Emmett’s hair was such a relief, because I was scared, waiting there with his parents, that I wouldn’t know how to act in front of him, now that I knew he was kind of a star. But he was Emmett again, when he smiled at me with his hair all in points.

  I stood to the side with his parents, outside the stage door, while he signed some fans’ programs. “I don’t actually have an autograph,” he whispered to me as we crossed Broadway, me clomping in the black pumps. “I just write my name in script, and messy.”

  “Good call,” I whispered back.

  Even though it was after midnight, we went out to get some food at Cafe Fiorello. Emmett
’s mom said she’d gotten the okay from my parents ahead of time: “Don’t worry.” I texted them anyway. Mom texted back: Yes! Have fun!

  We sat at a booth, me and Emmett on one side and his parents on the other. I told him, behind the tall menus, that he was really good in the opera. He thanked me for coming. We were like pretend grown-ups, though only one of us was in fancy clothes by then, with her mother’s scarf stuffed into her purse, because who remembers how to put that thing back on right? The other was in his gray jeans, red hoodie, and untied sneakers.

  “Sorry I’m so stinky,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Really?” he asked. “Because I can fully smell myself, and it’s foul.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty intense,” I admitted.

  He laughed. “Told you. Wanna share profiteroles?”

  “Sure,” I said. I didn’t know what profiteroles were or how to spell that, so I didn’t even know where on the menu to look to check them out, but weirdly my hands were shaking, so I was like, whatever. It’s probably not sautéed liver, which is so far the one thing I really can’t manage to eat, so I just promised myself it would be fine.

  “Do you mind if I go say hi to a friend?” Emmett asked us.

  His parents and I didn’t mind, so he got up and walked across the restaurant aisle to some huge people in a booth by themselves, eating steaks. The woman laughed the most joyous, musical laugh I’ve ever heard, which made me realize she was one of the main people from the opera—the one who played his aunt or something. I may have fallen a tiny bit asleep in a few places, so some of the details of the opera’s plot may have been slightly unclear to me, and also, it was the middle of the night, so things were starting to take on a dreamish quality.

  Emmett pointed back at us. The people eating steaks smiled and waved. They were right out of a Maurice Sendak book. We waved back. The waiter came over as Emmett was slipping back into the booth, and Emmett ordered the profiteroles for us to share and then whispered that the woman is his friend Stephanie something and the guy is her husband and they are amazing. I just listened and nodded while Emmett told us about funny conversations they’ve had and tricks they’ve played on one another backstage.