“Mom?” I call out. No sign of her.
Not in the kitchen. I hear a noise in the bathroom.
“Mom?” I tap on the door and listen.
“Come in!” She’s in the bath, letting it all hang out.
I look at the toilet. “We’re home now.”
“Isabelle, will you get me another?” She waves the empty in my direction.
“No, Mom. I’m leaving for work now. You need to come out.” I pull the plug and hand her a towel. Get her bathrobe. She leans against my shoulder on the way out to the living room.
“Maisie, you’re just like a bunny rabbit in that pink shirt. Do you have a hug for Mom?”
She’s gone, the mom I saw this morning. I close my eyes and take a picture of that memory. Tuck it away with Will’s poem.
*
In English, Celeste doesn’t look at me at all. She stares at her desk or talks to the girl in front of her until the bell rings. Never once turns toward the back half of the class. Fine by me. She started this whole mess by eavesdropping, but I believe she never wanted to do the poem thing. I guess if you actually have friends and some kind of status, you might fight to hold on to that. I’ll never like her, but I’ve put away my plans to make a voodoo doll in her image.
Mr. Drummond catches me on the way out of class. “Isabelle,” he says, “I trust yours was the Shakespeare. Good choice.”
Right. My poem. “Yes, that was mine.”
He cocks his head, sad smile. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
I nod, looking down. Silently apologize for blaming him.
“Not only was it inappropriate,” he says, “but it was a terrible poem. Really, really bad literature.” I smile. “Don’t let it get you down. There will always be some idiot.”
As I walk out the door, he calls after me, “From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!”
The rest of the week is more of the same. Looking over my shoulder as I walk, pretending I don’t notice eyes on me. Random strangers telling me how wrong that was. Others hiding their mouths as they lean toward friends. I move around the school like a mouse, ducking into holes and shadows.
Still, there’s Will, his feet against mine under our desks in English. His hand in mine in the library. I look for his face as soon as I pull open those school doors, and there he is.
On Friday he asks, “Can I see you outside of here? I have to go to my dad’s on the weekends, but what about during the week?”
What, fugitive love in the library isn’t enough? “I don’t know,” I say. “It’s hard with me looking after my brother and sister.”
“What about after school?”
“I pick up Maisie from school and Evan from day care.”
“In the evening?”
“I’m with them when my mom goes to work.”
“Does she get a night off?”
I’ll give it to the boy—he is persistent.
“Sometimes, though she’s not always in any shape to look after them.” That’s all I say about Mom. It’s already too much. She’s been pretty good lately, but it’s hard to count on.
“You could bring them along,” he suggests, and we start laughing. Ms. Hillary darts out from behind a shelf. Actually, there are worse things I can imagine than spending an evening with Will, Maisie and Evan.
“It’s just hard,” he says, looking down at the table. He’s not used to darting for cover, hiding in a hole. For me, sneaky hand-holding in the library is living the good life. Again, fitting Will into my world seems impossible. Why do I tease myself? My usual high with him deflates, and I can’t shake the feeling.
I run into Ainsley and Pole Dancer that same afternoon, moving from Biology to Spanish. They’re never in that hallway, but boom. Face to face.
“Look, Janine,” Ainsley says in a singsong voice, “it’s still here.”
Pole Dancer throws back her head and cackles, which probably cracks her three inches of foundation.
I pretend I haven’t heard and step around them.
Ainsley calls after me, “Sorry for embarrassing you in front of the whole school with your little family secrets!”
“Sorry your mom is a drunk and dropped you on your head,” Pole Dancer joins in.
“Or on your face!” Ainsley says, and they both snicker.
I will not give them the satisfaction of even missing a step.
*
It must be the day for awkward conversations, because Mom calls me into the bedroom as soon as I get home.
Bright face. Getting fixed up for work. She has me sit on the bed, which always makes me nervous. Is this about the boyfriends again? Is she going to give me “the sex talk”?
“Isabelle,” she says, “I’m seeing someone new.”
SEVENTEEN
“What?” is all I manage. Didn’t see this coming.
“His name is Oliver.” She says Oliver like it’s something delicious. “I met him at work.”
This is not good. Should I skip all the drama and just call Child and Family Services now?
“I know what you’re thinking, but he’s very different from”—she clears her throat—“Claude.”
I stare in silence.
“You’ll like him!” she says, cheery bright. Translation: I want you to like him. I hate it when people talk that way.
“I highly doubt that, Mother. Who is he?”
“Well, he has a job helping customers over the phone, and he takes care of his parents, who are getting older.” Translation: He works in a call center and lives with his parents. Still, I’ll take that over an alcoholic sociopath. “He comes to see me every night at the bar. Very sweet.”
If all of this is true, the poor fool has no idea what he’s getting himself into. “What about us?” I say. “Does he know you have kids?”
“Yes. He loves kids but hasn’t had a chance to have any of his own—hasn’t met the right girl yet.” She gets a dreamy look when she says this and rummages for a pair of earrings. Of course he loves kids. And probably volunteers in soup kitchens and rescues orphaned puppies in his spare time.
“The best part is”—wait, there’s more?—“he wants to stop by on Thanksgiving to meet you kids.” That’s the best part?
“I thought we couldn’t afford a turkey this year.” That’s all I’ve got.
“Oh, it’ll just be a little lunch. He’s bringing some salads and cold cuts. I’m sure we could manage a pumpkin pie, right?” We purposely didn’t make plans for Thanksgiving this year. Mom said it was because of money, and she’s not wrong. I think it’s more about Maisie’s birthday fiasco, and letting things settle. We haven’t heard from Uncle Richie since then.
I feel like saying, Fine, then I’m bringing my boyfriend too. Will would probably be thrilled to see me outside the library. But is he even my boyfriend? It would be a lot of weirdness all at once. I don’t say anything.
*
On Monday the boyfriend stops by. Oliver. Exactly how I pictured him. A few years older than mom, a little doughy. Hair thinning across the top. Wearing a striped button-up shirt. Wide smile, crooked teeth.
“You must be Isabelle,” he says, shaking my hand.
He walks in and starts unloading a bag on the kitchen table. Mom walks by, and he catches her in his arms. “Hello, gorgeous.” Gives her a kiss on the neck. I shudder.
“I brought corned beef. You like that, Isabelle? Potato salad, pasta salad. I bet those little ones like pasta salad,” he goes on. I’m not sure what about those little ones gave him the impression they like pasta salad.
Maisie and Evan stand two feet away, completely silent, watching like it’s a puppet show in the mall. I don’t think Evan really remembers Claude, his dad. I know Maisie does, although she doesn’t say much. Sometimes she asks me where he went, always afraid of him. Still, she’s never seen another man touch her mother like this.
When he’s done unpacking, Mom bustles off to get some plates. Oliver joins me on the sofa. �
��Your mom’s so beautiful,” he says, like he’s paying me a compliment. I’m not sure why men tell me that. “The first time I saw her, I thought I was looking at an angel. Isn’t that right, Marnie?”
“Oh, go on.” She giggles. I definitely made a mistake not inviting Will. Or Jacquie. Someone I could escape with. Now I’m here, stuck in this middle-aged-love scene. At least we didn’t cook a turkey. Those meals take hours.
As it turns out, Mom and Oliver possess the rare gift of stretching out sandwiches and potato salad to last for hours.
“Tell Isabelle about the time you tried to rent the car in Mexico,” Mom says, patting his leg.
“So I was in Mexico—Puerta Vallarta, to be exact—and wanted to rent a car. Something nice, you know? And I wanted air-conditioning. You definitely need air-conditioning…” Here we go, another delightful tale from Oliver. Maisie and Evan have wandered off to their room very quietly. “…and he comes out with this Chevette. A Chevette! Have you ever driven one of those? Now I don’t mean the ones built around 1979, 1980—those weren’t too bad. Do you have a driver’s license, Isabelle?” He rambles on without waiting for an answer.
Somebody kill me now. This is absolute torture. Then I remember Claude, squeezing Mom’s wrist in his hand, and Oliver doesn’t look so bad. Plus, she’s only had one drink this whole afternoon—too busy hanging off his every word.
Oliver’s visit is one fascinating story after another: the time he wrestled a policeman, got the chicken pox, threw up at his best friend’s wedding, performed CPR on accident victims. I’m wondering if she gets any work done at all when he comes to see her.
He finally looks at his watch and jumps. “All this chatting has made me late,” he says, like we were the ones keeping him here. “Mom needs her heart pills.”
He gets out of his chair and stands close to me. I’m scared he’s going to hug me, but he pats my shoulder instead. “You really are the special girl your mom talks about.” He hollers down the hall, “Bye, kids!”
Mom walks him to the door, and I hear some loud smacking noises. I pretend to be somewhere else. Can’t wait to tell Jacquie about this visit. I think it might be lost on Will—he’s too nice.
Mom comes back all breathless. “You see what I mean?” she says. “Now there’s a real gentleman.”
When I don’t say anything, she turns to me. “You didn’t like him?”
“He’s all right,” I say. That’s the best I can do. Mom once said about Claude, A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where can they make their home? Personally, I think they were both fish splashing around in the same dirty puddle. Two budgies fighting over one mirror. Now, her and Oliver—there’s a bird and a fish. At least I have no illusions about my relationship actually functioning outside my head. “I just need to get used to you being with someone again,” I add.
“Okay.” She kisses the top of my head and goes to find Maisie and Evan.
*
On Tuesday I tell Will about my Thanksgiving. He gets a good laugh from my retelling of “Oliver Saves the Neighbor’s Dog,” in which Oliver claimed to have performed chest compressions on a golden retriever.
“I was at my mom’s house this year,” he says. “Nothing exciting. My aunt and uncle came over.” Will’s parents are divorced, but in a normal, shared-custody sort of way. Not like my dad or Claude. Will lives with his mom and spends weekends with his dad. Has grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. A dog.
He points to a poster as we leave the library. It’s for the Halloween Howler—the first dance of the year.
“Are you going to that?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.” I don’t know my life more than five minutes in advance. Why does he even ask?
“Maybe we can go together,” he says.
“Maybe.”
“And wear matching costumes,” he says, “like Raggedy Ann and Andy.”
I look up at him. “Shut up. Frankenstein and the Corpse Bride, more like.”
We spend the next two days thinking up stupid couples costumes, somehow getting stuck on toiletries. Shampoo and conditioner, I scribble on a note to Will in English class.
“Dental floss and that gunk between your teeth,” he suggests at lunchtime.
“Ew. You get to be the gunk.”
“Leg hair and a razor,” I say outside after school. It’s sunny but crisp, trees half naked now. A few scrappy leaves still clinging on. Groups milling, cars honking for rides.
Will laughs and pulls me toward him, my chest against his. I stiffen, pushing back until we’re side by side again. I look toward the girls sitting on the grass in front of us. He stops.
“You’re embarrassed to be seen with me,” he says.
Now they look up. I take his arm and drag him over to the hedge by the school.
“What are you talking about? Of course I’m not.” The sweetness of the moment is gone. If anyone’s embarrassed, it should be him—hooking up with the drunk-spawned, dump-living whore.
“You don’t mind me touching you when we’re in the library or the prop room, where no one else can see,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “Not anywhere else.”
“It’s not what you think.” Excellent cliché, Isabelle. Next I’ll be telling him, It’s not you—it’s me.
“You’re embarrassed.” A crease in his forehead. That crumpled look on his face. I did that. Sick sinking in my gut.
“It’s just—” How can I possibly explain it, that I can never bring him home to Crazyland? That I’ll have to pack up and leave any day now? Here, then gone. That life with me is not knowing what’s going to happen from one day to the next, one moment to the next. It’s changing wet beds and trying to feed mouths and running. How can Will—who explained to me the properties of cadmium—possibly fit into that world?
He waits for me to finish, his face a cloud.
“I don’t think this is going to work,” I say. Which says nothing. Which are stupid words that hold the lid on a big fat mess. I open my mouth to say more, to explain, but nothing comes.
He nods, staring at his feet now. His boat-size runners with the red stripes. Hands in the pockets of his slouchy jeans. “Okay, I get it.” He turns and walks away, stooped.
I’ve lost him in two break-up clichés. There is a special hell reserved for people like me.
Don’t move, Isabelle. Don’t chase after that blue T-shirt weaving through the crowd. Because I’ve always known. I let it go too far, as if being with him in dark places didn’t count. But here, in the light of the sun, in the eyes of everyone—then we’d be official. Then we’d be something. And to lose that something, that would hurt. Even more than this hurts now.
I hold my breath to push down the rising knot. Turn and walk down the path, across the street, through the doors. Walk on.
Maisie looks at my face. “Did that girl hurt you again?”
“No, let’s go.”
I turn away from her on the bus, my forehead against the tinted window.
*
Days lose their color, like oatmeal left on the counter overnight. Bland. Crusty. One congealed mass. School is a crowd of muffled voices at the end of a tunnel. Every eye on me pricks my skin.
In English class, Will always glances up as I sit down, says, “Hey.” I’ll give him that. Then he goes back to his book. It’s the best and worst part of the day. When I swing my backpack to the floor, the second before I slide into my seat, I see the arch of hair that ends below his eye. Long fingers along the spine of the book. But I’m in my compartment, and he’s in his. No gangly feet under my desk.
Why did I say anything? I had to. Then I’m angry at Will for pushing me, making that happen when things were fine the way they were. Stupid. Like I could ask him to go on forever in an ambiguous blob of a relationship. I should say something to him, but what? It all sounds like excuses. It’s not you, it’s me.
Mr. Drummond gives up on calling on either one of us—an exercise in painful silence. Hamlet finished,
he reads Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” aloud, moving between pensive whispers and a booming voice when the wife realizes her husband’s death means her freedom.
He pauses to scan our faces. “What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! ‘Free! Body and soul free!’ she kept whispering.”
I think of Maisie and Evan—even Mom. What could love count for in the face of freedom? Apparently a lot. Or I wouldn’t still be here, in this hellhole, playing mommy around the clock. Spending my paychecks on bread and coins for the laundry. Take that, Kate Chopin.
*
It’s even worse since Mom started seeing Oliver. Better and worse. She’s sober a lot more and actually goes to work. Giddy, tickling us, swatting bums. Making plans.
“Maybe we could get one of those dividers for the bedroom, Isabelle,” she says, “so you have a little more privacy. I’m going to start putting aside some tip money.” I hope that doesn’t mean Oliver will be staying overnight. Instantly I banish the image. Not fast enough.
He takes her out on her nights off, which pisses me off. She might be more sober now, but she’s never actually around anymore.
“Good thing I like you, kid,” I tell Maisie, who smiles, touching her now-loose bottom tooth.
“What would happen if you didn’t like Maisie?” Evan says, who asks a lot of “why” and “what if” questions lately.
“Then I’d leave her in the lobby for the guy in the bathrobe to look after.” They both squeal, Evan clambering onto my lap.
Oliver usually wants to come up and say hello before they go out. I try not to roll my eyes. Sometimes I succeed. Mom catches me tonight and says, “Why that face? Oliver likes you.” When that doesn’t impress much, she adds, “Would you rather I was still with Claude?” I’ve got nothing to say to that.
“Isabelle, Isabelle!” Oliver bursts in like there’s a matter of national security. “I was by the motor vehicles branch today and picked up this booklet for your learner’s test.”
Because we have a car?
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