Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

  When he reached out a hand, without even opening his eyes, it was as if he had read my mind.

  I took his hand, shifting sideways so I could watch him more closely. As the music washed over us, I began running my thumb softly over his knuckles.

  I knew I was treading directly on top of a line, but the want . . . the want was so much. I leaned forward, my lips hovering inches from his. On some level, I knew it was the equivalent of a one-way ticket, if I crossed this line. But that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care. There was nothing I wanted more, no perspective or logic that outweighed my need to be close to him. I wanted to kiss him so badly, I was incapable of clear thought.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed my eyes and brushed his lips with mine, so, so lightly. And he made a sound, this breathy, tiny sound, and oh, God, it ping-ponged all over in me, lighting me up. Emboldened by his not pulling away, by the thrilling echo of his little sound, I touched his lips with mine again, and then . . . it was happening. We were kissing, and it was the softest, most tender thing I’d ever felt.

  I met his pace, gentle and slow, almost delirious that this was real, that it was so, so good. Never had a kiss felt like this — not even remotely. When his tongue swept my lip, something exploded in me. I opened my mouth to his and pulled at his neck, his back, not wanting our lips to let go, not for a second, not for anything.

  And then he abruptly broke away. “Oh, God.” He pressed his hand to his eyes. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry!”

  I blinked at the sudden withdrawal, my lips still hungry for his. “It’s okay.” I touched his shoulder lightly.

  He jerked away, then scrambled off the bed and crossed the room. “Jesus,” he muttered.

  My stomach dropped. I scooted off the bed and went to him, wanting to hug him so much that I wound my fingers together to stop myself. “Luke, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay.” Louder now. He scraped his fingers through his hair. “It’s fucked up.”

  My chest tightened, and I clutched my arms to myself.

  “You’re supposed to be my little sister!” he cried. “All I wanted was to be your brother again. Not to be — to do that . . .” He made a disgusted face. “God, what would my parents think if they knew about this?” His hand went to his forehead. His fingers shook.

  I wanted to remind him that we weren’t related and that it’s okay, but I finally understood: it wasn’t about our DNA. It was about how he saw me, about who I was to him. It was about how he felt about me. And how he didn’t feel.

  I was sick over my actions, over my complete stupidity and recklessness. Part of me wanted to run and never look back, pretend I’d never met him. . . . But the thought of losing him entirely was more painful even than my shame. How could I have fucked things up so badly?

  I had to salvage what I could. I had to somehow assure him we were okay. “It’s not your fault,” I told him. “I kissed you. You didn’t do anything.”

  He remained turned away from me as he spoke. “I didn’t stop it fast enough. I was caught off-guard and I wasn’t thinking and —” Suddenly, he turned, his expression changing as my words sank in. “Why did you . . . ?” He lifted a hand, palm up. “Was that just an impulse? You don’t, like, have feelings for me, do you?”

  His expression was a knife in my heart. He looked horrified at the idea. If I said yes, if I admitted that not only had I kissed him with full knowledge of what I was doing, but that I was actually in love with him . . .

  Then it would be over.

  I couldn’t lose him.

  So I lied. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said, wringing my hands together. “Today was so overwhelming, and I was really tired, and I think the beer went to my head. . . . I’m sorry, Luke. I don’t know why I did it.”

  He watched me for a minute, the doubt on his face plain. He turned away again, his eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s late. You’d better get to bed. I’ll drive you home in the morning.”

  The knife in my heart twisted. He wasn’t going to soften or come around. Nothing I said would change the way he saw this. There was nothing for me to do.

  I got up, opened the door quietly, and walked down the hall to his baby sister’s bedroom.

  The night was hell. I cried through most of it. I kept hoping Luke would knock on my door because he couldn’t sleep either. That he’d say he was sorry for overreacting. The truth was, I wished for foolish things, too. I wished he’d come back and take me in his arms and say he’d been fighting these feelings, too, that he’d also been dreaming of that kiss. But of course I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I hated myself for being so stupid.

  As the minutes and then hours ticked past, I wished for smaller things. I wished he’d come and say that he understood, that it was just a weird blip, like I’d said, and that those things happen and we’d be okay. . . . But that didn’t happen, either.

  I felt sick with regret over what I’d done. Had I ruined things permanently? What if Luke couldn’t ever look at me again without feeling disgusted?

  What had I done?

  As the first light of dawn filled the room, I thought about tiptoeing out of the house, finding a café or something, and calling Gab or my mom or someone to come get me. But the thought of not seeing Luke, of not fixing things, was as agonizing as the thought of seeing him was terrifying.

  I lay on the bed for who knows how long, contemplating the terrible new reality. Finally, my bladder forced me into action. I got dressed and tiptoed to the bathroom, wondering if Luke was sleeping — his door was closed — and wondering how Mima was this morning.

  I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had never looked so ugly. My face was puffy, splotchy — my eyes were swollen halfway shut.

  I hated myself. After a lifetime of being afraid to step a toe out of line, I had fucked up wildly, epically, egregiously. And the stakes had never been higher.

  My stomach took a dive as I realized not just that I had crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed, but I did it when Luke was most vulnerable — with grief, with alcohol, with exhaustion. The idea that I took advantage of him sent a wave of nausea through me so fierce that I turned and knelt at the toilet. I threw up twice, leaving my throat burning as badly as my eyes.

  When it passed, I stood up and rinsed my face. And then I remembered, fuck — I was stranded without a toothbrush. I rubbed toothpaste on my teeth with my finger and rinsed over and over, then went to my room and sat on the bed, waiting for something to happen.

  After a few minutes, I was yawning so hard my eyes were tearing, so I tipped over and lay on my side. I was dreaming a series of random, frenzied scenes when I realized someone was saying my name. I opened my eyes to find Luke standing over me. He was dressed, and his hair was dripping wet. I sprang up to sitting.

  “Hey. You ready to go?” His voice was low, almost gravelly, and he looked as wrecked as I felt. But what sent a chill through me was the fact that he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  I lowered my feet to the floor. My sinuses stung with the need to cry; it was unbearable, the absence of his warmth and humor.

  “What about Mima?” I asked softly. “Should . . . should I say good-bye?”

  He hesitated. “She’s asleep. Dad is, too. They might not be up for a while. I’ll tell them you said good-bye.”

  So I picked up my things and followed him downstairs. I felt like I was being put out like yesterday’s garbage. Worse, given Mima’s condition and the way Luke seemed to feel toward me now, I realized I would likely never see her again, never say good-bye. Would he tell her what I’d done? My stomach seized at the idea that he’d tell his parents, make them think badly of me. I wanted to beg him not to, but I had no right to ask anything of him.

  “Do you need to eat something?” he asked, slipping his shoes on by the front door.

  My stomach was growling, but I still felt sick. Maybe something to settle it would help, but I couldn’t eat now — not while he was like this. Even j
ust his choice of words — did I need to eat rather than want — made clear his desire to get me out of there.

  I shook my head, trying to hold in my tears. He handed me my jacket.

  We stepped out into the cool, sunny morning. A fine mist covered the windows of his car, and he pulled a rag out of the trunk and wiped them down. The air smelled of cold, wet spring.

  I got in and fastened my seat belt, shaking. I had never been so anxious, so miserable and fearful and distraught. I had to make something good happen during this car ride, had to carve out some hope of healing, of coming out okay.

  But before I could even take a breath to speak, he reached out and turned on the stereo. And then he turned it up louder than usual. The message was clear.

  The tears spilled over — I couldn’t stop them. I was afraid he hated me. I wanted him to tell me we’d be okay, that it wasn’t over. That I hadn’t lost him, hadn’t lost the best thing that had ever happened to me by being a silly, stupid, greedy fool.

  Nothing was ever fucking enough for me. I always, always wanted what I didn’t have.

  The ride stretched interminably. I cast occasional glances at Luke, at the way the morning sun lit planes of his face through the window, lit the stubble on his chin. I loved him. I loved him in wrong ways, yes, but didn’t I also love him in right ways? I loved who he was, how kind and funny and warm and good. Could I in time let go of the romantic feelings in favor of something more correct, more sustainable? If it meant not losing him? I had to. I wanted that chance.

  Finally we reached Maplebrook. When he pulled into my driveway, he turned down the stereo and addressed the dashboard. “Look. I think it’s best if we take some time.”

  This was another excruciating blow. I knew it was well within his rights to ask for this, but the thought of being cut off from him was unbearable. “Luke. Please. Can we just — can we just forget about what happened?”

  But even as I said it, I knew I’d never forget about the most exquisite, amazing kiss of my lifetime.

  “I’m sorry, Jules, I just . . . I can’t deal with this right now.” He looked out the window. “I really need to get back.”

  I started to cry. “I know things seem fucked up right now, but I still — I care about you all so much and . . . I don’t think I could take losing you.”

  He blinked at his lap. “I just need some space right now.”

  What did that mean? I fought panic. “Can just tell me how long you think . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to finish that sentence.

  The crushing, desperate humiliation of begging. Actually begging.

  When he didn’t answer right away, I knew I didn’t want to wait to hear what he might say. My hand hit the door handle, and I stumbled out of the car. I closed the door behind me and made my way up the walk, praying he’d call after me. But no — he was already backing out of the driveway.

  I closed the front door behind me and slid to the floor.

  “Jules?” I heard my mom’s footsteps in the hall. “I’m glad you’re home so early! I have something to show you.” She appeared from the hallway and her face fell. “What happened?” she asked, squatting down next to me. “Did she — is she gone?”

  Oh, God. Of course that’s what Mom would assume! I shook my head. “It’s Luke. I fucked everything up.”

  Words tumbled out, tangled up in sobs. At some point my mom pulled me to the couch. And I told her everything.

  Because among all the other things that had happened that weekend, I had learned that my mom had been in love once. And had fucked up many times. She was the one I wanted to tell. She wasn’t perfect like Leila. She didn’t have a safety net like Gab. She wasn’t lost in an imaginary world like Eli. She was mostly, well, like me.

  So I told her about my feelings for Luke and my idiotic actions and the aftermath.

  And she didn’t try to fix things, didn’t tell me I was twisted or gross or stupid. She just listened. And the truth is, in those moments, I wouldn’t have traded her for Gab’s mom or Leila’s mom or anyone’s mom. By some miracle, my own mom was all I needed.

  “The worst part is that I didn’t get to say good-bye to Mima.” I wiped my eyes with a tissue. “If I had known yesterday was the last time I’d see her . . .”

  “You got a lot,” my mom said gently, laying a hand on my arm. “You got more than a lot of us ever get.”

  My breath caught as I realized what she was referring to. Ethan. My father. Of course — she never got to say good-bye. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “No, don’t be! That’s not why I’m saying that. My point is you might never have met her again, but you had this time with her, and you got to reconnect and express your love and gratitude to her, and she got to tell you that she loved you. Did she tell you she loves you?” She smiled softly. “She told me.”

  That started me crying all over again.

  “She said you were a gift to her once — ‘like an angel.’ And then you were a gift again, now. And you are — you’re such a gift.” And then her eyes welled up, too, and I leaned into her arms.

  When I had cried myself out, she stood up. “Come on. I want to show you something.” She pulled me by the arm into her studio. Propped up on her easel was a finished painting, track lights all pointed at it. “I did this painting nineteen years ago. For Ethan.”

  I took in the art in front of me, or tried. But to do so, I had to realize something:

  I didn’t know shit about my mom.

  It was like finding out that the house you had lived in your whole life had secret passageways, and they led to amazing rooms that were filled with astonishing treasures. And all this time, those rooms were right there, but you never knew. “Where was this?” I asked.

  “Wrapped up in the back of my closet. I finally took it out yesterday, after . . .” She stared at the painting, her face a mix of emotions. “Everything in this painting is something he loved or was fascinated by or obsessed with.”

  I stared at the painting. Contained within a few square feet of canvas was a veritable map to my father.

  The painting itself was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. It seemed like several disparate scenes blended into one, like a number of paintings superimposed into one space that somehow just worked. The first thing that drew my eye was a psychedelically colored dragon near a green river that sparkled with silver (upon closer inspection I saw that the sparkles were actually stars). The dragon held a top hat in both hands, and a mermaid leaned out from the hat, her wavy blue hair trailing down the embankment and into the river. A dazzlingly white baby bassinet was cascading down the river of stars. There was a path paved with playing cards that led to a picnic table, where a tea party was set up. A rainbow arced from the sky into a teacup, where a little blond girl sat, gesturing as if talking to someone across the table, but there was no one there. The sky was the most beautiful one my mom had ever done — somehow a hazy swirl of lilacs and gold and wisps of bright coral. It almost seemed to be lit from behind. There was so much to take in. It was staggering how talented she’d been even then, at my age. And there was no question that it was a work of love, of complete devotion.

  “The thing about your dad,” she said, “is that he wanted magic to be real. The most important things about him are all in this painting.”

  “Mom. This is amazing.”

  She turned and hugged me so tightly and suddenly that it jarred me. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d embraced me like that. Clearly something that she’d bottled up for years had been set free, and it meant everything to her to share it with me.

  “You were there, you know,” she told me, pulling back. “I was pregnant with you when I painted this.”

  “You were?” I gazed at the painting, imagining being inside the artist as she painted this. “Is that the significance of the bassinet?”

  She nodded, smiling. “That’s how I told him.” She held her hands tightly at her chest. “I really wanted to believe we could have it all. Have a b
aby, be sober, and still have all the magic, all the art, have everything. And I wanted him to believe it, too.” She stared at the painting, biting her lips together. “It sounds so naive, I know.”

  It sounded . . . lovely. And not at all like my mom. “How did he take it?” I asked softly. “That you were pregnant.”

  She turned to me, emotion creasing her brow. “Oh, he was so excited, Jules.” She touched my hair. “So excited. And I was so . . . hopeful. I thought we were on the path to a perfect life. It felt like you were a gift, like you were the key to everything.”

  A gift. My throat tightened. My whole life, I’d felt like a curse.

  I thought of her being my age and pregnant, and losing the person she loved most in the world — unexpectedly and in a horrible way. Being left alone with a baby and nothing else. Giving in to addiction, then losing even her child. Losing everything, literally everything.

  She had suffered in ways I could barely even fathom.

  Maybe Leila was right about my mother, about how huge it was, is, that she fought for me.

  Maybe the narrative I was stuck in about my mother and myself was only one version of reality.

  I heard nothing from Luke that week, which I should have expected, but it decimated me anyway, every day, every hour. I’d try to focus all day on what it would mean to be his sister, and what I could do to show him that I could be that, show him that we’d be fine if he just gave it a chance. Then I’d lie in bed at night remembering the feel of his mouth, his mind-bendingly slow, soft kissing.

  My days were composed of millions of agonizing, Lukeless moments, and there was nothing to do but push through them.

  And what about Mima? Was I to assume that because I hadn’t heard otherwise, Mima was still with us? Would Luke even contact me to let me know if she’d passed?

  And the other agonizing thought: Had Luke told his parents about what had happened? If not, then how had he explained my abrupt departure? And if he had . . . did I disgust them, too? Was the whole family glad to be rid of me?