by Dyan Sheldon
“Well, now I’m not.” Now he’s going to make money. Now he’s going to have a private office with a big desk and a view of other buildings. Security gives you a pension; romance doesn’t. “That was all kids’ stuff.”
“You’re making a mistake,” says Sorrel.
“So did you,” says Ruben.
“Which one would that be?” she asks.
And immediately disappears.
At least she still has her sense of humour.
Orlando used to have a regular life. School, friends, family, work – going about his day just like everyone else, with the usual assortment of terrestrial experiences. Among which was the first sight he’d see when he opened his eyes in the morning – the painting Ruben did of the four of them getting Ruby out of the tree that hangs on the wall across from his bed – so that he also woke up with a smile. This morning the first thing Orlando sees is Sorrel sitting on the foot of his bed, blocking his view of the painting, messing around with his phone. Bizarre is the new normal. He isn’t smiling now.
Orlando closes his eyes and counts to ten, but she is still there when he opens them again. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m waiting for a bus.”
“What are you doing with my phone while you’re waiting for your bus?”
“It’s today.” She doesn’t look at him. “Obviously, it can’t be left up to you, so I’m putting the details on here so you don’t forget.”
He has no idea what she’s talking about, but he isn’t going to ask. He doesn’t want to encourage her – not that she needs any encouragement. She’s become a real self-starter when it comes to haunting – her appearances so frequent that he’s almost more surprised when he doesn’t see her than when he does. He throws back the covers and gets out of bed. “Thanks.”
“You forgot all about them, didn’t you?” She’s looking at him now. This is the first time she’s ever reminded him of his father. “I knew you would. Even though you know how important the auditions are you totally deleted them from your mind.”
So now he knows what she’s talking about. “I didn’t forget. That implies that I intended to go. But I didn’t. That was never in my options menu.” He pulls the cover back in place. “And maybe they’re important to you, but they’re not important to me. So don’t waste your time putting the info on my phone.”
“I’m not the one who’s wasting their time.” If it’s possible, she may be slightly better at conveying disapproval with just a look than even Officer Gwinnet. “Because if you don’t find something to do besides throw a ball through a hoop you’re going to end up a miserable old man, giving off unhappiness the way you once gave off sweat.”
“What are you now? The lifestyle guru from beyond the grave?”
“I’m your friend, that’s who I am. I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re my dead friend, whose help I don’t want or need. And I don’t have time to try out for some stupid musical. The season’s starting soon. I have practice this afternoon.”
“The season doesn’t need you to start. It’ll start every year just like always long after you’re dead,” she informs him. “And, unlike basketball, this isn’t a game. Your future’s at stake.”
“At least I have one,” snaps Orlando.
This time she gives him the finger. “It’s not going to work, Orlando. You’re hoping that if you insult me and act like you don’t care I’ll just go away.”
“Praying,” said Orlando. “I’m praying you’ll go away.”
“What a difference a few months make.” She gives him an almost seductive smile. “Remember when you didn’t want me to go?” She flops down on her stomach, her chin on her hands. “Please, Sorrel, please. Give me another chance.”
Is it possible that she was always like this? Petty? Antagonistic? Argumentative? Bossy? Wouldn’t he have noticed?
“You’re out of your mind, you know that?” He grabs his clothes and marches past her.
“I’m not the one who’s crazy. That would be you, Gwinnet. As you keep pointing out, I’m the one who’s dead.” She follows him across the room, putting her face close to his. “So don’t you remember when you wanted me around, Orlando? You forget that, too?”
If only he could. When Sorrel dumped him he started wondering if his father wasn’t the only one who wished Orlando was someone else. That maybe everybody did. “I don’t want to talk about that now. I have to get ready for school.”
He leaves the room, shutting the door quietly but firmly, and can still clearly hear Sorrel say, “You wanted to talk about it then. I was the one who didn’t want to discuss it.”
He opens the door again and puts his head in. “Well, you waited too long to change your mind,” says Orlando. This time he slams the door behind him.
He expects to find Sorrel in the kitchen with his mother when he goes down for breakfast (probably sitting in his chair to really annoy him), but, dispelling his fear about the shortage of mercy in the world, Suzanne is by herself, sipping a coffee and listening to the news on the radio. She smiles when he walks in. “How did you sleep, honey?” At least his mother loves him.
This is the year when everything fell apart. Things began going downhill last December. That was when Sorrel abruptly broke up with him (when he’d been thinking everything was going really well). Then Ruben (his brother in every sense except parents) suddenly turned into a human NO TRESPASSING sign. Then Celeste (always warm and open) became distant and guarded. Orlando’s response was to intensify his life of subterfuge, paranoia and deceit. The four of them stumbled on like that until the Spring, when Sorrel was killed. As if the universe wanted to prove that things can always get worse. Which they have. Now, despite his popularity at school, his mother’s prayers and his father’s constant surveillance, Orlando feels alone. Where did everybody go? How did they wind up here? If this year were a sports team, it would be one organized in Hell from the worst sinners throughout human history, the Devil himself as coach and his closest henchmen jumping up and down in the bleachers, throwing off sparks and sulphur and shrieking: “Don’t let them get the ball!” That’s why he had the idea to have a walk with Ruben before practice started. To snatch a couple of hours of normality from the jaws of chaos. He should have known that wouldn’t work. Because Ruben, as usual, was busy. Had to rush home. Was sorry, really sorry. He’d see him tomorrow; they’d set something up. But, as often happens, tomorrow never came. Not that one at any rate.
Although Orlando doesn’t want to be the basketball star his father is determined he’ll be, he wants to be normal; to belong. Which is why, as he walks towards the gym this afternoon for the first pre-season practice, he’s in a better mood than he’s been in all day. If there’s one thing that can get Sorrel out of his mind, this is that one thing. His heart may not be in basketball, but he enjoys playing. Back with the boys. Cooperation. Camaraderie. Guys fooling around. Everything okay. When you’re on a team, you automatically belong.
It’s all Go, Beacons! Go! when he gets to the gym. The locker room is buzzing with energy and anticipation. Positivity. The drive of competition. This year, says Coach Mena, they’re going to be state champions. They have to be. It’s what they’ve worked so hard for every season. It’s in the bag (or in the basket). There’ll be no slacking, no half-heartedness. He doesn’t want them to try hard, he wants them to win. It isn’t how you play the game, it’s whether or not you lose.
But as soon as they hit the court, Orlando’s enthusiasm starts to falter. He finds it difficult to concentrate. He thinks he sees Sorrel sitting on the bleachers and drops the ball. He glances over to make sure the person standing in the doorway isn’t Sorrel (it isn’t) and gets hit with the ball. He imagines her showing up at a game and trips over his own feet. He wonders if she’s going to be waiting for him when he gets home, the way she sometimes is, and slams right into Jenner Loudon, bringing them both down.
“You played like shit,
Gwinnet,” Coach Mena tells him when it’s over – just in case he hadn’t noticed. “I hope it’s because you have a raging fever and are slightly delirious.”
“I do think I’m coming down with something,” Orlando mumbled. “I’ll be okay next time.”
His father’s working nights this month, but even so Orlando isn’t ready to go home. He gets in the car and starts to drive. He’s paying no attention to where he’s going or how long it’s taking him to get there. He just wants to shake off the defeat of the afternoon; to get rid of the guilt. He’s stopped at a light when he sees, across the street, the old church that’s been turned into a community centre. The Parsons Lane Community Centre. He’s come all the way to Peakston without even noticing. He pulls out his phone and goes to contacts. Of course, that’s where the drama club meets, where they’re holding auditions. But he’s not trying out for a part; he’s not going in. On the other hand, because he never told Mrs Andonis to take his name off the sign-up sheet, and never told the club he wasn’t coming, they’ll be expecting him. Orlando is experienced at feeling guilty, and now he feels guilty about not being brave enough to say right from the start that he wasn’t going to try out for the play. And guilty about letting them think that he was. He pulls into the car park.
The director is a small, intense woman named Stella Brood who doesn’t give the impression that she puts up with much nonsense, and definitely not for long. Stella Brood is very glad to see him. “You’re on my list,” she says, showing him her list. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I was starting to think you’d changed your mind.”
“Not exactly,” says Orlando. “But the thing is, I only came to tell you that I can’t try out or anything. I can’t be in the play after all. I mean, even if you wanted me.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you?” She has to look up at him, but he somehow feels as if she’s looking down. “Talented dancers aren’t exactly crowding the streets around here.” She nods, agreeing with herself. “And Mrs Andonis says you’re very talented. I just need to see if you do more than dance.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugs. “I don’t know about that. But even if…” And Orlando explains about basketball season. November to February. Practice just started and happens almost every day. It would be impossible for him to fit in rehearsals. She could never rely on him. And then there are the games themselves.
“I don’t see any problem,” says Stella Brood. “We’re very flexible. Most of our cast and crew have day jobs so we have to squeeze in our sessions when we can. Besides—” she pats his hand— “Our production isn’t until April. That gives you plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time.”
When he gets back to the car, Sorrel is sitting in the passenger seat, filing her nails.
He pretends he doesn’t see her. He gets in and starts the engine.
“Well?” she asks as they turn onto the road. “Aren’t you going to thank me for making sure you didn’t miss this opportunity?”
“No,” says Orlando. “No, I’m not.”
“You didn’t use to be so grumpy,” says Sorrel.
She leans over and hits the horn. Then disappears.
The Redwing house is peaceful at the moment – making it a moment to savour and cherish. Astra is in her and Celeste’s room with Winnie. Lilah isn’t home yet. Celeste is in the kitchen. On the table is a pile of college catalogues that Celeste is determined to go through tonight (again), in order to finally decide where she’s going to apply. Right now, however, she is fixing supper because Lilah is going to get home late, which, of course, is less unusual than if she were going to be early or even on time. Lilah probably has one of her groups after work, though Celeste doesn’t know which one. It could be her Spanish lessons. It could be jive dancing or her book club. It could be her exercise class or Pilates. It could be just about anything really. Lilah has been a collector of learning since her divorce, dabbling in this and sticking her toe in that. In one class and out the other, as her ex-husband often says. Jill of all trades and mistress of none, which he also often says (though not to her). The ultimate groupie, Sorrel used to say.
That is not, however, what Sorrel says now as Celeste opens the oven door and slides the casserole she’s made inside.
“Cinderelly … Cinderelly … scrape the dishes … do my wishes … scrub the floors … and wash the doors…” chants Sorrel, waving a wooden spoon as if it’s a conductor’s baton. “Clean the crisper … feed your sister … do it faster … you’re no master … Cinderelly … Cinderelly…”
Celeste looks around to see Sorrel sitting with her legs folded under her on the work island, where she wasn’t sitting two minutes ago. “You’re not funny,” says Celeste.
“Oh, but I think I am,” says Sorrel. “I think I should have my own show. Out of this World. How’s that for an attention-grabbing name? I bet the ratings would go through the stratosphere. I’d be on the cover of every magazine in the world. Only I’m not sure I photograph too well.”
This time Celeste laughs. “Okay, you’re a little funny. But only sometimes.”
Not that long ago, when she thought she’d never see Sorrel again, Celeste sometimes felt that she might not be able to survive the loneliness. And that, never likely to hear another Sorrel Groober wisecrack, she might never laugh again either. But those things no longer worry Celeste. Now Sorrel has started visiting almost as frequently as she did when she was alive. Sometimes Sorrel is silent and distant – sitting beside the unsuspecting Astra, watching a film, riding in the back seat of the car with them, looking out of the window as they come up the drive, watching Celeste rake leaves from her seat on the porch. But at other times, she’s talkative and warm – lying on Celeste’s bed with her, sitting beside her on the sofa, walking next to her on the street – full of gossip and opinions and ideas, just like before she died.
This is, clearly, a talking visit, but Celeste isn’t sure she’s in the mood to listen. Not tonight. Lately Celeste’s conciliatory and look-on-the-bright-side nature has been experiencing some dark patches, and tonight seems to be one of them. She doesn’t want to be cooking supper; she doesn’t want to be dealing with Astra and Winnie; she doesn’t want to be choosing a college from among her mother’s suggestions, Lilah’s favourites flagged on important pages with bright orange sticky notes. And she doesn’t want to be hearing what’s wrong with her from Sorrel, who is nothing if not direct. At least when Lilah tells Celeste what to do she says things like, “Are you sure that’s what you want?” or “Do you think that’s right?” or, “Oh, really? Well, if you think so…” – making it sound as if she isn’t criticizing her at all.
“I’m not trying to be funny.” Sorrel taps the spoon against the utensil pot. “I’ve been watching you since you got home from school.” In that time, Celeste has done the breakfast dishes, put on a load of washing, done damage control in the bathroom after Hurricane Astra’s morning passage, cleaned up the mess after Astra and Winnie made themselves a snack (how do you get peanut butter on the ceiling unless you deliberately throw it there?), found her sister’s favourite jumper (the loss of which was likely to bring about the end of the world), put the washing in the dryer, replaced the burnt-out light bulbs in Lilah’s room and in the hall (a skill that only Celeste possesses) and, of course, made supper. “I’m trying to make a serious point.”
Celeste opens the fridge and takes out the salad things. “What point is that? That you’re a fan of Disney movies?”
“My point is that you’re like Cinderella. Do this. Do that. Hurry up. Do it faster. Cinderella Redwing. The unhired help.”
Sorrel hid it well when she was alive, with her pretty-girl looks and sunny personality and her extensive knowledge of fashion and celebrity culture, but there was always a streak of rebellion in her. She pretended to conform, but secretly she was waiting for the time when she was out of school and out of her family’s home and free. And now she is free. Free to eat chocolate cake, wear whatever she feels like and
say whatever she’s thinking.
“No I’m not.” Celeste says this quickly. And then, although she doesn’t mean to, adds, “Cinderella’s beautiful. I’m more like one of the ugly stepsisters.”
“No you aren’t.” Sorrel aims the spoon at her. “First of all, the ugly stepsisters did diddly squat. Second of all, you know I think you’re beautiful.”
Celeste’s answer is to turn on the tap and start washing the tomatoes in a careful, get-those-pesticides-off sort of way.
“And besides,” Sorrel continues, “beautiful is as beautiful does.” She puts the spoon back in the pot. “If Astra looked the way she acts she wouldn’t win a beauty contest against a bunch of blobfish.”
That comment does get a response. “I thought you liked Astra.”
“Did you?” Sorrel’s voice is a yawn. “I never thought you did.”
“What’s that mean?” Celeste drops the tomatoes into the sink and looks around, the water still running. “Of course I like her. I love her. She’s my sister.”
“Sister blister. She’s a pain in the ass, and you know it. A selfish, lazy pain in the ass.”
“No she isn’t.” Celeste turns off the tap. “She’s very sensitive. You don’t understand how much the divorce upset her. She’s never really recovered. You have to try and imagine. Dad was in her life one minute, and gone from it the next. He broke her heart.”
“Oh please… Tylor didn’t leave Astra, he left your mother. In fact, technically, he didn’t leave, he was pushed. And he’d be in both your lives a lot more if Lilah would stop punishing him and let him. If anyone’s breaking hearts around here, it isn’t Tylor.”
“You don’t get it.” Celeste takes the salad spinner from the cupboard and slaps it on the counter. “You can’t expect my mother to just act like nothing happened. Not after what he did.”
Sorrel balances on her arms, her feet folded in front of her; she was always a bit of a show-off in yoga. “What are we talking about now? What is it he did? You mean not wanting to work in a bank any more and quitting to have more time to do his music and have a life? Letting your mom kick him out because she wanted him to have a ‘real’ job and he refused to obey? Or falling in love with a man?”