Chasing Days

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  “What?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if we should tell you this,” she says. "It sets a bad example."

  My dad shrugs. “She’s practically an adult and plus, it demonstrates a certain utilitarianism.”

  My mom laughs again.

  “What? Tell me,” I demand.

  She relents after she catches her breath. “Okay, well, you know how you and Teddy went swimming a few times after they'd moved in.”

  “Yeah, under Mrs. Westing’s scrutiny. ‘Don’t splash. No running. You’re staying underwater too long,’” I say in my best impression of her shrill voice.

  “Dead on. What always killed me was Arnold Westing’s pretentious expression that said I’m bored and you’re annoying,” my dad chimes in.

  “Yes!” I answer. "That is the look he gives. Smug, right?"

  “Okay, okay, let’s not bash them,” my mom says kindly.

  “They’re insufferable,” my dad argues.

  “That I know. Anyway, after that first season, when the pool hardly went used, one night, we’d just returned home from Nahali’s birthday party. Anyway, you were still with the sitter and we’d taste tested a few too many beers,” my dad says.

  “I was sober,” Mom claims.

  “Is that so?” my dad says in disbelief.

  “Yes. I had one beer, with dinner, but that was like, six hours earlier.”

  “You were feisty without being under the influence.”

  I squirm. She shrugs and smirks like it’s nothing.

  “Well, the Westings hadn’t used the pool, like at all,” my dad says, taking up the story.

  “So we snuck over the fence,” my mom says.

  “And went for a dip."

  Their matching grins suggest triumph over the pool-is-just-for-show tyrants.

  “So we don’t blame you guys for wanting to entertain in that lovely home.”

  “It wasn’t my idea, but—” I interrupt myself, contemplating how open with them I want to be. “It was Joss’s."

  We all devolve into snorting laughter.

  This exchange unearths a question I've never been bold enough to ask. I've avoided talking to them about when they were my age not because I'm ashamed to have had teen parents, but because I'm afraid of what I might hear; the connotation the words unexpected pregnancy brings, like I was a mistake or an accident. I haven't brought it up because although I've always known they love me, there has still been the chance that that they didn't at first. But time, their generous and patient love, and the nest they built out of glitter, yard sale finds, and their unique aesthetic makes me feel secure and strong enough to handle their response.

  When I catch my breath I say, “So what were you like when you were my age? Like when you found out about me, and after that. What happened at school and at home, with your parents?” I swallow hard, not expecting the extent of the question that casts itself daringly from my tongue.

  They trade a serious look. Where I expect their eyes to be hard, the fine lines bunching around them sparkle. I let out my breath.

  My mom takes a sip of iced tea. “Your father and I were riding the angsty gray and plaid rainbow of the nineties. But we were crazy about each other.”

  “We were nuts…about each other, but also just nuts. I hope someday, you meet someone you are as wild about as I was about your mom. Still am. Of course, back then, your mom was just Autumn, my one and only.”

  “It’s safe to say we collectively caused a lot more trouble than you. To ourselves and public property,” my mom adds. “Remember the flowers you picked from the Boston Public Garden during our sophomore field trip. I still have one of the roses, pressed between a book,” she says fondly.

  “Guys, that doesn’t sound that crazy,” I say, thinking of the string of senior pranks this past week with my fingerprints on them.

  “No, that was romantic, but it was the beginning of our story. One that involved way too much alcohol, sneaking around, and other risky behaviors. Something we are not excusing,” my dad says in his best dad voice. “We know you’re responsible now, but we don’t need to expose all of our misdeeds. Suffice it to say, we’re both lucky we avoided any scrapes with the law.”

  “There was that time, remember Nelson got pulled over.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Moving on.”

  “We traveled a lot. Went to concerts all over. Weekends in Montreal, staying in squats or, like, ten of us to a hotel room. Lots of cigarettes.”

  “Ew,” I say, squishing up my nose.

  “I know,” my mom says, waving her arm like she’s fanning smoke away.

  “Fake IDs.”

  “Driving fast. Recklessly.”

  “Unprotected sex,” my dad says.

  Without meaning to, they both look pointedly at me. They can’t know about last night. Then they break into a smile.

  “This doesn’t leave this room and we want to be clear, young lady, that we do not, under any circumstances advocate teen parenthood, but you were the best decision we never made,” my dad proclaims.

  “We could have continued to be irresponsible, dropped out of school, whatever, but finding out we were having a baby changed us. We’d come home from school, do homework, and change diapers. We wouldn’t have done it differently. But we are the exception. The point is, whether life gives you lemons or tea bags, you make the best of it,” my mom says, raising her glass of iced tea. “To making good choices and being responsible for the mistakes,” she says as we clink.

  “Not that you were a mistake, Willa,” my dad quickly adds.

  But I already knew what they meant and I feel so, utterly loved.

  “It’s about living, consciously, with yourself and your decisions,” my mom says wisely.

  We’re quiet a moment because there really isn't anything to say after that truth bomb. And I certainly don’t want to think about them and sex. Gross. Then I think of Joss and there is no not thinking about it.

  Suddenly my mom puts her pizza down and looks at me as if she’s flipping through a baby book and abruptly ran out of pages. “Is growing up difficult?” Her gentle eyes speak care, kindness, and compassion. And on her lips, holding just the echo of her words, is the ever-present promise to kiss a boo boo and to always be there with support and love. I notice all of this, I think, because I had never thought about her question and am afraid of the answer. But I have to. I close my eyes.

  There I am, turning ten with the sudden awareness that I'm aging, growing. My favorite jeans skimmed my ankles. Then eleven, when imaginative play felt silly and I kissed a girl. Twelve, junior high, when I’d notice girls holding the hands of guys in the hall. Thirteen I got my period and I didn’t recover for a year. Fourteen was forgotten for the most part. Fifteen, my first boy-kiss, Andrew Silver. Every time I’ve kissed someone since, it’s gotten better, thank goodness. Sixteen, watching Heather disappear into love and romance. Seventeen, clinging to Teddy. All the while, Autumn and Kurt were there, hands available in case I needed to hold one or both. Ears ready to listen. Hearts, wide open. Now, here I am, almost eighteen. And I’m okay. I may not be in love, but I am loved.

  “No, not too difficult. I mean, sometimes it sucks, but mostly I’m lucky. Was it tough for you?” I ask.

  “Yes, it was hard. No mother. Grandpa was a genius, but when I was growing up, he was distant at times. I immersed myself in your father. Fell in love. Had a kid. Became a mother myself. But, oh how I've learned and grown. From the moment we found out about you we knew it was going to be challenging, an adventure, but worth every crying, crazy, wonderful, and beautiful moment.”

  My dad clears his throat. “As you know, my parents didn't agree with our lifestyle choices. But I never told you they disowned me when they found out your mom was pregnant. They told me to walk away from Autumn, from you. I wouldn't. Their loss, a big, whopping loss.” Dad's eyes water and he draws a deep breath. “So I made my own family. And I’d say we’re pretty awesome. Oh, but don’t go finding out ab
out the rewards of parenthood that your mom mentioned for another ten years. Grandparents, we are not ready to be."

  My mom's eyes get wide and she lets out a long, "Nooooo," of agreement. “While we’re on the topic, let’s discuss safe sex, shall we?” my mom says brightly.

  She has no hint of the tomato-sauce red that blooms on my cheeks matching the pizza. “Ew no,” I say by reflex more than anything else. I know the facts well enough already, but they don't know about my private truths and now seems like as good a time as any. “There’s something I should tell you guys.”

  In any other house, the clink of silverware would punctuate silence.

  “Anything,” my mom says. She means it, but my nerve endings still threaten to explode through my skin.

  I swallow. “I recently learned something about myself. Remember Joss, who was over the other day. Well, she and I…”

  My dad’s eyebrows lift.

  My mom puts her hand on mine.

  The little girl in me, the one who cried after running away from Roxy, who stuffed those feelings far, far away, whimpers, “I just want to be normal.”

  “Willa, none of us are normal. We’re exactly who we’re supposed to be,” my mom says softly.

  My dad adds, “Whoever came up with the idea of normal didn’t want to accept who they were, strengths and flaws and all.”

  “Whether you like guys or girls or—”

  “Both,” I blurt.

  “Well, whatever shape your attractions take, as long as you’re in tune with your heart, seeking happiness, and being compassionate and kind to others, and safe—”

  Tears run down my cheeks like an alluvial plane, releasing sediment and the fossils of belief. I don't really hear what she says so much as feel it, but now isn't the time for grand statements. “It’s just kind of confusing.” I do my best not to curl into a little ball and weep.

  “Said every single person between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five,” my mom says.

  “Thirty-five,” my dad corrects.

  The tears continue to make their way quietly down my cheeks. I'm not sad; it's another emotion. A combination of relief, joy, anticipation…

  “Whether you're gay, straight, bi, Trans, the struggle is similar; in our culture, we’ve made the subject of sexuality into a bonfire where expectations, stereotypes, fear, and shame all get heaped into the blaze. Here, in this house at least, we do not judge you. In fact, before your dad and I—there was a girl. I’m not saying you’re going to end up in a heterosexual relationship like I did, but curiosity, experimentation, not denying the chemistry and attraction you have for someone because of their chromosomes. It's okay.”

  My dad straightens. “Willa, I speak for both of us when I say how honored we are that you shared that with us.” Tears push their way to the edges of his eyes. “We can’t make any promises about what your life will be like beyond the walls and roof of our home, but you're always safe to speak and be yourself here.”

  “Thank you for sharing that special part of your life with us,” my mom adds.

  There are more hugs and crying, mostly happy tears now. The thirteen or fifteen-year-old me, or even me yesterday would have been embarrassed by how corny it all sounds, but the unkinking in my neck, the smile on my lips, and the relief from having told them is stronger.

  I say goodnight and go upstairs, dizzy with relief, and tired from the buds of wings forming on my back. Riding a flying bicycle would be cool, but it's not so impossible to believe I might be able to take off from the ground by myself before long.

  As I lay in bed, a warm breeze tickles my legs. Pibbles and Wigwart curl up by my feet. I want more than anything in the world for guys and girls who come out to their parents to have the experience I just did. To feel accepted and loved. I want everyone to know what it’s like to receive this gift.

  An idea flutters inside and I flit downstairs in the dark to the computer to search where it might take me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ☼

  Thursday

  The rain returns. I ride to Puckett with Teddy and expect more shenanigans, but there aren’t any colorful balloons streaming out of the windows, no salty words written using utensils, and the furniture appears to be in its proper place. The only things out of the ordinary are the somber lines drawn across everyone’s faces. I catch snatches of words like accident and airlift.

  In homeroom, the murmurs sound like static. Annie Lemon’s chair is empty. Finally, Mrs. Sherlock hushes us. “I imagine you’re all wondering about the accident last night. According to those close to Annie and Rosa, they were driving on Allerton Street last evening. Annie, the one driving, was on her cell phone, texting.” She lets out a stilted breath. “Both girls are in stable condition at Boston Medical. They're expected to recover.” She lowers her eyes. “Let us hope.”

  I gaze out the window through the rain. It's as if the sky and trees weep. The leaves tremble in a great heaving sob. I feel like doing the same for Annie and Rosa, for their moms and Rosa’s dad. For their brothers and sisters and for everyone here, worrying and wondering.

  Good fortune and misfortune can happen on opposite ends of a minute. I picture them with the windows rolled down, laughing, on their way to a party or out for pizza. Full of life, freedom at their fingertips, graduation, and their futures just days away. I’m glad they survived, but the other possibility, definite and irreversible, rattles and shakes, clenches and tightens inside me, inside all of us.

  Our lips are still, expect Mrs. Sherlock's whose usual well-organized class time agenda stalls and trips between objectives and concern for her students.

  Passing between classes in the halls is sneakers shuffling on worn flooring and the quiet closing of lockers. Words like subdued and downcast come to mind.

  Some days just blow. My mom asked if growing up was difficult, I wasn’t wrong when I said that sometimes it sucks. Then there are bright spots, like a passing grin from Joss and being on the edge of finally making a big, life shifting decision—after I stayed up way too late last night doing research. But this feeling, the one I have every time I expect to see either of my friends in class, I want to outrun it, take one bounding leap across the Atlantic so it can't follow me. Throughout the first couple of periods, it colors my mood, pricking me like a needle on a thimbleless finger.

  During my free period Lola Barnes, aka Eve, a girl with sleek dark hair down to her waist and a little too much self-righteousness hidden under indoctrination, approaches me in the library. After she joined some obscure religious group mid-sophomore year, she changed her name from Lola to Eve. Go figure.

  She looks over her shoulder, leans toward me, and says, “Willa, I know about you.” She rests her hand lightly on my forearm and then pulls it away as if I’m contagious. “I want to tell you that it isn’t your fault. I can get you help that will assist you in resolving your issues.” Her mock-pitiful smile makes me want to gag.

  “What issues?” I’m ninety-nine percent sure I understand what she’s referring to, but like driving by an accident, I simply have to look, to know, even if I’ll regret it.

  “Your interests. When we were younger it was all fine and good that you liked to do the things the boys did, but now that we’re young women, well, your particular orientation—there's a way to make it go away so you can get on with your life.”

  My jaw literally drops open. Almost unhinges, actually.

  More fake pity in her big stupid bovine eyes. Yuck.

  I want to rush into the girls' bathroom and splash water on my burning face. Her eyes continue to scald my skin like a bottle of soda left in the sun, artificial saccharine sweet and quickly causing me to reach a boiling point—and not the Joss or Grady kind of hot. I open my mouth to speak, but somewhere between my brain and tongue, the words catch in translation.

  “Really, it’ll be okay if you just get the help you need.”

  "But I am okay." I burst into laughter.

  The librarian look
s at me sharply.

  "I'm better than okay." And not just deep down, in the depths of my being where after a bunch of personal growth and meditation retreats I'll discover it—like my mom and her friends did a couple of summers ago. But also okay on the surface of my skin, in the way I walk, to the tips of my fingers and the split ends in my hair. I'm suddenly better than okay.

  I straighten up. “I make no apologies for who I am. I suggest you look into finding some assistance in learning to accept people who aren't like you.” There’s more I could say, but I’m pretty sure if I looked in the mirror there’d be steam funneling out of my ears. The bell rings.

  Her smile is prim. “Very well.” She turns to go. “But if you change your mind and see the error of your path…”

  “Oh shut it!” I say too loudly. The librarian hushes me. Then I recall the previous night with my parents and the acceptance they showed me. I let my best gap-toothed smile blossom on my face. I'll use happiness as my method to show her just how little her comments mean.

  Confusion squeezes the space between her eyebrows. She sweeps away in a huff.

  The next period is mundane and splattered with random quiet tears every time I envision my friends lying in hospital beds, hooked into the tubes and machines.

  At lunch, the rain drives down, further dampening the mood, but leaving a collective restlessness. I squish into a table with Teddy, Gretel, Joss, and a few others. I can't make sense of the thread of the conversation I drop in on nor am I able to get a word in, but I’m eagerly hoping they have news about Annie Lemon and Rosa.

  “I can’t believe he’d do that.” Gretel shakes her head.

  I glance at Teddy because it used to be we could sometimes communicate without speaking. Apparently, Theo doesn’t keep the correct frequency open.

  “And he had a hockey scholarship, too,” Hansel says.

  “Blew it,” Teddy adds.

  “Who are we talking about?” I finally ask.

  “Berlin,” Gretel says.

  “He just took off,” Hansel adds.

  “Two days before graduation,” Teddy finishes.