On Thin Ice

by PJ Sharon

  “School has only been out for a week and you’ve already been late three times. I’ve given you the privilege of driving the car and I expect you to be responsible. I don’t need to be worrying about where you are at night.”

  I snapped my head up, noticing the clock about to hit midnight. How had I not known the time? I always knew what time it was—like I had a clock ticking in my head that measured my life in tiny increments, seconds and minutes that passed by and disappeared into some abyss. Was I becoming someone else? Someone, even I wouldn’t recognize? I had no real defense for being an hour past curfew. None that would take that disapproving look off my mother’s face. I couldn’t say I was making sure my drunken friend Sami got home safely, or that I didn’t want to leave her at a party with a guy that wanted to get in her pants. Sami had called me for a ride and I couldn’t say no. What kind of friend would I be if I had said no? If I told my mother the truth, she would only remind me to find a new best friend and that my responsibilities were here at home—as if I needed reminding of my responsibilities.

  My mother’s diagnosis of cancer five years ago had changed our lives completely. Yet here I was in the same dingy kitchen, looking at the same old clock, sucking in the same second hand smoke and wanting to throw up. The moments that had ended my childhood flashed in the face of the clock as the minute hand ticked past the top of the hour and I sunk the dirty dishes into the hot water.

  ∞∞∞

  “I have lung cancer, Sweet Pea,” Mom had told me on a summer’s day when I was twelve. Then she stomped out her cigarette in the nearly full ashtray and let out a stream of smoke. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to die.” I remember she had sipped her coffee and stared at me from across the round oak table, a sturdy antique passed down through four generations that had come all the way from Italy. Scattered burn marks, old food stains, and deep dark knife grooves decorated the distressed surface of the table like tattoos —proof that age and scars added character.

  Mom said, “Everything will be fine, I promise.”

  If I had to say when the lies started, that was the moment. It was also that moment that I realized where I’d gotten my persistent optimism, and with her next sentence where my knack for sarcasm had come from.

  “I guess that’s what I get for twenty-five years of two packs a day,” she’d said, her chocolate brown eyes turning misty and sad.

  My world tipped upside down and had not been right side up since.

  I should’ve been used to death and loss by then. When I was ten, Grandpa Fred Giordano, who had lived with us since I was born and had been like a nanny to me, had died quietly in his bed at the crusty old age of ninety. My grandfather taught me to read and write by the time I was five, and had instilled in me the virtues of a clean and orderly home, a concept in direct opposition to Mom’s love of clutter, knick-knacks, and chaos.

  When I found him, I thought he was sleeping. I’d been sitting next to his bed for over an hour waiting for him to wake up before Mom came into the room and discovered me reading out loud from his worn copy of CALL OF THE WILD. That was over seven years ago and I still missed him and his words of wisdom. I missed his gentle pats on my head. I missed rocking together in our matching rockers and watching exercise programs on TV. I missed his affectionate hugs and the silly jokes I’d never understood. I guess no one ever gets used to death and loss.

  Before I could adjust my compass, the rest of my family dwindled away, leaving gaping holes in the landscape of everyday life. My three sisters had flown the coop one by one, a chirping flock of birds headed for less troublesome skies. Rachael got married and moved away, Marie had entered a convent, and Sarah left for college. None of them had returned home for more than a brief visit. I had come along seven years after Sarah was born, and I was obviously a mistake. Unplanned, Mom called it. If I dared to ask him, I would bet my father would have agreed.

  On the upside, I finally had my own room, lots of hand me down clothes, and no line for the bathroom. Being the last of four girls living at home had its perks. However, being left behind to care for a sick mother wasn’t one of them.

  The dish water cooled and my hands turned pruny by the time I was brought back to the moment. Mom coughed—a harsh barking sound like a seal that jarred me to attention. A deep rumbling spasm wracked her body and made me shudder. The kitchen became quiet then, the only sound the second hand of the clock ticking on and the sloshing of water as I silently scrubbed the plates clean.

  Silence never lasted long when Mom was on a roll. “You’re only seventeen, and if you want to be treated like an adult, act like one.” She coughed and gagged again as she reached a shaky hand toward her coffee cup. Removing the lower lobe of her left lung hadn’t stopped the cancer from spreading. Neither had the three years of hospitals or all of the chemo-therapy that had stolen her hair and thirty pounds off her body. Six months ago, the cancer returned and metastasized to her brain—inoperable, the doctors said. She was only forty-seven. Brain tumors can affect vision and balance. No more driving. I’d been so excited when I passed my driver’s test, but now, not so much. It seemed that Dad had an ulterior motive for teaching me how to drive. Overnight, I found myself in charge of most of the household errands.

  She flicked the long ash off the end of her cigarette, recovered her breath, and gave me her sternest scowl before she continued. As if she’d heard my thoughts, she said, “I can ground you, and I will. You seem to think you’re in charge around here lately. I’m still your mother, and as long as I’m alive and you’re living in this house, you will do as I say. Is that understood?”

  I snickered inwardly at the irony, stared out the window into the dark, and thought of ways to lie or bargain my way out of prison. Not that it mattered. Escape was not an option. All I could do was endure the tirade and wait for it to pass. Besides, she would probably forget by tomorrow that she’d grounded me. Brain tumors can affect memory, speech, and co-ordination. I nodded and swallowed hard.

  Mom continued the lecture but my brain disconnected. I stared at my shriveled and raw cuticles and tried to think about how she used to be, but I was unable to picture a time when cancer wasn’t a part of her—a part of us. The sick, irrational, angry woman at the table was not my mother. I occasionally caught glimpses, but I had given up expecting to see someone I recognized. The disappointment alone had turned my heart to ice, an impenetrable block that preserved the few perfect memories I kept locked away. If I saw her as my mother, it would all be too real. The hollow cheeks, pasty skin and the nearly bald head made me think of the pictures I’d seen of prisoners of war in a concentration camp. My throat closed to stop the bile from rising up and my mind went somewhere else. I rinsed the suds from a pot and set it on the dishtowel to dry. I had a moment to wonder if I’d been dumped here by some alien to test the limits of human patience and compassion. Sometimes it was hard to imagine my parents were really my parents.

  I’d inherited Mom’s olive complexion, brown wavy hair and deep brown eyes, our Italian Giordano half of the gene pool. I didn’t have much of her mother’s Irish Duggan side, other than a sprinkling of freckles and a touch of her empathetic nature. I looked nothing like my dad, who had hard lines etched into his brow and a beak of a nose I was glad I’d been spared. I figured I landed with mostly Mom’s genes since we looked so much alike—at least, we used to. Now, all we had in common was stubbornness and weight loss.

  Her tirade had ended and the silence brought me back again. Brain tumors can cause blackouts and seizures. Did I have a brain tumor too? My ability to concentrate and be present in the moment was seriously impaired. Anger rode to the surface as I watched her take another drag off her Winston.

  “If you ground me, does that mean I don’t have to go grocery shopping tomorrow?” I had taken over the grocery runs since Dad’s idea of a healthy meal consisted of liver and onions, buttered egg noodles and canned peas, food not fit for human consumption. “Or I suppose we could just starve,” I added. Sarc
asm is a coping mechanism to hide anger, my guidance counselor once said.

  “Don’t be a wise-ass, Penelope,” she said, eyeing me coolly. Then she added in a softer voice, “I was worried about you.”

  I clamped my teeth shut. Worried I had run away, maybe. Dad barely got himself to work and handled doctor’s appointments. Sarah only drove in from the city once a month. There was Celia, the home health aide, a robust black woman with a thick Jamaican accent who came to help out with bathing a few times a week, but I was on the front lines. Laundry, cleaning up puke, and food prep were on my duty list. Did she really not have any idea how much I did? In my spare time, I vacuumed, dusted, and washed dishes. Yup, Cinderella on speed, that was me.

  I wiped the counters down, scrubbing more vigorously than was necessary, my mind spinning with confused emotions.

  With my weekend job, a grueling course of AP classes, and a fifteen to twenty hour a week skating schedule, I needed more than a fairy godmother’s magic wand to make my life manageable. Couldn’t Mom see what I was going through? Clenching my teeth brought on the start of a headache. I forced my jaw to relax and sighed. At least school was out for the summer—one less time sucking responsibility.

  How much more did she expect of me? I had come home after skating that afternoon, made dinner and then went to work. Why did she have to make such a big deal about curfew? Hadn’t I earned a little freedom? I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say any of what I was thinking. My stomach churned and fatigue made my bones ache. I finished drying and putting the last pot in the cabinet before turning to face my mother.

  With a plastered on version of my skater’s smile and eyes filled with innocence, I said, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll try harder. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  Perfect Penny whispered in my ear. My stomach cramped.

  Mom’s shoulders slouched in defeat and her eyes filled with tears. “I love you, and I only want what’s best for you, Sweet Pea. I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I made.”

  The cold that built inside me grew bigger and became a softball sized mass of ice in my gut. I didn’t want to hear about what a mistake I’d been. It wasn’t my fault she hadn’t finished school, that she’d married the wrong guy, had too many kids...whatever. I stuffed the urge to cling to the insult when it hit me again that she was going to die—soon. A heavy and familiar spike of fear gripped and squeezed my heart.

  Tears trickled down my throat, burning to get out. “I know you love me. I’m okay, Mom, really. You don’t need to worry about me.” I said what she needed to hear. The kindest form of lying I knew.

  “I want you to do something for me, Penny.” She set down her cigarette and a swirl of smoke rose up between us. “I want you to go on and live your life. Be successful. Put your heart and soul into everything you do.” Tears spilled over and her voice became barely a whisper.

  “Don’t talk like that, Mom.” I hung the dish towel over the edge of the sink.

  Her face hardened with purpose, her shoulders straightening. “Make every day count—promise me.” I saw the desperation in her eyes and a sharp pain tore through my chest sending a splintering crack across the ice.

  I hesitated, my voice small and unsure, “I will. I promise.”

  She let out a breath and her shoulders slumped again. “I know you will. You’re a good girl, Penny. You’re smarter than I was.” A tired smile curled her lips as she pushed up from the table with considerable effort. “If you still want to sleep over Sami’s this weekend, your grounding will be over by then.”

  She left me alone in the kitchen, coffee pot still on, and a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday was Celia’s day at the house, so I had the whole day off after making Mom breakfast and rushing off to skate for a few hours. I didn’t see the mysterious hockey guy again and nobody at the rink seemed to know him. Since I nearly plowed him over, I hadn’t been able to think of much else and I hoped I hadn’t missed my chance. Not that I ever had time for a boyfriend, but the new idea put a spark of life into me I hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of hope in something good waiting around the corner.

  I had all but given up on the idea of meeting anyone special enough to make the effort. The neighborhood boys and guys from school seemed so immature. I guess my life experiences had aged me in some way, as if I were on the accelerated plan for emotional growth. An old soul, Grandpa Fred had called me.

  I sighed at the unlikelihood that I would find happiness in some relationship with a guy I didn’t know and might never see again, not that I needed the complications of a romance at this point. If it was meant to work out, it would. I couldn’t get my hopes up for possibilities that were out of my control. Living life in the moment was a promise Mom and I had made to each other when she decided to stop chemo. “Enjoy all of the little miracles life has to offer,” she’d said. “Everything happens in its own perfect timing.”

  As I suspected, Mom either let the grounding go, or forgot about it, because she didn’t say anything when I said I was going to Sami’s after skating.

  So there I was, enjoying a brief respite from my life as a caretaker. I kicked back in the plastic chair, lifting the front legs off the ground and putting my feet up on the splintered railing. It felt good to relax, the sun beating down warmly on my face. My first real summer day, and the sky was filled with white, fluffy clouds floating on a sea of blue.

  “Check out the hottie!” Sami leaned against the post staring across the street, a look coming over her face that made the hair on my arms stand to attention. I had other friends I knew from school, but Sami and Katie were my crew. We had been together since kindergarten—a friendship forged from our proximity as neighbors and classmates more than stuff we had in common. We couldn’t be any different.

  “Which one?” I popped my head up, peering over the railing of Sami’s front porch at number twenty-two Barrett Street. Katie leaned forward to see who our flirty friend was mooning over this time. In the driveway of the green cape on the corner at number twenty-seven, three guys stooped, heads together under the hood of a Classic ‘69 Nova. I couldn’t help noticing the shiny metallic blue paint of the muscle car. Hmmm, my favorite color.

  Cars were one thing my dad and I had in common. I’d spent many Sundays after church assisting him with car repairs, being a gopher, and handing him tools while he instructed me in the importance of automotive maintenance. Maybe knowing the difference between a carburetor and a distributor cap would finally have some practical application.

  “You see the one with the gray tank top and the cute butt?” Sami eyed the guy with shoulders like a linebacker who wore baggy jeans that revealed half his boxers. She licked her lips and sighed, “Mm.”

  “You mean the big guy?” I asked. “Your mom would freak.”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” She laughed, pulling a Marlboro Menthol from the pack and then stuffing the box back into her purse.

  I cringed at the thought of her lighting up. “Unlike those nasty things,” I crinkled my nose at her. As usual, Sami ignored me, though I knew she felt bad flaunting my mother’s killer in my face. I of all people, knew how addictive nicotine was. So instead of making another useless and unwelcomed comment, I made a face at her. She shrugged and stuck the cigarette between her lips.

  A faded plaid flannel hung off her shoulder, covering her tight, black tank top. Even though Sami habitually wore dark, heavy clothing, she always managed to reveal some serious boobs. I sat up straighter, self-conscious that my plain tee made my chest look flatter.

  “Besides, I like ‘em big and bulky like that,” she added in a muffled tone as the cigarette bobbed up and down.

  “I wasn’t necessarily referring to his size.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”

  “They all are.” Katie chimed in, eyeing us both severely and adjusting her shorts, pulling the hem
s down to an inch above her knees. Why someone with long gorgeous legs would try so hard to hide them was beyond me. I guess we all had our hang-ups. “Stop gawking at them and mind your business,” she added.

  Sami flashed her a dirty look. “School’s out; lighten up Kat. It’s summertime, and I, for one, plan to make the most of it.” She flipped her hair off her shoulders and reached in her bag for a lip gloss, the unlit butt now stuck between her fingers. “Really, Kat, live a little.” She puckered, ran the pink shimmer over her lips, and then tucked it back into her purse. “Besides, boys are my business.”

  Katie turned to me, pouting at the implied insult. She put up with Sami’s nickname of ‘Kat’, but her patience wore thin when it came to prowling for guys. “Pen, are you just going to sit there and let her lead us into another hornet’s nest?”

  I raised a brow at her reference to an unfortunate bee incident that occurred when Sami convinced us to throw rocks at a log down by the river when we were ten. I took another peek at the three guys, still bent over the car and showing a considerable amount of plaid boxers. “Sami’s got a point. It is summer. And they look harmless enough. It wouldn’t hurt to welcome them to the neighborhood.”

  Sami nodded and smiled, clearly pleased I had taken her side.

  Katie chewed the side of her thumb, her eyes disappearing behind a thick curl of red hair. Maybe she’d spent too much time in catechism class, or heard too many of her mother’s sermons about the evils of “cavorting with boys”, but Katie shriveled at the very idea of dating, much to the disappointment of most of our junior class males. Sami, who hadn’t suffered under the heavy thumb of a religious upbringing, lived every moment like it was her last—probably because she’d seen enough tragedy to last most people a lifetime.