Effortless With You

by Lizzy Charles

  “See,” she says to Justin, “brave girl.”

  I flinch as the cool moisture hits my skin. I cringe and close my eyes as the burning penetrates the cuts. The burning intensifies as the air bites at my palms. I suck in my lower lip. Justin’s hand squeezes my shoulder. I want to shake it away. This needs to stop. My heart aches.

  A dry cloth pats my skin and the burning subsides. “There,” the woman says. She places a piece of gauze over each palm and bandages my fingers before wrapping each hand with an ace bandage. “This is a little bulky but it will do for now.” She smiles down at me, “You’ll need to stop in at the doctor to get some ointment and better bandaging. You may need stitches on the long cuts.” Sirens blare next to the truck as a police car pulls up. “I need to go report my wreck,” she says as she opens the door.

  “Thank you,” I offer.

  “No problem. I gladly serve the brave my dear.” She smiles at me. “And you,” she looks at Justin, “be more aware. She deserves it.”

  “Of course,” Justin jumps out of the driver’s side and back into the rain, where he helps the woman out of the truck. I wave goodbye as I slide down onto the passenger seat. I examine my bandages. They look like very ugly oven mitts.

  I greet Justin with a clumsy wave as he climbs back in.

  “Lucy,” he begins.

  I put my hand up for him to stop. I can’t let him tell me how he feels. I don’t need more of a reason to like him or dislike him, depending on the direction he takes. I rush through his apology for him. “I know. You’re sorry. Don’t beat yourself up about it.” I wave my clumsy hands again in his direction and smile. “I’ve got a new set of boxing gloves. I can do it for you.” He doesn’t crack a smile. “For real though. You’re forgiven. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Remember, today was way better than yesterday.” I roll my eyes dramatically. Justin’s chuckle rewards me.

  “Lucy, that’s not saying much. Nothing was worse for you than yesterday.”

  “Nope. Not true.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was worse off the day before, remember? I just didn’t know it yet.” I smile at him, teasing him about our earlier conversation. He doesn’t respond so I try another approach. “So, can I ask you a question?”

  “You don’t need to ask permission.”

  “Good. Just checking.” I hold up my bandaged hands. “Can I have the day off tomorrow? Doubt I can paint like this.” Wiggling my fingers, I ignore the resulting pain.

  Justin turns to me and laughs, “Sure, you can have two days off.”

  “For real?”

  “Why not?” Justin looks over at me and flashes his mischievous smile. “Joke’s on you though.”

  “Why?”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My parents freak out when I arrive home in bandages. I explain my story, eyeing Justin to leave out all of his guilty details. If I want to keep painting, I have to convince my parents that this was entirely my fault. They buy my story without question. Mom thanks Justin a million times before Dad insists we leave for the doctor. She invites Justin to come with. He declines, explaining he has already made dinner commitments.

  But she won’t take no for an answer. “Please stay. You rescued our daughter again. She’s been too much trouble for you, Justin. Come with us to the doctor and we’ll take you out to dinner.”

  Justin shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Zwindler, but I can’t. It sounds lovely but I have a dinner date with my girlfriend tonight.”

  Jennifer. A perfect gut punch.

  I hold my smile steady as my heart deflates.

  “Fine.” Mom laughs. “I see you can’t be persuaded.” She looks over at me and back at Justin. “You need to find Lucy a guy like you. After what that Zach boy did to her, she needs someone great.”

  “Mom,” I interject. She holds out her hand to silence me.

  “No, Lucy. Let me speak.” She turns back to Justin. “Good guys usually have good friends. Match her up, will you? After what she’s been through, she could use a good date.” Mom giggles as she leads Justin to the door. “Think about it. We welcome anyone you bring through this door.”

  “Mom. You aren’t arranging a marriage. Let him leave.” I stand up, forcing a smile in Justin’s direction. “Have a nice date with Jennifer tonight,” I add, proving to him that I am satisfied with our friendship.

  He waves goodbye before closing the door behind him. A large part of me protests at his absence. But that part can wait. My blood churns and I swing around, glaring at Mom. “Was that really necessary?” I snap.

  “What, honey?”

  “You know what. Here I am your bleeding, injured daughter, sitting in your living room. And, what do you do? Try to get me a date!” I stand up abruptly, crossing the room toward the stairway.

  “Be careful,” Dad urges from the couch.

  “No! Shouldn’t she have the decency to know what is appropriate?” I turn back to Mom. “Are you determined to humiliate me every chance you get?”

  Mom steps in front of me, blocking my exit. “Lucy, be reasonable. I was only opening a door—”

  “To what, Mom? Another humiliating saga of my life? Give me a break! I was cheated on yesterday. Trust me, that wound is fresh enough without you pouring alcohol in it.” I push past her and walk up the stairs. “If you don’t care about me enough to notice those wounds, then I can’t expect you to really care about these.” I wave my clunky bandaged hands.

  We glare at one another. My labored breathing is the only sound in the room. I refuse to move my eyes from hers. I’m not backing down. Dad moves toward Mom and grabs her hand. She shakes it away before storming out of the room, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

  “Lucy, you need to see a doctor,” Dad insists.

  “Not with her.”

  Dad shakes his head, always refusing to choose sides. He pulls his keys and wallet from his pocket, holding them out to me. “Then go on your own. But at least go.”

  “Fine.” I snatch the keys out of his hands. I glare back at the kitchen door. “Why, Dad? Why did she have to do that?”

  “She cares about you,” he offers.

  “Well, she has a wicked way of showing it.” I walk past him. He snatches my arm pulling me around to face him.

  “Listen. I know you don’t get along with your mother right now but you don’t have to go out of your way to intentionally hurt her. We didn’t raise you that way.”

  “Sure, Dad. Whatever. I’ll stop intentionally hurting her when she stops doing the same to me.”

  “You know she isn’t being intentional.” He takes a deep breath, “Your mother’s off the mark sometimes, you know?”

  “Right. That’s the nice way to put it, Dad. She’s a lunatic. I’ve never known her another way.” A gasp comes from behind the kitchen door. I don’t care.

  I try to wiggle my arm loose from Dad’s grip. He tightens it. “Get out of here, Lucy. And don’t come back until your head is on straight. Try having a real conversation with your mother and I sometime. Without the snark.” He shakes his head, disappointed. “I’m serious. Don’t walk back in this house without compassion for your family. You aren’t welcome here if you can’t learn forgiveness and understanding.”

  “But Dad, you know she’s being completely unreasonable. I mean … who does that?”

  “That may be true. But let’s discuss it. Not yell at one another. We’re always open to a real conversation about our relationship with you.” He nods toward my hands, “Good luck at the doctor. I hope you’ll join us later.”

  He flips off the light and swings open the kitchen door to find Mom. I stand alone in the dark with his car keys and wallet resting on my bandaged hands. I fumble with the door handle, holding back more tears. It seems like I’m always crying lately. At least it’s an improvement over barfing.

  I turn the ignition in Dad’s car and peal out of the driv
eway. Why does Mom have to be so cruel? Does she really think a good boyfriend will solve everything? Just magically fix the betrayal I felt the day before? And pleading to Justin to get me a date. It’s as if she was created to ruin me.

  I can’t handle her anymore.

  A few cars sit scattered in the urgent care parking lot. I blot the wetness from under my eyes. I guess it doesn’t really matter what I look like anymore. When I enter the building, a nurse glances up from her desk, drops her pen and rushes to my side.

  I knew I looked horrendous.

  She directs me into a back room where I wait for the doctor. She probably misinterprets my crazed appearance as shock from my injury. The fluorescent lights hum above me and hurt my eyes. I swing my legs back and forth with my eyes closed.

  This day needs to end.

  The doctor examines my hand, remarking how beautifully the wounds have already been cleaned. He suggests stitches on the two deep cuts, leaving the decision up to me. He tells me I am going to scar either way, so I might want the scars to align.

  After my day, the thought of someone sewing my flesh together doesn’t seem so bad. I shrug, handing him my palm as I grimace into my shoulder. He quickly sews me up before sending a nurse in to finish bandaging my palms. I leave urgent care with flexible and less glove-like bandages. I drive aimlessly, not yet ready to go home per Dad’s standards or my own.

  Why does Mom always have to be so awkward? Why can’t she understand that she is socially inappropriate? I have tried approaching her calmly, with concern. I have tried ignoring her. I have tried yelling at her. She never gets it.

  I pull the car into an empty parking lot. How can Dad expect me to find compassion for her? She doesn’t seem to have any for me. I lean my head against the steering wheel, remembering her hand on my leg the night before, my packed lunch in the fridge, and her look of worry as I walked through the door this evening.

  I relent. I don’t have enough energy to rationalize against the truth any longer. Mom does care. I just chose to ignore it.

  My new troll appearance stares back at me from the rearview mirror. Why can’t I just be nice to her? Why do her unintentional moments of humiliation outweigh her kind gestures? Why can’t she just sit down and talk to me? Or, even better, listen?

  But why didn’t I know how to sit down and do the same?

  I groan, hating my conscience. This isn’t my fault.

  And, that’s when it dawns upon me. Just as our issues aren’t exclusively my fault, they aren’t hers either. We are both responsible for what we’ve become. I will try harder. I’ll start small, showing her compassion in the ways she showed me. I rub my cheeks as my eyes grow heavier. I can do that. I turn the key in the ignition. That will have to be enough for Dad. I’m not ready for a group share, but I can start being better.

  ***

  I maintain a low profile at home that weekend. I sleep a lot between loads of laundry and trying to do small things for Mom. I organize the gardening magazines on her desk, walk Eric down the street to his friend’s house, and vacuum the stairs. I doubt Mom really understands what I am trying to do but it does seem to keep her out of my hair.

  While I am folding laundry, our home phone rings. I usually ignore it but recognize Justin’s number on the caller ID. The white receiver is thick and foreign in my hand and the curled cord is so restraining. I won’t be able to pace as we speak. I take a deep breath before answering.

  “Hello?” My voice weakens at the end. Crap. I sound nervous. I sit down on the blue wingback chair, hoping it will help give my voice stability.

  “Lucy, why didn’t you call me back?” Justin’s voice, even in frustration, makes my heart pound.

  I speak slowly, containing the rush of energy through my system. “Sorry. I didn’t know you called.”

  “Was your cell broken?”

  I’d purposely left my phone in my purse all weekend. That small—well, now large—part of me wanted Justin to call. I couldn’t have my phone taunting me. I didn’t want to be that girl hovering over her phone, waiting for a boy to call. I’m pathetic enough already.

  “Nope, I just haven’t checked it. What’s up?” My legs itch. How do people talk without pacing? “Can you drive yourself to work tomorrow? I’ve got some errands I want you to run.” His words sting. I thought he was calling to check on me.

  “Sure,” I say lightly.

  “Great. I’ll text you all the info you’ll need for the morning.”

  “Okay, sounds good.” I force the rhythm of my voice to sound upbeat.

  “Alright. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

  The phone clicks before I can say goodbye. I keep the receiver up to my ear, softly hitting it against my temple to the dial tone. I’m completely helpless to this stupid heartache. There is nothing I can do. I can’t flirt or dress my way into his attention. I wouldn’t even try. Justin has a wonderful relationship. I’m not like Marissa. I would never try to screw that up. I just need a distraction so I can move on.

  I wander up to my room to check my phone. I have missed two calls from Justin and two texts. One’s from Matt.

  Matt: Sorry about Zach. You’re better off. Please still come to my party, next Friday. Don’t forget, you promised me during pool at the restaurant!

  I read the message but don’t respond. Crap. I did say I’d go. I’ll have to cancel. There’s no way I can handle being anywhere with Marissa and Zach making out.

  I scroll to the next text.

  Justin: At Rivervalley Library, please pick up books that I have on reserve. They are expecting you. Then stop at Target and pick up home design magazines and a notebook. I’ll pay you back. See you 9ish.

  I fumble through my desk for a pen and post-it to make a clearer list. The bottom drawer is jammed. With a pen, I slide out the offender. My essay on Pride and Prejudice falls to the floor. The red C-seems larger than before.

  C-. That sucks. I curl up on my window seat and scan the essay. The format is perfect but the content is absolutely laughable. It’s obvious I haven’t read the book. A C-was generous. I can’t believe I wasted Mr. Taden’s time with this. On the last page, I discover a short note scribbled in red pen. “Lucy, you try to sell yourself short but your potential shows through. Please re-do before the last day of school.”

  My gut sinks. I’d never taken the time to look past the grade.

  I pull Pride and Prejudice off the above bookshelf. Boring Victorian figures sit ghostly together on the cover. The binding has never been creased. I ruffle the pages, smelling them. I used to be able to pick a good book by its smell. This book smells old and flowery. It’s worth the read.

  I believe I’ve found my distraction.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The morning drive to work is an eternity without Justin bothering me. I double park him as punishment. The guys are on their breakfast break when I arrive, but I won’t allow my eyes to linger to pick Justin out from the group. But his dark hair and neck muscles are pretty hard not to notice. I give a quick wave in everyone’s general direction before fumbling with my keys. Crap. No pockets. I pull down the visor, pinning them to the garage door remote.

  “You do know Luke likes to steal cars, right?” Alex teases, reaching in through the window and grabbing the keys off the visor. He slips them into his pocket before he opens my door. “I heard about your hands. That sucks, huh?” I step out of the car.

  “Totally.”

  “Can I see?”

  I laugh. “Seriously?”

  “Please?” he pretends to pout.

  I shrug, carefully uncovering my palms. Alex holds the gauze for me so he can get the full picture. He whistles. “No fair. Those are gonna be wicked scars!”

  “The doctor said something like that.”

  “Sweet. And such an awesome story to go with them. Falling off the roof followed up with being run over by a tornado.” He whistles again.

  “Now, don’t pity her too much, Alex.” Justin smiles, taking the gauze out o
f Alex’s hands. “You should probably keep these wrapped up if they’re going to heal, right?” He takes my left palm, holding it in his large hands, and starts pulling the gauze around it. My heart pounds violently against my chest.

  This needs to stop.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’ve been doing it all weekend.” I pull my hand from his and finish the wrapping myself. He takes a step back, eyeing the backseat. “The stuff’s in the trunk,” I say. He nods, reaching in my car and flicking the trunk release switch. Three thick volumes about Victorian homes, the Target bag, and a few books on business economics sit in the trunk.

  I pull my water bottle out of the car. “So, can I go work with Alex today?”

  “No, not today.”

  I secretly rejoice, knowing that after the accident he would want to be my partner.

  “Oh, okay.” I act casual.

  “Actually, I’m going to have you do some research.” He taps the volumes of books.

  “Wait, I’m not painting?”

  Justin raises his eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d let you paint like that?” he nods toward my hands.

  “But I’m fine. I can move them without issues!” That’s a lie. They sting like crazy when I bend them. But I don’t care. I need to paint; it’s weirdly relaxing.

  “Sorry. No way. It’s not happening.” He hands me the notebook from the plastic bag and the first volume about Victorian homes. “I need you to read this and take notes on anything pertaining to the exterior of Victorian homes, what materials they used, and what compounds were in the paint.”

  I open the cover. A cloud of dust poofs in my face. “Seriously?”

  He nods. “And when you’re done, I need you to read the other two.”

  “And then I can paint?”

  “Well, after you complete your art project.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Justin shrugs. “It’s a job that needs to be done.”

  “What’s the art project?”

  “Well,” he holds up the second volume and flips through it, “While you are reading, take time looking at the homes’ exterior colors and inside details. Flip through the magazines you bought and rip out any similar looks and colors. Save them for me.”