Beyond the Pale

by Jennifer Millikin

  After a while, we are surrounded by heavy-duty black bags meant to hold lawn trimmings. I sink down onto the bed, looking at the bags all around us.

  Brady sits down beside me. He takes my hand, winding it through his own. I rest my head on his shoulder, taking in his warmth, his clean scent.

  “Is there anything you’re keeping?” he asks.

  Keeping something has been in the back of my mind as I inventoried her things. I recognized items as I went through them; the red necklace she wore with a white pantsuit, her gold elephant cuff, the diamond earrings Ted gave to her one Christmas. I’d keep the diamonds, but he gave them to her, and I want no part of him on me.

  “I haven’t come across anything yet. Pretty much everything you see is going to a women’s shelter.”

  “And the furniture?”

  My lips twist as I realize how much work this all is. In the midst of thinking about my mother’s stuff, I hadn’t even considered the furniture.

  “Salvation Army, I suppose.”

  “You should sell it. Get some money from it.” Brady's shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Consider it restitution.”

  I laugh quietly along with him. It’s amazing that I can find his comment comical. All the hurt, all the pain, all the years of trauma, have been reduced to this empty house, and me going through the artifacts of a life someone left unexpectedly.

  “Did she have a will?” Brady asks.

  I lift my head from his shoulder, turning to look at him. “I’m not sure,” I answer, shaking my head slowly. It’s a good question. Why haven’t I thought to ask this before? I really am awful in this situation. I feel like I’m scrambling to catch jars falling off a shelf, but there are still jars sitting up on the shelf, waiting to fall, and I don’t know what’s in them or when they’ll come tumbling down.

  “Have you looked through her desk? That’s probably where a will or other important documents would be.”

  I picture her desk downstairs, in the small room off the kitchen. It’s a depressing room. I never could understand why the builder put a window in the room if the only view you have is of the block wall. Someday, when I have a home, I’m going to have an office that overlooks my back yard. There will be green grass and flowers. It will be everything this house is not.

  “I’ll look through it another day.”

  “Nervous about what you’ll find in there?”

  Extracting my hand from his, I wipe it on my thigh. The room is warming up as the sun beats in through the windows, and it’s making me sweat.

  “I guess so. The more I go through everything, the more I realize I never really knew her. It feels like I’m going through a stranger’s belongings. Sure, I recognize her things, but there’s nothing I'm looking forward to finding. It’s not as if she has a box of pictures from high school that she keeps in the top of her closet, and I’m excited to look at them again because it’s been years since the last time. There isn’t jewelry she always wanted to pass down to me.” As I say it I look down at my bare fingers, then touch my naked wrists.

  “You would know that for sure if you found her will. Assuming she had one.”

  “I think she did,” I say slowly, a memory trudging up through the murky waters in my mind. “I feel like I remember her and Ted meeting with a lawyer when we were in high school.”

  The memory is vague; a quick announcement of where they were going, a short wave of her hand as she walked out the front door.

  Brady stands up from the bed. “Your best bet is looking for it in that desk. If you don’t find it, maybe you can at least find a lawyer’s number.”

  He reaches down, grabbing my hand and pulling me up alongside him.

  “You hungry?” he asks, rubbing his free hand over his stomach in a circular motion.

  “I make it a practice never to turn down food,” I joke, following him out of the room. He walks ahead of me, and I watch him. I’ve always loved his confident stride, his easy gait.

  “My mom would like to have you and Finn over for dinner tonight,” Brady says when he’s halfway down the staircase.

  I’m stunned, pausing on the second stair and reaching for the rail to steady myself. “What?”

  Brady reaches the bottom and turns around. “I know. It’s bizarre. Maybe she’s turning over a new leaf.”

  “Maybe she’s had a bit too much of that brown firewater they keep in the fancy crystal decanter.”

  Brady smirks. “I wouldn’t rule that out. It has more to do with my sister though.”

  I tip my head to the side, curious. Brady watches me descend the stairs.

  “What about your sister?” I ask. Brady opens his mouth to answer, but the ringing doorbell interrupts us.

  I go to the door and pull it open. Elliot? Her gaze darts nervously over my face, her feet shuffle on the tan welcome mat. She’s wearing a new hat this time, a ball cap embroidered with the words Crowns of Courage.

  “Elliot? Can I help you? Is Wilma okay?”

  She nods vigorously. “I just, um... I don’t know. I got in a really big fight with my mom, and things have been crazy, and I didn’t know where to go. I knew you were staying at your mom’s house, so I just…” She ends the sentence with a shrug.

  Stepping back from the door, I welcome her in.

  Elliot steps inside but stops short when she sees Brady. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

  I flash a quick smile at Brady. “You didn’t, Elliot. Brady was just leaving.”

  Brady takes the hint. He brushes a quick kiss on my cheek as he goes by.

  “Be over at six, okay?”

  I nod, fear instantly filling me. An evening with Mr. and Mrs. Sterling? This should be interesting. I wonder what Finn thinks of the offer?

  The door closes behind Brady. Elliot stands there in the foyer, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “You go sit down.” I gesture to the couch in the living room. “I’ll grab us some iced tea.”

  When I get back, Elliot’s sitting on one side of the couch, her shoes kicked off and her feet tucked underneath her.

  I set down our teas and take a seat opposite her.

  “What’s up, Elliot?”

  She shrugs, her eyes on hands that are folded in her lap.

  “Elliot?” I say her name gently.

  She looks at me, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. Her lower lip trembles for a moment, then her expression changes to one of indignation. “It’s just so unfair!” she half-shouts, bringing a fisted hand down hard onto the open palm of her opposite hand.

  I twist my lips, utterly bewildered. The last time I knew Elliot she was a kindergartner bouncing from one place to the next. Now she’s an emotional teenager.

  “What’s unfair?” I ask.

  “My mom. My grandma. Everyone and everything I know.” In one second she tosses her arms dramatically into the air, then in the next, she drops them and they fall down with a soft thud.

  “I really want to go on this church trip with everyone else. But my mom says no, and my grandma agrees with my mom. They’re just so worried about me.” She says so worried in an exaggerated tone that is probably mocking her mom or grandma. “Asher is going, and so is Bianca, and if I don’t go…” She takes a short, sharp breath, and then the tears spill over. “If I don’t go, they’ll probably start dating, but I liked him first, and... and…” She covers her eyes with her hands, her shoulders trembling.

  I move to sit next to Elliot on the couch. Reaching out, I lightly rub circles on her back. “It’s okay, Elliot. It’ll be okay.”

  “Nothing is okay.” Her teary voice is muffled.

  “Does Asher like you?”

  She nods, pulling her hands away from her face. “I think so.” Her gaze finds mine, then drops. “At least, he did.”

  “If Asher likes you, it won’t matter if Bianca is there and you’re not.”

  “You don’t know Bianca. She’s gorgeous. And her hair is so long and pretty.” Elliot�
�s eyes glance my way again. “Like yours. And she has boobs already!” she wails.

  The poor kid. Teenage angst is it’s own special type of hell.

  Leaning forward, I place my hands on her shoulders and rotate her until she’s facing me. Her cheeks are flushed with her upset, and tears are caught in her eyelashes.

  “I don’t know this Bianca girl, maybe she’s as gorgeous as you say. But you’re gorgeous too, okay? And if your relationship with Asher is threatened by something as simple as you not being there and another girl being nearby, then I have a question for you.”

  “Okay.” Elliot draws out the word, her voice shaky.

  “Is he really worth these tears? Is he worth all the time and energy you’re spending on him?” My face is solemn, serious. Elliot, without knowing it, has given me an important job. Being the person she ran to in her moment of crisis is a big responsibility. I wish, when I was Elliot’s age, I’d had someone to come to with my woes. Funny enough, the drama I had as a teen I’m still dealing with years later. Finn, Brady, Finn, Brady...

  “He’s a nice person. And our moms are friends. And he flirts with me constantly.” Her hands move, gesturing as she talks. Suddenly, they fall into her lap. “He might be all I get,” she whispers.

  I have to work to keep a smile from turning my lips. It’s hard, when you’re a teenager, to see past your own world, to know there is a whole life beyond the one you’re currently stuck in.

  “Someone, whether it’s Asher or another person, is going to make you very happy one day.” I place a hand over my heart. “I promise.”

  She nods and wipes her cheeks. I stand up and step away, sensing she’s ready for personal space. Grabbing my tea, I sip and ask, “How did you get here?”

  “I don’t live that far from you. I came over here a bunch, when your mom was alive.” She glances around the house.

  This makes me curious. “Why would you come over?”

  “Your mom liked to have the youth group over. Cookie baking, game night. That kind of thing.”

  I nod once, but inside I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. Who was my mother? I knew only a small portion of her. I knew her mean streak, her colorful past. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe she hated my knowledge. She was terrified I’d tell everyone. But if someone had dirt on me, I think I’d bend over backward to be as nice to them as possible.

  “Do you miss her?”

  I’m taking a sip of tea when she asks, so I keep the glass at my lips and take two, then three. Fake a little cough and offer a small smile to the brown-haired, gangly teenager across from me.

  “Of course,” I hear myself say, the lie sliding neatly between my teeth. Desecrating my mother’s good name isn’t going to bring me closure. I want to close the chapter on my childhood, not wound other people.

  “Speaking of mothers, does yours know where you are?”

  Guilt rides across Elliot’s face. “No.”

  I sigh and stand. “Come on. I’ll take you home. She’s probably worried.”

  Turns out, I’m right. When we pull up, the front door opens and a middle-aged woman walks out, followed by an older one I recognize. Wilma.

  “Elliot Renee, where have you been?” The woman I assume is Elliot’s mother rushes forward, her worried eyes trained on me. “Who are you?”

  My mouth opens, but Wilma beats me to it. “This is Mrs. Blake’s daughter, Lennon. She came home to handle the affairs.” Wilma steps up beside her daughter. “Lennon, this is my daughter, Angela. Forgive her manners. She’s been beside herself.”

  I don’t remind Angela that we’ve met before, back she would drop off Elliot in my classroom.

  Angela extends a hand, probably out of habit, and I shake it quickly. Her eyes assess me. “Not to be rude, Lennon, but how did my daughter end up with you?”

  I open my mouth to speak, and again I’m beat to it.

  “I went to see her,” Elliot answers.

  Angela squeezes her eyes closed, sighing. She opens them and levels her gaze on her daughter. “Ellie, you cannot just take off like that because you didn’t like the answer you were given. Go inside.” Angela tosses her head back and to the side, gesturing toward the house. “We’ll talk about this when I come inside.”

  “Fine.” Elliot practically spits the word. She crosses her arms and stomps past the three of us, and when she gets inside, she slams the front door closed.

  Wilma and Angela share a knowing look, and I imagine a whole conversation taking place in that one glance. Some comment about teenagers, and the soft reminder that Angela was like that once too.

  I shift my weight, uncomfortable now that Elliot’s gone. Angela looks at me and says, “Thank you for keeping her safe and bringing her back here.”

  “It was no trouble. Elliot’s a great kid and—”

  “Ellie,” both women correct me.

  As swiftly as they’ve corrected me, I could just as swiftly remind them that Ellie prefers to be called Elliot. It’s not worth my time or energy though, so instead, I say, “She really wants to go on that trip.”

  Angela laughs, but it’s an empty, defeated sound. “Did she tell you why she’s not going?”

  I shake my head, and suddenly I’m wary of the information coming my way.

  Angela bites her lower lip, her gaze going somewhere beyond me. Her eyes fill with tears, and I look to Wilma for understanding.

  Wilma swallows, looks me in the eye, and says, “Ellie’s in the middle of chemotherapy.”

  15

  Now

  I think about it while I shower. I think about it while I blow-dry my hair, a long and painstaking process. I think about it as I spend too much time picking out an acceptable outfit for dinner at Brady’s.

  Elliot has Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Of all the types of lymphoma, apparently this one is the most desirable.

  Despite Elliot’s insistence that she feels well enough to go on this trip (which I’ve learned is a church youth group trip to a theme park in Southern California), Angela isn’t allowing it, and neither is Elliot’s doctor.

  I feel terrible for her. Girls her age are supposed to be worried about school and grades, whether their crush likes them, and making friends. Instead, Elliot spends her time going to chemo, and then attempting to recover from it.

  I see myself in Elliot. Her restless energy matched my own at that age. Listening to her lack of confidence was like looking into a mirror. I barely know this older version of Elliot, but I feel oddly protective of her. I want to wrap her up in my arms, shield her from the pain of adolescence.

  And on top of it all, she’s going through it with a cancer diagnosis. She drew a shit hand.

  I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s anything I can do for her, but I’m coming up empty. My ear is the best thing I can lend her.

  Before I leave for Brady’s, I take a good, long look at myself in the mirror. My hair is long, almost to my belly-button, and straight. It hasn’t been short since that first time I grew it out after convincing my mom she wouldn’t have to style it anymore. Now it’s become my calling card. I’m the girl with really long hair. Like a child with a lovey, my hair brings me comfort.

  On the way to Brady’s house, I glance at the grocery stores I’m passing. I could stop and pick up something, maybe a bottle of wine or flowers, but I can’t afford the nice stuff Mrs. Sterling is used to and bringing her shitty wine and carnations with baby’s breath seems worse than showing up empty-handed.

  I’m climbing from the car when Finn’s truck slows to a stop behind me. He gets out, his arms full of wine and flowers.

  “Oh, thank God,” I breathe, looking over his purchase. The wine doesn’t look cheap and the lilies are white and fragrant.

  “They’re from both of us.” He winks at me.

  I smile gratefully at him as we make our way to the front door.

  Brady answers my knock. He’s wearing a collared shirt, the shade of blue the exact match of his eyes. If I had blue eyes, I’d do t
hat too.

  Brady extends a hand to Finn, and they shake and do a half-hug.

  “Lennon.” His eyes are on me as he pulls away from Finn. He brushes a light kiss on my cheek.

  “Thanks for having us.” I glance over his shoulder to be certain his mom or dad isn’t hovering nearby, and murmur, “Although I’m still not sure why we were invited.”

  Brady chuckles. “It’s not clear to me either.”

  Pulling on a bright smile, I decide to make the best of it. Taking the wine and flowers from Finn’s hands, I sidestep Brady and say, “I’m going to find your mother and give her the hostess gifts I brought.” I look back at Finn. He narrows his eyes and I playfully stick out my tongue. Brady laughs, and for a glimmer of a second, it feels like old times, like we’re in sixth grade again and I’ve stolen the second scoop from the top of Finn’s ice cream cone. I’ve always stolen from Finn, and he’s always let me. Does it make me a thief if the rightful owner allows me to abscond with his things?

  I find Mrs. Sterling in the kitchen. She stands on the far side of the island, arranging a charcuterie board. It looks so delicious I could dive headfirst into it, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I say, “Hello Mrs. Sterling. It’s nice to see you again.” I clear my throat lightly, willing away the tentative tone of my voice.

  Brady’s mother looks up. She smiles, and although it’s not genuine, it’s better than I expected. Perhaps in her own way she is trying.

  “Lennon, it’s been so long. What? Seven, maybe eight years?” Her hands are folded, resting on the countertop. She looks at me, blinking twice while she waits for my response.

  “Uh, yes. Not since that last summer.”

  Her smile falters. It takes just a moment for her to pick it up and paste it back onto her face. “Right,” she says smoothly.

  “These are for you,” I say in a rush, remembering what’s resting in my arms.