Inside the wallet in my purse is my own personal credit card. I can pay for the monocular but I won’t. I’m committed to it now and just knowing that gives me the same feeling I’ve had in the past, my heart so full and my senses sharp and finely tuned. It’s as though I’ve just taken the biggest, coldest breath of air that completely fills me to the last fiber of my most insignificant nerve ending. But I know from experience the feeling will morph into a cold, sick shame before I walk out the door, so why am I doing it again? With my head down, I walk away from the aisle where others have now come to browse.
I’ve almost reached the entrance of the store when I raise my head and look straight into the face of a boy I know from school. He wears a badge that identifies him as an employee of the store. Jake. I know Jake Robbins, or know of him, even though we’ve never spoken. He plays football, and I see him at lunch with other jocks who are popular and who hang around the starry-eyed, glossy-haired girls whom life seems to favor. I’m not sure if Jake is popular because boys move more easily in and out of different social groups at our school. But he has everything a boy would need to achieve top social status. He’s handsome. He’s athletic.
And now he’s looking right at me . . . and shaking his head ever so slightly. He has a look on his face that says don’t do this. And, without breaking eye contact, I walk straight to the door and exit the store.
Back out in the mall I’m on the shopper treadmill once again and the monocular in my purse seems like it’s sending out a distress signal. It feels like a hundred-pound weight is pulling the strap of my purse down hard against my shoulder. My stomach churns and I know I only have minutes to locate a bathroom. At the end of the mall there’s a Cineplex theater which I race toward to buy a ticket for a movie I’ve never heard of. When I enter the lobby, I run to the bathroom where I empty both my stomach and bowels within seconds. I’ve lost my nerve and I know I’ll never be able to pull this off again. It’s my first time being caught. Lyla said I’d hit a new low. Now I know I’ve hit another one.
The dark theater is almost empty and previews are already playing. I put my feet up on the seat in front of me and unzip my purse. My hand searches for the monocular and curls around it. It feels hard and dangerous, like a grenade. I zip up my purse and stare at the screen. The preview that’s playing is supposed to be funny but the actor has a cruel expression. I scrunch down further in my seat and slide my feet, one on top of the other, into the gap between the seats in front of me. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. The image of the cop with the gentle eyes comes back to me. Move along.
Chapter | 4
My cell phone wakes me. How long have I been asleep? Two older women are seated three seats down from me in the still almost empty theater. They seem disgusted by the interruption and cluck to each other. My phone chimes again, and I pull it from my purse. The screen glows and lights up the space around me. The two women make a huge production of rising from their seats and relocating to the row in front of me, shaking their heads in disapproval. The funny thing is they don’t even know how right they are. I’d move away from me too if I were them . . . but not just because of my disruptive cell phone. I have two text messages.
Dad:
Happy Birthday! Don’t be late for dinner
Lyla:
Happy Birthday! BFFs 4ever 4ever!
It’s my birthday. I’m seventeen.
Happy birthday, loser.
__________
It’s six thirty when I finally pull into my driveway. Dad will be upset, but he won’t say anything because it’s my birthday. Marie will be busy in the kitchen speaking sweetly to my dad and pretending that everything is fine but, in reality, she’ll be mad. But I’m counting on that birthday protective shield where nobody’s allowed to show their anger. Sometimes I don’t know what bothers me more . . . Marie taking my father away from me, or Marie trying to take me away from me. Most of the time I just wish she’d leave me alone and quit trying to insert herself into my life. Even Dad doesn’t try to do that as much anymore.
I don’t think Dad has any idea how far in over his head he is. Sometimes I actually feel sorry for him. He wants both Marie and me to be happy but that can’t happen. One of us is going to be disappointed if the other one has her way. But I’m surprised when I walk into the kitchen where I hear their voices and they both look up at me with genuine happiness in their faces.
“Happy Birthday, kiddo!” Dad says. He walks over to give me a two-armed hug. I can’t remember the last time that’s happened.
“Happy Birthday, Krista!” Marie holds up an elaborately decorated chocolate cake. “I wish I could have made one for you myself, but I didn’t have enough time.”
“It’s the sentiment that counts,” Dad interjects.
“Thanks.” I know Dad thinks I resent the cake and maybe I do. This is my first ever store-bought cake because last year I had no cake at all even though my father bought me the Hornet. A birthday cake is a much more complicated thing than a car, and last year neither one of us was ready to tackle it. But now I guess we’re moving on, store-bought or not.
“Look, they started to spell my name with a ‘C’.” I point to the bright yellow icing cursive which has been smeared with chocolate frosting to turn the ‘C’ into a ‘K’.
Dad looks over quickly at Marie to see if she’s wounded by my remark, but all I can think of is how he should have planned a birthday dinner for just the two of us. It is my birthday, and he’s worrying about her. I doubt Marie enjoys this any more than I do, so why not one more year to get used to birthdays before she joins us? One more year would have been nice.
Dinner is take-out Chinese in my honor. I’m surprisingly hungry, but then I remember that my stomach has been completely empty since I threw up at the theater. And I remember the monocular in my bag. It feels like a fat, ugly toad I want to poke with a stick until it hops away.
“Make a wish,” Marie urges when she brings out the cake all glittering with tiny, pink candles. I wish the monocular would disappear. I wish I had this day to do over again.
After we’ve all had a slice of birthday cake, my father reminds me we’ve scheduled a talk, so we excuse ourselves to go to the bedroom he shares with Marie. The one he used to share with Mom. Marie stays behind in the kitchen to clean up.
“I’ve been thinking,” Dad begins cautiously. “It might be a little much for you to plan things out right now, but I still think it’s important for you to keep busy.”
Where is this leading? With my father, you never know because he feels completely comfortable road-mapping other people’s lives. Years of being a doctor has turned him into a control freak—or maybe he was just born that way. I can see how it could be reassuring to his patients who just want someone to tell them what to do. But I learned a long time ago it’s better to see where he’s going before responding, so I just nod my head noncommittally.
“So what I’ve decided . . .”
One part of the question has just been answered. I won’t have a say in the decision.
“. . . is that you’ll be in charge of taking care of your grandpa when he’s here.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you’ll be driving him to all his medical appointments and basically making sure he’s entertained and gets his meals until we come home at night,” Dad explains. “On the weekends, of course, I’ll spell you a bit. And Marie will pitch in when she can. But it’s mainly going to be up to you. Can I count on you, kiddo?” He gives a half-hearted chuckle and a light playful punch on my upper arm, the way he used to when I was little and about to run out on the soccer field. Poor Dad, I’m sure he wanted a boy.
“How do I entertain him?” I ask. “Half the time I can’t even understand what he’s saying.”
The one thing I do remember about Grandpa is that he’s not like other grandpas. There’s always been a s
ort of invisible wall between us. Not so much a language barrier but more a barrier that has to do with oceans I’ve never crossed and continents I’ve never seen. At some point, we seem to have agreed to just be mysteries to each other and to carry on our relationship through his wife, my grandma, and my mom, his daughter. Now that they’re both gone I wonder if we’ll have anything to say to each other.
“You’ll figure it out. And anyway, the important thing is to make sure he’s on time to his doctors’ appointments and that he gets fed. Do it for Mom . . . remember, this is her dad. Wouldn’t you want your daughter to take care of me if I was old and helpless?”
I find that image to be too disturbing so I put it out of my mind.
“Fine. I can handle it.” I know I’m getting off easy. This is better than a real job and it will keep Dad off my case this summer. Or at least for as long as Grandpa stays.
“Another thing . . .” I guess Dad isn’t finished yet. “Marie just found out she has the kids this weekend so we’re flying down to Disneyland. Why don’t you come? It will be good for you to get away.”
I’d rather break both of my legs. Marie and Dad probably need a babysitter so they can go out for drinks at night. A weekend with those two brats stuck in a hotel room? But I know that’s not completely fair. They probably resent my dad as much as I resent their mom.
“Do I have to decide right now?” I know what my answer will be but I want Dad to think I’m at least considering the possibility.
“We’ll need to buy your ticket tomorrow so let me know before I leave for work.”
I figure it’s safe to leave now but Dad has one more thing on his mind. He walks over to his bedside table and picks up a gift-wrapped box that he hands to me.
“Happy Birthday, Krista,” he says softly. I think I hear sadness and regret in his voice.
“Thanks Dad.” I gently peel away the wrapping paper to reveal the box underneath. A pair of binoculars.
“They’re digital,” Dad says with pride. “You should be able to get quite a view from your perch up there.”
I’m stunned that Dad has been able to read me so well but I wish the monocular in my purse wasn’t taunting me. I can almost hear it daring me to embrace the joy of the moment, to accept the gift with pure and simple gratitude, to see myself through my father’s eyes. I know this is a moment I should cry but I’ve had a lot of practice at repressing tears, and anyway, I’d just be crying for all the wrong reasons.
“Thanks, Dad.” Another two-armed hug. Two in one day. I almost lose it. Almost.
__________
Up on the rooftop another surprise awaits me. An outdoor reclining chair is positioned right next to my tent, facing the city lights. I recognize it as being from that expensive home furnishing website where Marie likes to shop. A note is attached:
I hope you like it. Much love from Marie.
The truth is I love it. And yet I feel ambivalent. If it wasn’t for Marie I wouldn’t be living up here in the tent, and the chair makes it feel like she’s okay with me being here. And even though I want Dad and Marie to be okay with me living here, I don’t exactly want them to be okay with being okay. Lyla didn’t get this when I explained it to her, but to me. . . well, it makes perfect sense.
So here I am and there it is. I sit down on the chair and lean back, unfolding my legs. The night is warm and the breeze feels like silk against my skin. In the distance, lights twinkle and gleam like fairy dust. I can hear the soft but deep hoot of the great-horned owl.
It’s time for the hunt, my friend.
Car headlights brighten the street in front of my house and then go dark. A car door opens and shuts. When my cell phone rings I know it’s either Lyla or my dad using our ‘intercom’ system. But it’s Marie, and her voice is flush with excitement.
“Krista, are you decent? A young man is looking for you, and I’m sending him up!”
A young man? Coming up here? Why would Marie send someone up without asking me first? I suppose she’s thrilled at the prospect of my having a life, which would make her attempt at having a life with Dad so much easier.
But only a few minutes later a head appears over the edge of the roof. It’s Jake Robbins. He climbs the rest of the way up the ladder and then sort of does a sweep of my rooftop refuge with his eyes while my heart sets a speed record inside my chest. Once he’s sized up everything, he walks over to where I’m pretending to relax on my new reclining chair. He faces me directly and looks straight into my eyes.
“Why did you do that today?” he asks.
“How did you know where I live?” I can’t answer his question.
“School directory. I know who you are.”
That makes sense. I knew who he was but I’m still surprised that he would be aware of me. I thought I was pretty much invisible to guys like him.
“So why’d you do it?” He’s not going to give up. “Look at your house. Look at all . . . this . . .” he waves his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Your family obviously has bucks.”
“I’m sorry.” I can’t think of any other appropriate response, and the truth is I’m not sure myself why I did it. Except for the feeling. I did it for the feeling.
“Sorry?” His voice rises in anger. “I could’ve lost my job if anyone knew I let you go. I gave you the chance to put it back. And you went right ahead and did it anyway!”
“So why didn’t you turn me in?” It feels like he’s arrived with a warrant for my arrest. I half expect him to pull out a pair of handcuffs.
“I don’t know. I felt sorry for you. Everyone knows what happened . . .”
“Oh yeah, I guess I knew that. Everyone feels sorry for me.” That’s why I couldn’t make new friends even if I wanted to. Nobody wants to be friends with someone they feel sorry for. Lyla’s different. She was with me before. She knows who I really am . . . or maybe she just knows who I really was. “Well . . . thanks. Anyway, I threw it away when I got home so don’t worry that I’m keeping it.”
“Threw it away? That’s supposed to make it all better?”
“So that’s why you’re here? To make everything better?”
Or is he here to make me feel worse? He’s already accomplished that so I don’t know what else to say. He stares at the city lights and then looks over at my tent as if seeing it for the first time.
“Why do you live in a tent on your roof?” he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. “I dunno. It’s peaceful, I guess.”
“Odd,” he says. “Well . . . whatever.” He walks back to the ladder and disappears under the lip of the roof.
What is it about Jake Robbins that succeeds in undermining my steely resolve in a way that my father and I failed to do? A few tears escape from my eyes and slide down my cheeks. I can taste their bitter saltiness on the corners of my lips. I think about the monocular that I wrapped in a bag so no one would see it in the garbage container. I thought somehow I was doing a noble thing by tossing it. Now I realize I was just taking the easy way out.
__________
I once watched an entire movie without any sound. We were flying home from our vacation in Florida where we’d gone so my grandparents could have time with their grandkids. I was probably about nine years old, and my family was fast asleep in the seats next to me by the time the movie started. I didn’t have a headphone set and was too shy to ask the flight attendant for one, so when the movie came on, I watched it anyway. The characters laughed. The characters cried. I could generally figure out the storyline. Still, it barely had any impact on me by the time it was over.
Years later, I saw the same movie again when it played on TV. This time I could hear what the characters said to each other, and the music soundtrack amplified each emotion. There were no awkward pauses or wasted words. It drew me in and steered me toward the powerfully moving conclusion.
Afterward, I thought a
bout it and realized that life is more like a silent movie. If you watch a person’s life unfold, you can observe her day-to-day activities. You might witness her tragedy or observe her success but you would never know the truth of what she feels inside. You couldn’t hear her laughter or see her tears behind closed doors. She might be hiding a million things. Because life just goes on and on, you won’t ever have a chance to see a conclusion with a clear message. And there’s never any sad music that will let you know when it’s time to cry.
__________
The next morning, the sound of the garbage truck wakes me and I feel anxious. I know there’s something that needs my immediate attention but for a few seconds I can’t remember what it is. And then . . . oh crap, the monocular!
I pull on a pair of sweat shorts and a t-shirt and descend the ladder as quickly as I know is safe. I’ve been up and down this ladder so many times I have a pretty good feeling for how fast I can push it. Barefoot, I run up the driveway to the street just as the garbage truck has stopped in front of our house. The huge pincers are lowered and aimed right at the blue can containing the nonrecyclables.
“Wait!” I call out to the driver. I wave both arms over my head in the universal sign of stop-whatever-you’re-doing, just in case he can’t hear me above the noise of the truck. The pincers freeze mid-air. “Thanks. I lost something.”
In a supremely embarrassing moment, I dig through the trash looking for the brown paper bag where I stuffed the monocular. I’m so relieved to find it that I’m almost happy. I smile and wave at the driver and he waves back with a puzzled look on his face. But now that I’ve salvaged the monocular, I’m not sure what to do next.
Jake said he felt sorry for me. That all the kids knew what happened. But he didn’t treat me like the other kids who speak to me as though I’m made of glass—the pathetic girl who stands apart because of the horrible thing that happened in her life. Even the teachers are different with me. I get allowances that others don’t when my homework is late. I get a lot of extra attention if I ask a question or need some help. But that’s not what I want. I only want to be like everyone else, and yet I’m not like everyone else. Jake spoke to me as though I was a regular person . . . a bad person, maybe, but someone who could withstand normal human interaction. It felt good to be the object of his anger. I’m grateful to him.
The House at 758 Page 3