The Space Between Us

by Jessica Martinez

  Ezra was silent again.

  “I’m not bitter,” I said, not looking at him, but knowing he wasn’t looking at me. “I just miss my life. My friends and my house and Charly, or the old Charly. And then a couple of weeks ago I found out I didn’t get in to Columbia, and that was my big plan, you know? My way out of Tremonton.” Why was I telling him this? It was like the words were forcing their way out, like rising bubbles. “Instead I’m chained to my screwed-up sister so everyone doesn’t figure out how screwed up she really is.”

  Ezra opened his mouth, then closed it again, and in the silence of his hesitation I heard myself. I sounded girly. And stupid and needy. Blood rushed to my face, completing the humiliation. Blushing.

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “What?”

  “You said so everyone doesn’t figure out. What does it matter what people think?”

  I paused. “I guess . . . ” He had no idea what it was like being the pastor’s daughter, being Charly’s sister, being constantly scrutinized. “It’s less about what people think, more about her. I can’t just abandon her.”

  “I get it.”

  Probably not.

  “You don’t think I do,” he said, “but I do. She’s your lost cause. You can’t let her go.”

  The door opened and a woman with two children came in. They said hello to Ezra, then went straight to juvenile fiction.

  Sometime between waking up and spilling my guts, my head had started to ache. It throbbed now. I pressed my fingers into the knot at the base of my skull, and pain shivered up into my brain. I’d had blinding headaches, but this wasn’t blinding. It was sharpening. Bleary thoughts were becoming clearer and clearer, bringing all the ugliness back into focus. Like the chasm between Savannah and me. And Will engaged to Luciana.

  “Maybe it’s just too much for her to see it right now,” Ezra said.

  “What?” He had a way of doing that, I was noticing, of leaving silences so long that my thoughts had already moved on.

  “Maybe your sister will thank you later.”

  Too simplistic, too tidy. This wasn’t a movie. “I don’t know.”

  “You’d still be here though, right? Even if she never gets how much she owes you for it.”

  Would I? And who was he to think he knew anything about me and Charly?

  The phone rang, and Ezra picked it up. “Hello, Banff Public Library,” and then in a relaxed voice, “Oh, hi . . . Yeah, but I can wait . . . . It’s already eight, right? . . . Mom, I won’t die if I don’t eat for another couple of hours . . . Yeah, I’m doing them right now . . . . ”

  He pulled a second box of books out from under the desk, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear. I studied his face, looking for a hint of American Indian. Or Canadian Indian, or whatever. It was in his eyes—so dark they were nearly black.

  “Hungry?” Ezra asked me, holding the mouthpiece to the side.

  “Starving.” Just saying the word made my stomach groan. Aside from the two handfuls of Skittles and one bite of cold, too-salty shepherd’s pie, I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch.

  “Can you bring extra?” he said into the phone. “Bree’s niece . . . Yeah, she has two . . . Till summer . . . The States . . . No, I don’t know why she never told you . . . Again, I have no idea . . . Another good question for Bree . . . Uh, maybe because she thought you’d ask her a million questions . . . I was just kidding . . . I thought I told you when I picked them up for her at the airport a few nights ago . . . I don’t know, I guess I didn’t realize you’d want to know?”

  His tone was surprisingly patient.

  He stared at me, and said into the phone, “For a book, I guess.”

  I waited. This was when he’d tell her I’d come stumbling in, hypothermic, nearly frostbitten, barely cognizant.

  “Yeah, don’t do it yourself. You’ll hurt your back again. I’ll shovel them when I get home . . . okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . bye.”

  He put the phone back on its cradle. “My mom’s dropping off lasagna. She thinks I might starve to death if I have to wait till 9:30.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You can thank her yourself. She’ll be here in about two minutes.”

  “No, I mean about not telling her, you know, how I came in here.”

  “The hypothermic stupor?”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Actually, it was. You know that’s one of the signs of hypothermia? Thinking you’re okay when you’re not?”

  “Seriously, not that bad.”

  Ezra shook his head. Our moment of camaraderie was clearly over. “I’m still not sure whether or not to mention it to Bree.”

  “Tell on me? What are we, ten? Why would you do that? It’s not like I’m going to do it again.”

  He squinted at me, his eyes like caves. “Promise you won’t.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned back to the computer. “I spend all day rescuing people from their own stupidity. You’d think ski patrol is about saving people from the big scary mountain, but it’s not.”

  “Very compassionate of you.”

  “I just recognize that people cause their own injuries. That doesn’t mean I’m not compassionate. Last week alone I pulled in a broken leg, two broken collarbones, and a concussion—all people skiing runs beyond their skill level. I missed you guys stopping by on Saturday for collarbone number two.”

  I squirmed, recalling how I’d assumed he was just an unreliable idiot. “I get it. Walking around town without a jacket is beyond my skill level. Lesson learned.”

  “Good.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then continued. “A month ago we had to dig a body out of an avalanche.”

  A body. Murdered by snow. I forced myself to picture it, Ezra tunneling through ice into a frozen face, or maybe a twisted limb. I wanted to ask him if the search had been frantic—if there had been hope of finding the victim alive—or if they’d had to search knowing it was already too late. Like dragging a lake. I’d seen that done last summer for a drowned boy, and there was nothing frenzied about it. Just methodical and hopeless.

  “I’m sorry.” The words weren’t right, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  Ezra sat perfectly still, like he was reliving it in his mind. “It wasn’t even his fault, actually. Some idiot skiing higher up the mountain started it, one of those thrill-seeking midlife-crisis tourists, skiing out of bounds. The run was supposed to be closed until we could blast for avalanches, but this guy—” Ezra broke off and shrugged.

  Everything I could think of saying was too ordinary. “That’s horrible,” I managed.

  “Yeah. Senseless. And it makes it hard to keep doing ski patrol, seeing people pull the same stupid stunts, putting themselves and everyone else in danger.”

  “Why do you do it, then?”

  He didn’t respond. He could do that apparently—just block out what he didn’t want to hear. It was annoying. “So why do you do it?” I repeated.

  He stood slowly and stretched his arms out to the side, like a hawk preparing for flight. “It’s complicated.” He dropped them back to his sides, and winked.

  I looked away. The wink wasn’t playful. Certainly not flirty. It was dismissive, like I was a child, still in high school, still too wrapped up in sister-fight drama to understand the complexities of real life. Why had I spilled my guts to him of all people?

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I asked, pulling myself to my feet. My knees trembled a little, but I hid it, steadying myself against the wall. I needed food.

  He wasn’t looking at me anyway. “There’s a washroom back there,” he said, pointing to the back room. “Behind the office.”

  Washroom. Whatever. I’d add it to the list of words. I went to find the washroom, passing through the office, which turned out to be more of an all-purpose living room. The clutter was systematically arranged but still clutter: a corduroy love seat with too many throw pillows and a granny square afghan;
a mini-fridge topped with a coffee machine and at least ten mugs; a desk hidden beneath knickknacks and tidy stacks of books; and walls covered with crookedly hung photographs.

  I paused to examine the pictures, wondering who took them—Ezra or his brother or someone else maybe. There were at least thirty, all black-and-white, magnified images. A wildflower. An icicle. A blade of grass. A leaf. A pebble. A feather. Moss. And on and on.

  No people.

  • • •

  When I got back from the bathroom, Ezra’s mom was standing behind him with one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing at the screen.

  “It’s that one there you need to change so it matches the others,” she was saying, but stopped when she heard the door close.

  “Well, hello,” she said, with an open smile. She had a slight gap between her front two teeth. “I’m Naomi.”

  “Hi,” I said, eyeing the rope of silver-streaked hair, thick at the top of the braid and wispy at the tail end. It went all the way to her waist. Beautiful, maybe. In a mountain-woman sort of a way.

  “So you’re Bree’s niece?”

  I nodded. “Amelia.”

  She squinted at me. She looked older than I’d have thought, not as old as Grandma, but older than my friends’ moms. It was her skin, papery and pale.

  “I’m trying to see a family resemblance,” she said, “but you don’t look much like Ginny.”

  My breath stopped in my chest. Mom’s name was Virginia. Dad called her Virginia. Grandma called her Virginia. Why hadn’t anyone ever told me she went by Ginny? And why did this stranger get to know it, but not me?

  “I look like my dad,” I said. “My sister looks like her, though.”

  “Well, we’ll have to have the three of you over for dinner. It’s been a while since we’ve seen Bree. I miss having her come around. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s good.” I didn’t really know if that was true. I didn’t know Bree well enough to say, but Naomi didn’t have to know that. “She’s busy, with nursing school and work.”

  Naomi nodded, arms folded, knees locked. She didn’t look much like Ezra, but that stance was the same. Not aggressive, not exactly. It was more like she was just waiting for me to keep talking and say something stupid.

  “So you and your sister are just visiting?”

  I hesitated, trying to remember Ezra’s phone conversation with her earlier. He hadn’t told her about picking us up at the airport, so he definitely hadn’t told her about Charly’s pregnancy. “We’re here for the semester,” I said cautiously. “We wanted to get to know our mom’s side of the family a little better.”

  I tried not to look at Ezra, but his expression was burning itself into my peripheral vision. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. This was new—lying to someone’s mom right in front of them. But I wasn’t lying.

  Naomi smiled, a network of creases stretching across her face. Smile lines. But there was a weakness in Naomi’s smile, like it was one sad thought away from fading.

  “That’s nice,” she said. “Family is important.”

  Ezra pointed to the bag. “So, lasagna?”

  Naomi peeled the Tupperware lid off a container, unleashing an explosion of smell: hot garlic and tomato and parmesan. I was salivating immediately.

  “Take it back there, will you?” she suggested. “I know it’s dead out here, but it is a library. I’d stay and eat with you two, but the group is meeting tonight at nine. In fact, I’d better run or I’ll be late.” She glanced at the clock, then said in a bright and shiny voice, “You’ll phone me if Quinn phones, won’t you? Or if he stops by?”

  “Of course,” Ezra said, already on his way into the back room. I followed the food.

  “All right.” She paused, then called after us, “And if he stops by, you’ll try to get him to stay until I’m back?”

  “Of course.”

  “And remember to turn off all the computers, even that one behind the study carrels.”

  “Yes.”

  “Monitors, too, and lock up both sets of doors.”

  “I always do.”

  “I know.” There was an understanding in her voice and his responses: The nattering was unnecessary and they both knew it. “Thanks, Ezra.”

  Ezra found forks while I tried to decide where to sit. There was a chair at the desk, but the work space was covered with tidy stacks of opened mail. And there was the love seat, but it seemed, well, like a love seat.

  “Take the couch,” Ezra said, reading my mind as he handed me a plate of lasagna. He sat down on the floor with his back to the wall, plate on his lap.

  I couldn’t talk for the first few minutes. I could barely think, it felt so good to have warm food in my mouth, my throat, my stomach.

  “This is amazing,” I said finally.

  “I’ll tell her you liked it. Not that you could actually be tasting any of it, inhaling it like that.”

  “I haven’t eaten since lunch.” Sitting in the cafeteria, wiping the mayo off my bread slices—that seemed like days ago.

  We finished eating, and Ezra rinsed our dishes in the small sink. I watched him while he turned off computers and lights and locked the back door. I followed him out the front door and waited in the cold lamplight while he locked it. He’d grabbed a fleece from a closet in the back and he wasn’t shivering, but he still had to be freezing. I felt vaguely guilty, but not enough to give him his coat back.

  “Who’s Quinn?” I asked, drawing an arc in the snow with my toe.

  “My brother.” He finished with the door and turned away. I followed. Our feet crunched and squeaked over the packed dry snow as we walked toward his car.

  “So you should come by again,” he said, pulling open the car door for me.

  I climbed into the SUV and buckled up. “Okay.”

  “You don’t have to be on the verge of freezing to death.”

  “Okay.”

  He slammed the door shut and drove me home. No, not home. To Bree’s.

  • • •

  It was hard to tell which made sleep more impossible: the snoring or the stench of burnt popcorn.

  The snoring had come as a surprise—did all pregnant women do it? On TV it was all morning sickness and sore backs and stretch marks. Then again, why would a pregnant woman complain about snoring? She was asleep.

  Charly was already at it when I got home, in so deep she didn’t wake up when I pushed her head off my pillow and rolled her onto her side of the bed so I could get under the covers. That was new too. She was done with covers. Hot feet. Twitchy legs. Whatever.

  I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I could feel her choking on the air between us. Sharing the bed was too much like sharing a body. Her, me, baby.

  As for the popcorn smell, I’d already fished the scorched bag out of the trash. Charly must’ve chucked it before falling asleep. I’d put my boots and coat back on and run it out to the dumpster, but the whole apartment still reeked.

  But all that was nothing compared to my churning brain. So many things to be pissed about, but it all came back to me. Tonight something had changed. I kept seeing Charly’s face, right at the moment I’d called her a slut. Something in her had broken. Only the tiniest flinch showed on the outside, but I knew it had happened and I’d done it.

  That feeling was worse than being shut out by Will and Columbia and Dad. Worse than snoring and stinking burnt popcorn.

  I’d done it.

  Chapter 14

  I survived week one on my own.

  Charly ate in guidance while doing odd jobs for Ms. Lee, and I ate in a library study carrel that smelled like tuna. Technically, food wasn’t allowed in the library, but the media specialist clearly had no sense of smell and didn’t give a crap about what went on in the dark corners. It stunk, but not as badly as eating alone in the cafeteria. The carrels were the perfect haven for social misfits and people so desperate to make out that the tuna smell didn’t bother them.

  My r
eward for making it through to the weekend was meeting Richard.

  “You guys are going to love him!” Bree squealed as she shoved dirty dishes into the oven. “I’ll do these later.”

  Both of those statements were unlikely to be true.

  I’d grown to love the idea of him just fine—essentially he’d bought my winter clothes and was paying for my room and board. What wasn’t to love? But meeting him was a sure way to ruin that affection. Couldn’t I just love him from a distance?

  I didn’t share that with Bree, though. And I’d probably end up doing the dishes later.

  That morning, Charly had taken a five-second break from the silent treatment she’d been administering all week, just to instruct me on how to act.

  “Don’t be a total douche bag to this guy, okay?”

  “Sure thing. Wait, does that mean I can’t ask him why he thinks it’s okay to have a twenty-six-year-old girlfriend when he’s older than dirt?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Aside from that one little breach, Charly’s silent treatment was surprisingly thorough. Void of scowls and glares, it was the most emotionless piece of passive aggression I’d ever seen from her. I hadn’t known she’d had it in her. It was impressive.

  Richard, however, turned out to be less impressive. He was painfully nice—like a grilled cheese sandwich on a rainy day, or new socks, or watching reruns of 90s sitcoms—but not any of the things I’d have wanted in a boyfriend. Not smart. Not funny. Not hot.

  Yet Bree sat beside him on the couch and looked at him like he was a god, played with the curly grey hair at the nape of his neck, laughed at his flat jokes like he was the funniest man alive. And she seemed to mean it.

  Charly sat across from them in the chair, smiling for the first time in a week, so convincingly that only I knew it was fake. And I sat at the island and chatted politely, making every effort not to be a douche bag. It was exhausting.

  The upside to Richard’s visit was that Bree left with him for the rest of the weekend. At least they recognized the studio was officially too crowded to be their love nest. Thank heaven for Canadian decency.