25
I think my fish might be depressed. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep her in the fishbowl. I ask the guy at the pet store, and he says, “Is it swimming around?”
“Yes.”
“Blowing bubbles?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s fine. You’ll know when it’s depressed.”
“How?” I ask.
“It’ll float.”
I’m not sure why I ask this guy anything. He keeps canaries in a cage. Everyone knows why the caged bird sings. It wants to get the hell out of there.
I tell him he should let the birds go, but he disagrees. “As long as they’re in the cage, I keep them alive. I keep them safe.” He points out the window. “Out there . . . Who knows what would happen?”
I leave then, because this guy is the worst kind of liar. Plus, we’re taking Beth to Heaven for the first time tonight, to celebrate Christmas, even though the actual holiday isn’t for a few more days. Color’s mom promised she wouldn’t sell the place until after the New Year.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out what presents I was going to get everyone, and I want this night to be special. Last year, my pregnancy forced everyone home and into hiding for the entire holiday season. Mom didn’t even want to go to the supermarket, so we ordered pizza on Christmas Day, and Tom made me hide upstairs when it was delivered. God forbid Domino’s figured out I was pregnant.
I put on the dress Mom bought me a few months ago. It’s supposed to fit me by now, even though it’s a summer dress. We are, after all, in the midst of a heat wave.
I can practically hear the zipper whining, barely holding itself together. It’s tired of being pulled so damn tight. But it’s closed and should do the job for tonight.
Before leaving my room, I come eye to eye with my fish. I can tell she wants out of her bowl. She’s getting bigger. Soon enough, she’ll outgrow me, and I’ll be forced to let her go, though I hope I have the strength to set her free before then.
Mom makes some casserole thing for dinner, with “hidden vegetables” that aren’t so hidden, and Tom and I pretend not to taste them. The table has transformed from a cornucopia of Thanksgiving gourds to candles that smell like pine trees, cranberries, and mistletoe. It will stay decorated like this until the New Year. We’re pretending we live in a place where it might snow on Christmas. Mom has the twenty-four-hour Christmas radio station playing all day every day. Presently, we’re listening to the Mannheim Steamroller version of “Deck the Halls.” I want to steamroll myself.
Hannah isn’t subject to this holiday charade tonight. She’s at church. She was picked by Ms. Sylvia for an elite group of singers that will start preparing for Easter’s big Passion play. Beth said they’ve never done that in the past, but luckily, she and I weren’t asked to be in this group.
Mom makes comments about how good the dress looks on me, how my figure is coming back, how it took her forever to lose the baby weight, but when you’re young it’s so much easier. I want to gag on the hidden vegetables.
Instead I blurt out, “The perks of being a teen mom!”
Tom drops his fork and splatters hidden vegetables all over his tie. “Darn it all to heck.” He really wants to say something else, and we all know it. He wipes the food from his tie, takes it off, and hands it to Mom, who’s waiting with club soda to get any stains out.
“Sorry,” Mom says.
The doorbell saves me from apologizing, which I don’t want to do anyway.
“Who’s that?” Tom asks.
“Beth.”
Mom chokes and squeaks and spills club soda. “Beth?”
What I want to say is, Yes, Mom, I’m saving you from lying. From this moment forward, there will be one less lie in the universe . . . even if Beth is really here to take me to Heaven so I can be with friends you don’t want to recognize.
I let Beth in the door and introduce her to Tom. The whole time she does the cross-grab thing she always does. Tom totally notices and looks at Beth approvingly. If he only knew he was meeting a lesbian who drove me to Albuquerque to see a psychic.
With Tom satisfied and his tie saved from stains, Beth and I leave. Mom stops me before I get out the front door.
“That dress really does look great on you. I’m proud of you, Esther.”
“Are you proud of me because I don’t look like I had a baby anymore, and now everyone can stop worrying people will find out? Or are you proud of me because I’ve made friends who care about me?”
Mom smiles. “Be home by ten.”
She trades one lie for another.
Heaven is a Christmas extravaganza. Twinkling lights dangle across the ceiling, and there’s even a Christmas tree with a train. It looks old-fashioned and homey and perfect. For a second, I almost think I smell snow.
“This place is amazing,” Beth says, looking around. She lights up in Heaven, too.
Color has the same radio station playing that was on at my house, but because it’s coming through an old radio, it crackles with static, and Color has to keep adjusting the antenna. The songs sound better, more authentic, in Heaven.
Jesús is wearing a hat with mistletoe dangling from it. When he comes up to me, the mistletoe hangs over my head, and he says, “It’s tradition.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips. When I pull back, I notice he has bags under his eyes.
“Are you OK?” I touch them.
“Just a little tired from work.” He walks over to Moss. “Fungus?”
Moss actually laughs as he gives Jesús a kiss on the cheek.
“What about me?” Beth asks. Jesús doesn’t leave her out. She gives him the longest kiss of all of us, and when she pulls back, she says, “Sorry. It’s been a while.”
And Jesús says, “Excuse me while I sit down and wait for my third arm to go away.”
Heaven smells like cinnamon and candy canes and love. I inhale and feel myself filling up, all bubbly.
With my gifts set under the tree, Moss squats down next to me.
“You know, you didn’t have to get gifts.”
“Is this when you say, ‘you’re gift enough for us, Esther’?” I laugh. Moss doesn’t.
“Something like that.” He winks, and I’m left to swim in his words. Except this time there’s no water to cool me down. I heat up all the way to the tips of my earlobes.
I show Beth the wall of lost things in the porn section, and she’s as entranced with it as I was. It’s not every day you see walls come alive with complete chaos. Beth takes her necklace off and tacks it to the wall.
“Really?” I say, concerned. “She’s lost?”
“Brittany hasn’t emailed me in months. It’s not looking good.” Beth shrugs. “It’s OK. She lives in Oregon. Long distance never works.”
“Well, she’s in good company now.” I touch the cross on the wall.
Color pops a bottle of champagne, and we pass it around. It goes straight to my head. I think I’m living in bubbles tonight. Everything is just so light. Even the heavy air feels weightless.
When it’s time to open presents, we all sit around the Christmas tree, illuminated by twinkle lights. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this complete. And the strangest thing happens in the middle of my happiness—I worry it will all go away.
I look at the tree and wonder if happiness really is infinite. What if all this disappears?
I was happy before, in Ohio, and it left like snow in the spring. Is happiness like water—sometimes a solid, sometimes a liquid, and sometimes a vapor?
I was in love with Amit, and now I can’t stop thinking about Moss. It used to be Amit’s hands I wanted to feel, Amit’s mouth I wanted to taste. Now my eyes keep wandering to Moss’s fingers, Moss’s lips. It’s all changed so rapidly, and yet a few months ago, I thought my life might never change.
I force myself not to think about that because it’s ruining the moment.
&nbs
p; Jesús gives me my very own coffee mug that says: YOU + ME = <3. “Get it?” he says. “Since you love math?” I almost cry. Jesús says he’ll keep it at HuggaMug for me. He says we’ll call it “The Cup of Life,” since coffee brought me back to life.
“No, you did,” I say to him, and he blushes.
Beth gives me a pitch pipe. “It’s a joke. Because you’re always off-key when you sing.” It’s so Beth that I can’t help but launch myself on her for a hug.
Moss hands me a box. I wasn’t expecting anything from him, and he must be able to read my face, because he says, “Go on. Open it.”
I do and gasp, looking at him. He offers a devilish wink in return.
“What is it?” Jesús asks.
“Yeah, Esther. What is it?” Moss taunts.
It’s a bathing suit, a freaking two-piece bathing suit that I will never wear, but I will keep for the rest of my life, because wow. If Moss still wants me to hate him, he’s doing a really bad job of it.
“Nothing,” I say, closing the box at once.
I try to distract them by handing out my gifts.
Jesús shakes his present and tears into the wrapping. “Mon chéri!” he says when he sees what’s inside. He puts on the black beret and scarf, dramatically tossing the scarf over his shoulder. It looks perfect on him. Very French. “Now that I have a new hat, you need this.” Jesús puts the mistletoe hat on my head and kisses me.
Beth opens her gift next. It’s a T-shirt that says: LET US PAUSE NOW FOR A MOMENT OF SCIENCE. She puts it on over the shirt she’s wearing, which says: GO JESUS, IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY. With a hug, she says, “Hashtag. I love it.”
I give Moss his gift next. It rattles when he shakes it. Moss cocks his head at me.
“Open it,” I say.
He pulls back the wrapping paper to expose a box of blue tacks.
“Blue?” he says.
“Red for the places you need to go. Blue for the places you’ve been.”
Moss’s gray eyes get all intense, and I remember swimming together in the Rio Grande. How his legs tangled with mine. How water seemed to dangle on his lips like it knew how wonderful it is to linger there. How we were swimming in the truth at that very moment. My body covers in tingles when Moss says, “Thank you, Esther.”
“You’re welcome, Moss.” But really I should be thanking him, because I am on fire. All over. And what I really mean is—you are welcome, Moss. To me.
I give Color her gift. She turns the box around in her hands and then presses it to her forehead, right on her third eye. “I already know I’m going to love it.” When she opens it and finds a Magic 8 Ball, she squeals, “I was right! I do love it!”
“In case your intuition ever breaks down,” I say.
“We need to put it to the test.” Color gestures for us all to huddle in close. “Everyone think of a question.”
She passes the Magic 8 Ball to Jesús.
“Will Brett ever realize he’s gay and in love with me?” he says and shakes it. The answer pops up, and Jesús groans. “Not likely.”
He tosses the Magic 8 Ball to Moss, who asks, “Will Jesús and Color ever realize that moss is not a fungus, it’s a plant?” He shakes the ball, and we wait for the answer. Moss exhales. “My sources say no.”
“The Magic 8 Ball never lies, Fungus,” Jesús says.
Defeated, Moss gives it to Beth. She asks, “Will I ever walk on the moon?” She waits for the answer patiently. “It is certain!” she exclaims.
She passes the Magic 8 Ball to Color, who spins it around in her hands, feeling it from every side. “Will we ever meet our dad?” She looks at Moss as she waits for the answer. “Cannot predict right now.” With a shrug, she says, “It was worth a shot.” Then she hands the Magic 8 Ball to me.
All the answers swim around inside as I roll it.
Would Amit be mad if I moved on?
Has he moved on?
Should I kiss Moss?
What is Hannah lying about?
Where is my dad?
Does he think about me?
And what about California? Why can’t I stop thinking about it? Why did I have to see that psychic in the first place? Does getting one answer just mean you get more questions? Why is nothing concrete?
Are the answers really right here in my hand?
I shake the Magic 8 Ball and ask, “Will Tom ever fill our empty pool?”
An answer swims to the surface. “Ask again later.”
Color doesn’t give me a gift. I try not to act disappointed when everyone else gets one. I take an extra swig of champagne to wash down the icky feeling.
But if I’m being honest, I’m disappointed.
At the end of the night, Moss stands in the porn section, staring at the map of India on the wall. He’s got the box of blue tacks in his hand. By the look on his face, he’s desperate to use one—to go somewhere and document it with a tack.
I stand next to him as he stares at the map. We don’t say anything for a bit, and then I take a blue tack out of his box, and Moss says, “I thought they were all mine.”
I cup it in my hand, a surreptitious grin forming, and shrug. It’s my turn to be the silent one again.
“You’re still wearing the mistletoe hat,” Moss says.
I glance up and catch sight of the green leaves dangling from my head. My stomach plummets to my toes. I forgot. Moss is now hovering over me, just like the mistletoe.
“Does that mean I have to kiss you, Esther?”
It takes a moment for words to come, but slowly I manage to whisper, “I’d prefer you kiss me when you want to.”
Color finds us in the porn section standing still, covered in innuendo. She coughs, a knowing grin pulling at her cheeks. Moss and I step back, the mistletoe no longer lingering between us.
“Don’t worry,” Color says. “I didn’t forget about you, Esther. I have a Christmas gift, but it won’t be here until after the New Year.”
“OK.” I tear my eyes off Moss, knowing that pieces of me will continue to be acutely aware of his presence, even when I’m not looking at him.
“You just have to promise me that you’ll use it,” Color says.
“Well, what is it?”
Color shakes her head, her smile unmoved. “Just trust me. Do you promise?”
And because I don’t think I trust anyone more than Color, I say, “I promise.”
26
Aunt Emily comes for Christmas bearing homemade gifts and memories from Ohio. It sets Tom on edge because Aunt Emily likes wine, and wine makes Mom remember who she used to be. I’ve seen it. After a few drinks, Mom will be cursing like a sailor and talking about getting drunk in high school.
Aunt Emily gives Hannah and me matching shirts that Mom says we must wear to the Christmas Eve service at church, where the youth choir is performing “modern Christmas classics” like Coldplay’s “Christmas Lights” and the Killers’ “Boots.” Classics.
After the service is over, Beth, who’s wearing the T-shirt I gave her, asks Mom and Tom if I can sleep over at her house for New Year’s Eve.
Mom says, “Well . . . I don’t . . .”
But Tom says, “I think that’s a great idea.”
And when Beth walks away, Tom says, “That Beth looks like a good Christian girl.”
Aunt Emily says, “I thought good Christians didn’t judge people on their looks,” and Mom tells Aunt Emily to curb her attitude.
Tom sends me to look for Hannah, who hasn’t appeared since the end of the service. I check in the choir room, the sanctuary, the bathroom. I go back down the Sunday school hallway that’s manic with parents picking up kids. It is definitely a wrong turn. I have to get out of there now because the sound of crying babies makes my heart ache and my belly tight. And all I think is, California, California, California. It ends at the ocean.
But what does? I don’t know. There are too many questions and not enough Magic 8 Balls.
I run down the hallway like a lunatic, feeling
the past chasing me. I can’t afford to drown in memories here, among the Christians. It’s safer drowning in an empty pool. I’m ruined for babysitting for the rest of my youth.
I swing around the corner at full speed, my arms flapping at my side. I’m a nonrunner who’s running, all awkward, bouncing body parts. How does Moss do this with his third arm?
I stop to heave and maybe die on the floor, when Hannah rounds the corner with a giddy expression on her face. When she sees me, the giddiness dries up.
“What are you doing?”
“Dying,” I say between pinched breaths. “Just . . . dying . . . I’ll . . . be . . . fine.”
“Put your arms over your head.”
I do that, and it’s oddly helpful.
“Were you . . .” I heave. “With Peter?”
But Hannah doesn’t answer because all of her attention goes to Pastor Rick, who’s just come down the hallway.
“Twins!” he yells when he sees us. I’d forgotten that Hannah and I are wearing matching homemade shirts.
“We are so not twins,” Hannah says, and all the help she just offered is washed away. She sounds disgusted at the possibility that we could remotely look alike.
“He’s talking about our shirts.” Asshole. I want to put that at the end of the sentence. Asshole.
I walk away from Hannah and Pastor Rick. I don’t care where Hannah goes or if she is ever found. She’s on her own from this point forward.
I overhear Mom and Aunt Emily talking in the kitchen that night. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m supposed to be sleeping because “Santa comes tomorrow.” Mom still says things like that. I mean, I had a freaking baby, and she still says “baby” things to me. It feels odd.
But then again, I keep thinking about the houses hosting Christmas parties with eggnog and oysters Rockefeller, where people stand around a piano and sing Christmas carols. And snow. Lots of snow. Snow that comes from clouds and covers lawns in a white blanket where you can make a million snow angels.
Houses like the one we had in Ohio. Houses filled with love, even if it’s just fake love for one night. Christmas Eve is the one day when everyone wants to be Christian because it feels good. Even me. Because a baby was born this night in Bethlehem. And people love babies, especially baby Jesus.
The Infinite Pieces of Us Page 13