The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

  But here’s the thing—Mary got pregnant out of wedlock. She and Joseph had to do a rush job on their wedding so Mary didn’t look like a whore, because even back then a woman was either a whore or a virgin. The rules still applied to Mary, even though she was carrying the Son of God. That’s the plight of women—no matter how miraculous we are, we still have to live in a world governed by men’s standards.

  I stare at my female fish and wonder why God picked a woman out of wedlock. Why put her through that? Where’s the grace in that? Why must it always be women who carry the burden? If we’re that much better than men, why didn’t Mary have a girl? Why wasn’t it the Daughter of God?

  My fish seems to say, Look it up in the Bible if you’re that interested.

  But I’m not that interested. Men wrote the Bible anyway. No wonder Jesus was a boy.

  Even knowing that, Christmas Eve is still getting to me right now. It’s a holiday about a baby, and so I can’t stop thinking about my baby. The need to cry at any second will go away in a few days, just like everyone pretending to be Christian tonight will forget to go to church next Sunday.

  Tiptoeing toward the kitchen for a snack, I stop when I hear Mom and Aunt Emily, who’s working on her current knitting project. She brings it everywhere. I think Aunt Emily has busy hands, and if she’s not doing something, she gets caught up in stuff she shouldn’t.

  Aunt Emily puts the knitting down.

  “This doesn’t seem right, Julie,” she says. “It’s so flipping dry here. Move back to Ohio.”

  “We can’t.” Mom fills a glass of water. “Drink this. It will help.”

  “Water isn’t the solution.” But Aunt Emily chugs the whole glass anyway. “We have plenty of water in Ohio. We have a damn lake full of it.”

  “Just drop it, Em. It’s not happening.”

  “It’s because of Tom.” Aunt Emily picks up her knitting again and starts in on the sock she’s making. She doesn’t look at Mom when she says, “I warned you about him.”

  “He’s a good man.” Mom rubs her temples. “Better than most, actually.”

  “I know you got a raw deal with Rob. I could kill that bastard for leaving you alone with two kids.”

  “Tom would never leave.” Mom must be desperate because she opens a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.

  “I know,” Aunt Emily says. “But that doesn’t mean you should stay.”

  Mom takes a large gulp. “I’m staying, God damn it. Good enough is good enough.”

  Aunt Emily downs half her glass of wine and then motions for Mom to refill. “I just don’t think you need to run from the past anymore. It’s done.”

  “You know as well as I do—the past is never done.” Mom tops off her glass and drinks some, then fills it again. “It will never go away, Em. For the rest of her life. It will never go away.”

  It’s then that I realize Mom isn’t thinking about herself. She’s thinking about me.

  27

  Jesús is sleeping in the laundromat. While riding my bike past it, I notice his red, run-down ten-speed parked out front and see him through the windows. He’s spread out on the chairs, his head cradled in his arms. He’s the only person here. When I walk inside and the door dings, he doesn’t even stir.

  He’s wearing the same thing he wore to our Christmas celebration in Heaven, complete with the scarf and beret. The December heat wave finally left, and the weather is acting appropriately again. The nights are chilly. If I lie outside in the pool and close my eyes, I can almost smell snow. Almost. But the days heat up again, and the desert acts like the desert, and my cactus thrives.

  I sit down next to Jesús and watch him sleep as laundry tumbles in the washers and dryers.

  Complex Math Problem: If one sock is left behind at the laundromat, does it become single, or is it forever looking for its original mate? Or does it find another mate that may not match perfectly, because good enough is good enough?

  Is good enough really good enough?

  When I look at Jesús, I know I want better than good for him. I want great. I want amazingness. I want him to be so loved he can barely stand it.

  Why is it so easy to want love for other people but not to accept it for ourselves?

  Last year at school, a guidance counselor came to speak to all the freshman classes about hormones and sex and love and respect. She said, “Imagine you have a best friend who talks to you the way you talk to yourself. Raise your hand if you would be friends with that person?” No one raised a hand. Not even the popular people who seemed like they had it all together. No one.

  Jesús wakes up, completely surprised to see me sitting at his feet. He sits up swiftly, yawning and adjusting the beret.

  “Mon chéri, what are you doing here?”

  “I saw you through the window.”

  He looks tired. Maybe one step beyond tired. Exhausted. He says, “The washer at my house is broken.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “OK.”

  “Because it’s broken.”

  “I hate when things break,” I say.

  “Me, too.”

  The clothes tumble in the washing machines, tossed this way and that, as Jesús and I watch. Five minutes remain until they’re done.

  “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” I say.

  “What?”

  I push the laundry cart back and forth on its wheels. “Ride in one of these things.”

  We smile simultaneously, and then, because we’re alone in a laundromat and no one is looking, I climb into the basket. Jesús pushes me around the whole place, the warm, fabric-softener-infused wind blowing back my hair. He spins me in circles as I hold on tightly, screaming, “I’m so dizzy! This is awesome!”

  I make Jesús take a ride and spin him around until he says, “I’m going to vomit Exorcist-style all over the place!”

  When he’s done spinning, Jesús doesn’t look as exhausted anymore.

  He switches his clothes from the washer to the dryer, and we sit down and watch them tumble in a circle.

  “The humming of the machines always makes me tired.” Jesús rubs his eyes. “I can’t help but fall asleep.”

  I slouch back in the seat. The laundry swirls and swirls. Jesús leans into me and yawns.

  “I’m just so tired,” he says, and I can tell by his tone that he means tired with life. Because things break too often, and you find yourself at the laundromat with so many abandoned socks it’s overwhelming.

  “Here.” I make him rest his head on my shoulder. “You can sleep on me.”

  “Thanks, mon chéri. You make a good place to rest.” Jesús falls back asleep soon after. I watch his laundry dry and hope all of his socks match, and that the washer at his house gets fixed soon. I never have to worry about my laundry. Mom does it. She carries the burden of lost socks all on her own.

  I shouldn’t be so hard on her. It’s no wonder she thinks good enough is good enough.

  28

  New Year’s Eve in Heaven is depressing. Color’s mom says she can’t delay any longer. She needs to sell the Blockbuster now, so the garage sale is tomorrow. Color and Moss spent the whole afternoon putting price tags on everything.

  “But how can I really put a price on this stuff?” Color asks me. “It means more than money to me.”

  “Just remember, it’s a rebirth. This isn’t over,” I say, half to her and half to myself.

  I take one final perusal of everything.

  Pogo stick $10

  Tricycle $15

  Oversized chair with stains $20

  VCR with tapes included $20

  “What about the family pictures?” I ask.

  Color shows me a bin of empty frames. Each one is priced at a dollar. “I kept all the pictures. I just can’t sell them. They’re like . . .”

  “Family?” I ask.

  Color snaps her fingers. “Yes. Family.”

  She has all of my old stuff priced out, to
o. My old hat and matching gloves are five dollars. The winter coat I wore in eighth grade is seven dollars.

  “I don’t know if I can stay here all night. It’s like sleeping in a graveyard,” Moss says.

  The plan was to spend the last seconds of the year in Heaven. Mom and Tom think I’m sleeping over at Beth’s. Beth’s parents know we’re sleeping in Heaven, because Beth is the only person I know who doesn’t lie. She told them the truth, and they think it’s kind of cool.

  But right now, it doesn’t feel cool. Moss is right. It feels like a graveyard. And Color just seems so depressed.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” I say.

  “Yes!” Color perks up. “Where?”

  “I have my parents’ car, so I can drive,” Beth offers.

  Where should a group of teenagers go in Truth or Consequences on New Year’s Eve? The blue tack I took from Moss is in my pocket. I brought it just in case . . .

  “I know,” I say. At that, everyone’s face lights up, waiting for the answer. Their light makes me so bright, I might break into little stars. “Let’s go to Mexico.”

  The night is dark and chilly. After more than two hours of driving, we arrive at our destination. We stand at the border of New Mexico and Mexico. I wrap my arms around my waist, staring at the land in front of me.

  “What exactly are we doing here?” Jesús asks.

  “Looking,” Color says.

  “Why?” Jesús asks.

  “Because we can,” she says.

  And Beth says, “I can’t believe I haven’t done this before.”

  “It’s right there?” Moss asks, looking at me, his eyes so bright with excitement it hurts, but in the best way.

  “Right there,” I say. “A whole other country.”

  “I knew Mexico was close, but I didn’t know it was this close,” Color says.

  “New Mexico.” Jesús points at the ground and then gestures off in the distance. “Old Mexico.”

  “Real Mexico,” Moss says in awe.

  The road we drove down is dusty and not paved. We’re still in the desert. Dried, leafless bushes and cacti are the only plant life that live here, and even then, I’m not sure it’s living. It’s a playground for snakes and scorpions. Everything has to fight so hard to stay alive when there’s so little actually living. But right now—I feel vibrant. I feel like I’m living for everything around me, so the plants and animals can survive. I’m happy to live and breathe for them because life is so good.

  “What should we do?” Beth asks.

  “I don’t know,” Jesús says.

  “Look at it and ponder the numinous,” Color says. She wraps her arm around Beth. “Isn’t it crazy that another country is so close, and yet we can never go there because we’re not allowed? But it’s all land. I mean, men created the border, not nature. Nature doesn’t discriminate. Men do. It’s like we’re boxed in, but we do it to ourselves. We imprison each other with lines and boundaries instead of just letting people be free.”

  “You’ve gone down the rabbit hole again, my friend,” Jesús says.

  “Can I touch it?” Beth walks up to the run-down barbed-wire fence that lines the border.

  “Just be careful,” Jesús says. “Once you touch it, you might want to go to the other side, and then what if we can’t get you back? You’ll be lost forever.”

  “That’s just what society wants you to think.” Color shakes her head. “It’s just a line. You won’t be lost. We can still see you. Touching it might just set you free.”

  “God, I love all this talk of touching,” Jesús says. “Say ‘touch’ again.”

  “Touch.” Color smiles. Jesús bites on his fist.

  Silently, Moss stands next to me, as usual, but also not so usual because his silence in the past has been coated in something darker. But not right now. Right now—he feels light. He feels like he’s really living, too.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” he says.

  I shrug. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Moss steps closer to me, our pinkies touching, warm skin to warm skin, and whispers, “Don’t lie, Esther.”

  “Don’t lie, Esther.” Amit said that once. He was wearing navy-blue shorts and a yellow T-shirt—our gym uniform—but neither of us was very good at gym.

  “It’s for the best. This has to end.” I went over exactly what I was going to say at the breakfast table that morning. I even practiced in the mirror.

  “For the best?” Amit said.

  “It’s the only solution,” I rephrased. Tom said that at one point.

  “Some problems have multiple solutions, Esther.”

  “I know that.” That wasn’t part of the script I rehearsed. I also knew that Tom was solving the problem for himself. I pressed on, though. “But not this time.”

  “But what about . . . us? I’m the variable. I need my coefficient.”

  “We were wrong,” I said. Mom’s and Tom’s words. Not mine. But I borrowed them for the moment.

  “Love isn’t wrong,” Amit said.

  I knew there was no going back. That’s not how time works. It moves forward, like everything else.

  “It’s over,” I said, and with that one sentence, it was.

  But I never thought I’d move on. Just because something is over doesn’t mean a person lets go. But when I look down at the hand closest to mine, it’s not Amit’s I’m imagining anymore. My memories of him are finding their way back to where they belong . . . in the past.

  I never thought I’d be ready, until this moment, right now, when I find myself standing on the border next to a boy, ready to take a leap.

  I’m breathless when I say to Moss, “OK. I won’t lie. I did this for you.”

  Beth inspects the barbed-wire fence. “I wonder if it’s electrified.” She picks up a rock and throws it at the wire. Nothing happens, so she tries again. Still nothing. “I think it’s just a run-down fence.”

  “Well, should we?” I ask the group, but really I’m asking Moss. Should we? Can we? Is this real?

  “It’s definitely illegal,” Beth says.

  “And probably not the best idea,” Jesús says.

  “But it’s just so close,” Color offers.

  And Moss says, “Do you have that blue tack, Esther?”

  I take it out of my pocket and show it to him. “Let’s go to Mexico,” I say.

  We cross the border, climbing over the fence together. Within moments, we’re standing in another country, looking back at New Mexico, our footprints on the other side.

  “What do we do now?” Jesús asks.

  “Ponder the numinous,” Color says.

  “The numinous seems to be everywhere,” Jesús says. We all stand in the quiet of Mexico for a while. The stars are the same. They shine on us as we stare at where we were just moments earlier, just across the border.

  “Do you ever wonder why you were born right here, right now?” Beth asks.

  “I wonder all the time why I was born gay.” Jesús picks up a rock and tosses it back into the United States. “One small move . . . and that rock is now an American rock.”

  “Or is it just pretending?” Beth offers. “It will always be Mexican, no matter where it lives. You can’t make a Mexican rock change just by moving it.”

  “Now that’s the numinous,” Jesús says.

  The five of us stand still, looking at the United States just feet away, like we’re waiting for something to happen. The wind doesn’t even make a sound.

  “I don’t feel any different in Mexico,” Color says.

  “Me neither,” Beth says.

  Jesús says, “Let’s go home. Mexico is boring.” He carefully climbs over the fence, but Moss and I stay.

  “Esther,” he whispers.

  “Yeah, Moss.”

  His fingers interlace with mine, the feeling startling me, but only for a moment. Then my palm settles into Moss’s palm like I fit there perfectly. Like this is where I belong. I never thought I’d feel this again.
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  “Come on, you lovebirds!” Jesús hollers over his shoulder from America. But Moss and I are in Mexico right now, and I’m not ready to leave. Mexico is amazing. Just give us one more second that goes on for infinity.

  Moss looks down at his hand interlaced with mine that, in the darkness, look like one unit—pressed together. He says, “I guess I like surprises after all.”

  And I say, “Thank God.”

  We drive back to Truth or Consequences. It’s almost midnight. A new year in New Mexico. Touchdown Jesus is one of the only lit-up things in town.

  “I’ve always wanted to try to climb up Scary Jesus and make friends with him,” Color says. “Then maybe he won’t be scary anymore.”

  “Why don’t we?” Beth says.

  “Seriously?” Color sits up excited in the car. “I love you, Beth.”

  Beth blushes as she pulls into the parking lot of the church, and we all get out of the car.

  Jesús walks right up to the gigantic Touchdown Jesus and pats it. “Jesus, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Jesus but with flair.”

  Color inspects the statue, pushing on it and patting it to make sure it’s safe to climb, but it’s a gigantic Jesus statue—nothing feels safe about this.

  “Someone give me a lift.” Color holds her foot out, and Beth gives her a boost. The night air is chilly, making me shiver, and the next thing I know, Moss is running his hands up and down my arms to keep me warm, his chest so close to my back that the heat radiating off him hums straight into my heart.

  “OK?” he asks.

  I offer Moss a grin that whispers yes as Color makes it to the top of the Touchdown Jesus. Yeah, this is OK. This is better than OK. Even with gigantic Jesus watching.

  “It’s so beautiful up here!” she hollers down at us.

  Beth climbs up next, and then Jesús. Then Moss makes a cup with his hand and gives me a boost. He climbs up last, and then we’re all standing in the palm of Touchdown Jesus, looking out at Truth or Consequences.

  “It is beautiful,” Beth says.

  “All it took was climbing into the palm of Jesus for me to no longer be afraid of him,” Color says. “That’s poetic.”