Escape In You

by Rachel Schurig

  “I’m feeling kind of inadequate,” I say jokingly on the way home. “You just gave me a pretty thorough art history lesson, and I have no way to repay you.”

  “Hmm,” he says, his eyes on my bare legs in my sundress. “I can think of a few ways.”

  “I’m serious! You’re, like, an art expert. I’m not an expert in anything.” I pout at him. “I have no expertise.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. There are probably a million things you can do that I can’t.” He pauses. “Did I ever tell you about the time Jim and I tried to bake a cake?”

  I try not to react to his mention of his brother; it happens so rarely. Instead I keep my voice casual. “No, what happened?”

  He chuckles a little. “It was my mom’s birthday, and Dad had been giving us a hard time about being more involved. He said we were past the age where a homemade card and a gift certificate to her salon were acceptable. We were, like, I don’t know, fifteen and sixteen at the time? So Jim gets this idea that we should bake her a cake.”

  “I’m assuming it didn't go so well.”

  He’s grinning now, his eyes happy and bright. “We lit the kitchen on fire.”

  “You did not!”

  “Oh, we so did. Luckily Jim managed to stop panicking and get the fire extinguisher out, so it didn't spread, but we did have to buy a new stove.”

  I’m laughing. “How on earth did you manage to light the stove on fire?”

  He gives me a sheepish smile. “When we put the pan in, a potholder went in with it. Jim swears he didn't do it, but I’m pretty sure it was him. It caught on fire. When I smelled the smoke and tried to get the potholder out, I dropped it onto the floor. We were pretty lucky we didn't burn the entire house down.”

  I slap my hands over my mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s insane!”

  He snickers with me for a minute, but, then, slowly, his face closes up, like he’s remembering all the reasons he doesn’t spend time with the happy memories. “You know,” I say quickly, “you were right. About me being better at some things. Because it just so happens that I am a fabulous baker.”

  He turns his eyes from the road for a minute to look at me. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. My mom and I used to spend hours in the kitchen, making up our own recipes.” I push away the little pain the words cause me, wanting to focus on him. “I got to be pretty good at it. You should try my macaroons. They’re pretty much the best things ever.”

  He grins, and I’m relieved. “I’m going to have to take you up on that.”

  So he makes a stop at the grocery store on the way home, and I pick up all the ingredients I need. I try not to think about the fact that I haven't actually baked anything in ages, that the mere thought of it usually depresses me. When we get back to his place and I set about working in the kitchen, the strangest thing happens: I stop thinking about my mother entirely.

  I’ve assumed the act of baking would always be associated with her, would always remind me of her. But here at Taylor’s house, showing him the right way to separate egg whites, laughing when he gets flour in his hair, feeling his arms wrap tightly around me when I try to teach him how to whisk the batter, I feel better than I have in ages. I remember all the reasons I always loved to bake and, more than that, realize that I still love it even without my mom.

  We burn the macaroons. That’s what happens when you forget to set the timer and let your boyfriend convince you that you’ll be able to stop kissing in time. Instead, we make love on the couch, laughing when the smoke alarm goes off right as we climax together.

  We make another batch of macaroons later. And they’re pretty damn delicious.

  ***

  Guilt claws at me by the time Taylor eventually drops me off at home. When I left that morning my mom had been in pretty good shape. She was cooking breakfast for Jerry and humming to herself as she scrambled eggs. I’d kissed her cheek on the way out, and she reminded me that she wanted to meet Taylor—or my hot man friend, as she had taken to calling him. It had almost felt like a normal person’s life for a minute.

  Because she had seemed so well, Taylor and I headed straight to Fred’s house for a party without stopping home first. When I spend time with Taylor during the day, I usually make it a point to be home in the evening, just to make sure my mom is doing okay. I always feel better when I know she had dinner, when I was actually there in the house when she went to bed for the night. But we’d fallen asleep after we finished the second batch of macaroons and by the time we got up it was nearly nine—well past the time she was usually in for the night.

  “Let’s just go,” I had told him, trying to tamp down the guilt. It was silly to worry—it was a Saturday, and Jerry wasn’t working. Surely they could manage without me for a day.

  A healthy dose of fear joins the guilt over the course of the party. I just can't make myself relax. What if she needs me for something? What if Jerry went out drinking with his buddies and left her alone all day? Sensing my discomfort, Taylor takes me home around midnight. When he pulls up in front of the house, I can’t help but feel a stab of disappointment. I’d been stressing about getting home all night, but now that I’m here I just wish I could go back to Taylor’s. I would much rather be in his cozy little apartment, sleeping in his arms, than spend the rest of the night here alone.

  As I walk up the front path, I notice a light on in the kitchen and my stomach sinks. Jerry must be up. Dreading the thought of seeing him, I slip into the house as quietly as I can. Maybe I can make it back to my room without drawing his attention.

  “Zoe, babe, is that you?”

  I frown as I shut the front door. That wasn’t Jerry—it was my mom. Wondering why she would still be awake, I walk to the kitchen—and gasp.

  “Hey, girl! Get in here and taste this. I’m sure I’m doing something wrong, but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what it is. Too much cinnamon, maybe?”

  I take in the state of the kitchen, my stomach turning to lead. My mother has, apparently, been baking. Dishes are stacked up in the sink and scattered around the counter, mingled with trays and trays of cookies and cakes. Every surface is covered. And in the middle of this mess, her hair tied up in a disheveled bun, flour streaked across her face, is my mother.

  “This batch was better,” she goes on, ignoring the fact that I haven’t responded. “I think it’s because I used cardamom. I always say, cardamom is like magic in the right doses. Then again, it could be ginger…” She trails off, muttering softly to herself.

  I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. There’s a frantic energy to her movements, to the way she’s talking. Just the fact that she’s awake right now, well after midnight, baking, is nearly enough to panic me.

  She’s getting manic again.

  I’ve been dreading this since she started getting out of bed every day, this other end of her mood swings, this aspect of her condition that scares me more than anything. It had been a long while since she’d displayed the symptoms, and stupidly I had hoped that we might stay lucky.

  “It’s pretty late for baking, Mom,” I say, hoping with all my heart that maybe she just had a burst of energy tonight. “You should probably take a break until tomorrow.”

  “Later, later,” she says, darting around the kitchen to grab first a bowl, then a measuring cup. “I need to get this right first.”

  I sit down at the table, staring as she whispers to herself, adding and stirring and tasting. There’s no point in trying to get her to stop. She won’t sleep when she’s like this. I’ve seen her go days without sleeping during her manic episodes. Trying to make her go lie down would be fruitless. Of course, I can’t go to bed either, not when she’s like this.

  I’m exhausted in this moment, watching her. I have no idea what’s going to come next, where she’ll go from here. Usually she’s just kind of frantic for a while, really hyper and active, and then she calms down. Other times, it gets bad. Sometimes really bad.

  Suddenly I wish I could call Taylo
r back. Wish he could come and pick me up and take me far away. Not back to the party, not to his apartment—somewhere so far I wouldn't be able to help her if I tried. I don’t want to know what happens tomorrow, don’t want to know what the ending of this particular story is. I just want to go. Just want it not to be my problem, my life, not anymore.

  But, of course, I can’t do that. All I can do is sit at the table and watch as my mother adds ingredients to her batter, stirring and tasting, struggling to find the magic combination that will make everything come out right in the end.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Taylor

  “This is the big emergency?” Fred looks at me, incredulous. “You called me over here in a panic because you need help with a car?”

  We’re standing in the middle of the shop where I work, staring at the Jeep in the center of the floor. I wouldn't say I called Fred in a panic, but I am stressing about this vehicle—stressing a lot.

  “It’s not just a car,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair. “It’s for Zoe.”

  “Shit, man.” Fred eyes the Jeep. “You got her a car? That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”

  “I bought it off Carl for a steal. Someone turned it in for parts, but he’s too slammed to get to it.”

  “So you bought it.”

  “Yeah, with the intention of fixing it up for her. She needs wheels, man. It’s not safe for her walking around all the time.”

  He nods, though he’s still clearly trying to process it. It probably does seem like a pretty big deal. You don’t just buy a car for someone you’re not seriously into. But I hate how often Zoe walks the two miles to my house in the middle of the night. I know she would never accept anything outrageously expensive, but I really had gotten it cheap.

  Turns out, there was a good reason for that.

  “I’ve been working on all the restoration,” I say, as I walk around and open the hood. “I put a new engine in, new transmission.”

  “Where are you getting the parts? Engines aren’t cheap, dude.”

  “Around.” I shrug. “I’m refurbing a lot of the bigger things as I go.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I still have a shit ton of work left to do to make it drivable, and I just found out from Ellie her birthday is in a week.”

  He frowns, confused. “Ellie’s birthday?”

  “No, dumb ass. Zoe’s birthday.”

  “Why didn't you already know that?”

  My frustration is building. I’m totally stressed about getting this done. I don’t need to play twenty questions on top of it. “According to Ellie, Zoe hates her birthday. Like, hates it. Refuses to celebrate, refuses presents.”

  “So you’re responding to this information by giving her a car. Good move.”

  “Dude,” I say, exasperated. “She needs a car. And Ellie tells me that she’s always trying to get Zoe to enjoy her birthday and that I should help her with that.”

  He finally nods. “Well, if it was me, a car would sure help.”

  “That’s the plan. And it just so happens that her birthday falls on Thursday.”

  His face lights up. “You want to give it to her before Cedar Point.”

  I nod. The four of us—me, Zoe, Ellie and Fred—are planning a trip to Cedar Point the next week. Fred and I had been to the roller coaster park down in Ohio a bunch of times, mostly as teenagers. We were shocked to find that neither Ellie or Zoe had been, and immediately started planning a trip to rectify that. Zoe was concerned about the cost, but I convinced her it is a necessary part of our B.A.N.S.P.

  “I don’t think Cedar Point is what we would call boring ass,” she had said.

  “Yeah, but it is normal shit. Normal, boring couples go there all the time.”

  She had laughed and agreed and we’d been looking forward to it. But now that I knew it was also her birthday, I was determined to get the car ready in time.

  “So now I have a deadline,” I tell Fred. “My original plan was to just be done when I got done. But now that I know about her birthday, I’m a little under the gun.”

  To my eternal gratitude, Fred leans over the open hood. “Okay. So what do you need me to start on?”

  We work for several hours straight. My boss, Carl, is letting me use the garage to store the Jeep and work on it when we’re closed. In return, I’ve agreed to take some extra shifts when he’s short. It beats the hell out of trying to do it at home where Zoe might see—or my mom might find some way to interfere. It’s cutting into my time with Zoe, but she’s been acting weird about her mom anyhow—weirder than normal. She hasn’t been spending the night much, saying her mom needs her right now. I’m trying not to let it worry me. I have enough to worry about, what with the half-finished Jeep sitting in front of me.

  “Want a beer?” I ask Fred, ready for a breather.

  He agrees and we go sit in the break room. I grab a beer from the mini-fridge and hand it to him.

  “Thanks, man.”

  We’re quiet for a moment as we both take our first sips.

  “So,” he says, breaking the silence. “How’s it going with you two?”

  “Good.”

  He seems to be appraising me. “She doing okay with that whole Preston thing?”

  I tense up. “Yeah. She was relieved nothing more happened, I think.”

  He’s still watching me carefully. “You were pretty worked up that night. Haven’t seen you like that in a while.”

  “Wouldn't you be?”

  “Preston got what he deserved,” he says. “I’m with you on that. But it was surprising, that’s all. To see you so worked up over someone.”

  I take another sip of beer. I think I know what he’s getting at.

  “In fact, the only other person I’ve ever seen get such a response out of you was your brother. Watching you beat the hell out of Preston kind of felt like watching you beat the hell out of that kid in the bar.”

  “Do you have a point here, Fred?”

  “You like this girl. You like her a lot.”

  I rub my neck, uncomfortable. “It’s supposed to be low key. For the summer, you know. Just some fun.”

  He laughs loudly. “Okay, buddy. You keep telling yourself that.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, come on, Taylor. You are head over heels. Are you really not aware of this?”

  “Shut up, dude. Who the hell talks like that, anyhow?”

  “The friend of a guy who is clearly falling for a chick.”

  “You sound like a girl.” I shove his arm and feel a surge of satisfaction when he has to catch himself from falling out of his chair. “I have fun with her, okay? She’s not fake, and she likes to party. And she’s totally hot. It doesn’t have to be a bigger deal than that.”

  He shakes his head. “Uh huh. Like I said, keep telling yourself that.”

  It’s weird; there’s a part of me that wants to tell him the truth. That I think about Zoe from the time I wake up till the time I go to bed. I want to tell him all the things that make her special, different from the other girls we know. I want to tell him how she gets me, how she doesn’t judge. And how that makes me feel better about myself than I have in years.

  But dudes don’t talk about shit like that.

  “Jeremy,” he says, his voice taking on an edge of seriousness. Aside from my parents, he’s the only person who still calls me by my real name. “It’s okay, man. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  I look at him and realize that I don’t have to tell him any of it. He knows. I’m not sure how, but he knows.

  “I think I’m in love with her.” It comes out in a rush. I hadn’t intended to say it, hadn’t even ever said it to myself, not straight up like that, but somehow I’m so relieved that it’s out there.

  “I know you are, man.”

  We’re both quiet for a minute, staring at the break room table. “You think Jim would have liked her?” I wince when I say it. I make it a practice never to say his nam
e, not if I can help it. The sound of it always slices through me like a knife. But, somehow, saying it to Fred right now is okay.

  He laughs a little, the sound sad. “I think he would have been over the moon to see you with her. To know someone made you this happy. He would have been fucking tickled pink.”

  He’s right. Jim was always comfortable with the emotional stuff, way more than me. When he fell for Sarah, he was never embarrassed about it, never too cool to tell everyone just how he felt.

  Thinking about Sarah makes me sick. I should have done a better job helping her. My brother would kick my ass if he could see her. I shake my head, trying to dispel the image of his face mired in disappointment. Suddenly, I yearn for whiskey, for vodka, for pot—anything I can take to turn numb.

  “Jeremy,” Fred says. “You okay?”

  I rub my damp palms across my knees. I promised Zoe I’d cool it with that stuff. But how am I supposed to get the image of his face out of my head without it? Especially without her here.

  “Tell me about Zoe,” Fred says. I get the feeling he knows exactly what’s happening in my fucked up head and is trying to pull me out of it. I take a deep breath. Maybe it will help.

  “She has this tough-girl thing going, you know? Like she doesn’t need anyone or anything. But with me she’s…she’s different.”

  Just like that, I feel better. My heart slows down, my breathing returns to normal. I picture Zoe’s face and do my best to hold on to the image. “She’s funny, and she’s really damn smart. And she always tells me what she means. No fucking games.”

  “Have you shown her your stuff?” he asks.

  “Yeah. She’s really into it, especially the 3-D stuff. She wants to go with us if we go back to Clarksville this year.”

  “Let’s do that,” he says. “We should definitely do that.”