All Things Different

by Underhill, Shawn

  “I’m the same way.”

  “You’re not afraid of a storm.”

  “I was when I was little.”

  “And the bus,” she laughed softly. “I just can’t picture you afraid of anything.”

  “I was, really. I like the storms now, though.”

  “But still not the bus.”

  “No. That’s terrifying.”

  Then we were quiet under the noise at the height of the storm, watching the flashes through the window, and for a while I counted the seconds between the flash and boom. Sara faded out with the passing of the storm, and I saw her sleeping and heard the rain settle to lighter tapping on the roof. I fell asleep to that lighter sound of the rain.

  The next few days were wet and gray. When the sun returned again, the leaves were still as dull as they’d been before the warm days and the rain, as if the change had ceased under the warm sun and then the clouds and moisture, until the following nights of colder air and then days barely in the seventies rather than high eighties brought on the real colors. Once the change took hold, it was magnificent to see despite the feeling of the coming dead season. I dressed warmer each morning when I rowed, and I felt that final certainty that there was no going back now for the year. Summer was gone.

  On several weekend mornings in September, Sara came bundled up in the boat when I rowed. She was enchanted by the intensity of the colors around the water, as she kept reminding me she’d never lived by a lake before, and I watched gladly as the change moved her, first into the brightly smiling awe and wonder like a child, and then later into a quieter, more reserved reverence as her newly loved surroundings sparked inspiration in her.

  During the peak colors Sara spent hours alone on the dock each weekend, sketching and painting what she saw, trying to capture it in more personal ways than a camera could show. Those were the few times when she preferred to be alone; she couldn’t stand anyone looking over her shoulder. But later, looking at her finished works, my old man and I would admire the way she could capture moods and feelings along with the scenery. Though less detailed than a photograph, her pictures showed the movements of life and left pictures in my mind similar to the way Nick Adams could with his stories. Sara could show a leaf that fell slowly from a tree on the page, a loon that swam or dipped its head and splashed, or a tree swaying top-heavy in the breeze. She could show a hawk circling high up in the wind, a formation of geese closer overhead, or in the distance a row of ducks lifting off, wings beating and disturbing the water, the drops falling away as they lifted. She could capture it all with her large eyes and transfer it onto flat paper or canvas, and the scene, like a memory, would be alive to us after the season had died.

  “You really have to do something with your work,” I said more than once.

  “It’s only for fun,” she’d reply. “It relaxes me.”

  “It’s amazing, Sara. You get better by the day.”

  “Only to you guys. And art teachers.”

  “No. You could sell some of it if you wanted. Tourists buy local art every summer. The people we build for are always looking for country and lake decor.”

  “You’re just saying that,” she would say.

  I would stop and leave it, feeling it a shame that no one else could appreciate her that way. My old man agreed but kept reminding me not to push her, that Sara wasn’t as eager as I was to leave childhood behind.

  Time and routines were bringing us closer as summer left us. On the surface there was familiarity and comfortable, easy friendship. We learned each other’s ways and enjoyed each other’s company like it was something years in the making. We could be apart for ten minutes or half a day, and either way, when we were together again, we’d slip easily back into the comfort. Below the surface there was more, different as the night is from the day, more than simply friendship or the feeling of being a couple at school or even of love itself. It was all that and more, something awkwardly sweet and confusing in its boundaries; something I can only describe as the slow realization of us, at home together, becoming a sort of patchwork family, one that had found one another by chance and now belonged together.

  Our house was changing. With Sara in the picture, even her part-time presence showed in a place that had been ruled solely by men for many years. Dad and I kept things reasonably clean and functionally neat for a couple of guys. But with Sara, our home, like the camp, was becoming a different place. New pictures were going up, reviving dark corners. Each day the place smelled more like a girl, as if her clothes and hair and sprays and whatnot were slowly taking us over. Dirty work boots began to be taken off at the door after the guilt of tracking up newly washed floors when coming in on wet days, the adjustment stemming not from nagging but from seeing the disappointed look on Sara’s face, because she loved to walk in bare feet, but could not stand the feeling of the slightest grit on the floor. Old cookbooks were taken down from shelves and old cookware was dug out, run through the dishwasher, and experimented with as Sara indulged in the space of our kitchen and the freedom to test recipes on the hungry guinea pigs lumbering in to places neatly set at the table, stepping softer after removal of dirty boots, circling hungrily around the smells, then sitting, looking, stirring, tasting, and considering as she waited eagerly for us to make the call—almost always thumbs-up.

  The old man was spared from Sara’s dress codes, I assume out of respect for her elders, but she made up for it by doubling my dose of style consciousness. Whenever leaving the house together, she made little suggestions and usually assisted in holding up potential outfits. In time I learned that it was quicker and easier to simply comply. For whatever reason, it made her happy, and I figured it was worth it. At home, graciously, I was left to dress freely.

  My personal conduct, hygiene, and manners were all improved upon that fall, under Sara’s watchful gaze. The slightest traces of dirt under my nails were identified with sniper’s vision and persecuted as “gross” or “nasty,” and my eating habits were scrutinized daily but, thankfully, usually only in good humor. However, pressure-relieving burps were deemed unnecessary and expected to be restrained, even when drinking bubbly soda, or at least followed by sincere apologies, which I found needless in the comfort of home. More troubling, I discovered that flatulence was not only unappreciated, found in no way, shape, or form to be funny or entertaining, but could actually, strangely, bring about irrational anger and sometimes cause her to briefly discontinue communications with me. Such instances actually brought forth more laughter from the old man than the original sound had garnered, but then after both of us laughing with Sara looking quietly stone-faced, I would have to smooth things over and apologize, as if I’d committed some atrocity. It was all quite the learning experience.

  My room was changing. As weeks passed my little corner of the world began sharing space with increasing amounts of Sara’s clothes and small personal items. With her clothes, I found it amusing to make jokes regarding sizes in contrast to mine. Her shirts hung in the closet beside mine, the size of something I wore in second grade, her jeans with the material of just one of my pant legs, and her favorite lightweight jacket that she seemed to prefer admiring more than actually wearing. “You’ll kill it!” she cried once when I had tried to pull it on as a joke, like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. I got one arm partially into the sleeve and could make no more progress. I would never have actually ripped it; I just needed to give her a little grief in return sometimes.

  As for other matters in my room, my small book collection was put away on a shelf rather than left stacked on the bed stand, where I could easily get at it. Bed sheets were changed a little more often than necessary, and her favorite stuffed animal, Mr. Bear, took up permanent residence on the neatly made bed, the reason being that he’d often kept her company many nights since she was very small, and she feared he’d now be lonely or feel unloved without her. Laundry piles were no longer kicked to the corner, as that was frowned upon. Wet towels hanging from doors to be reused were seld
om tolerated. Scented drier sheets were purchased by Sara while shopping with Kate and set above our washer for expected use with each laundry load, to add a cleaner scent to my “boy-smelling” attire. My clean jeans were tucked away in drawers rather than piled on the dresser so that it became difficult to dress myself in the fog of mornings; I could find nothing without a hunt. Alarmingly, many pairs of socks and underwear, still useful to me in spite of age and battle strain, began disappearing under highly mysterious circumstances, until finally one weekend I found myself at Walmart purchasing more out of literal bare necessity. The new replacements were promptly washed and dried, the socks rolled up neatly into pairs, and put away in a single drawer rather than living freely in the laundry basket.

  “The basket is for carrying the clothes, not storing them.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s easier to find things when they’re organized in a drawer.”

  “Really? I saw pink polka-dot panties mixed in with my stuff. How is that organized?”

  “Mixed, accidently. Just move them over to my side.”

  So on and so forth, until I finally gave in.

  In history at school we were studying Custer’s last stand. At home, similarly doomed, my bathroom became my final personal field of battle. After staunch resistance, I was set to cleaning, kneeling, bending, reaching, scrubbing, and choking on fumes, all in a senseless war against the unacceptable, and highly exaggerated, state of the bathtub.

  “I never take baths,” I protested.

  “You still stand in there.”

  “I’ve seen much worse.”

  “Where?”

  “I helped Dad remodel someone’s bathroom once.”

  “That’s their choice.”

  “It’s just feet anyway.”

  “I don’t want my feet touching it, or your feet getting anywhere near me after they’ve touched that scum.”

  So the tub was scrubbed clean and kept that way. The vanity drawers that had been mostly empty were slowly taken over by hair products and strange styling equipment. The lowest drawer in the vanity, to my horror upon accidentally discovering one day, was dedicated to products of feminine nature issues, and was never, ever, touched by me again. Toothbrushes were placed in a pretty holder rather than laid carelessly on the sink. Toothpaste, razors, creams, gels, lotions, antiperspirants, body sprays and perfumes, cotton balls, containers of makeup, colorful polish for nails and a strange liquid for later removal of colors that smelled worse than the stain we maintained the logs of the house with, one by one, day by day, were smuggled in and assigned various living spaces. The vanity top was kept mostly cleared off and free of toothpaste spills, and inhabited by colored, nice-smelling bars of soap that, to my surprise when simply trying to wash my hands, were intended for decorative purposes, not daily use. Liquid soap from a pump container was for regular cleansing. Didn’t I know anything? Other new soaps and shampoos turned up in the newly revitalized shower, along with puffy, colorful utensils used for cleansing rituals that hung from the showerhead. Light bulbs around the mirror were replaced by me, per instructions, with matching wattages for a more even light in the room and a better view of one’s face for inspection. Clean bathmats were produced and hung to dry after use over the curtain rod, not left on the floor. A four-watt night-light was added to the upstairs hallway, eliminating any need for the overhead hall light at night. And, in the final battle, my last stand before the circling takeover was complete, the toilet seat was transferred to a permanently downward status, which later caused several aggravations in late-night visits and early-morning rushes.

  Sara was OCD, for the most part quietly and respectfully demanding of others, while discreetly leaving room for small allowances for herself. One example I discovered by chance while searching for a highlighter that had gone missing from my bed stand. In the drawer of the stand on her side I found, instead of my highlighter, an open bag of marshmallows. Highlighters belonged in desk drawers, as if they were radioactive, but stashing junk food away like a squirrel was perfectly acceptable.

  “It’s my comfort food,” she explained.

  “You eat in bed?”

  “Only sometimes,” she protested, her face turning pink.

  “You call me a pig and I don’t even eat in bed.”

  “It’s not like I do it every night. Just now and then I’ll have a few.”

  “How come I’ve never seen this?”

  “You’re sleeping. And I’m quiet.”

  “You are the silliest girl I have ever heard of.”

  “Don’t make fun. You love me.”

  So it was settled: marshmallows were acceptable and highlighters were not.

  The nights became more predictable as we settled into our routines. There would be time for us to spend with our parents, who nearly always fell asleep early, and then there would be the hour or two before we were ready to sleep spent talking or reading or watching TV. With her energy of the day gone, Sara would speak softer and more affectionately in the dark, holding nothing back, and in time her ways wore off on me. In the dark it was as if nothing or no one else existed beyond us two in that quiet room, and we made up silly ways to say we loved each other, one always trying to best the other as in a game, but in the dark calm with no fear we meant every word in earnest seriousness, despite our playful tones or the manner in which the game was being played on different nights.

  “I love you so much,” she would say, her face on her pillow, her hair spread out behind her as she lay facing me, her eyes reflecting in the soft glow from the hall night-light.

  “I love you more,” I’d say.

  “Nuh-uh. Nobody ever loved anyone as much as I love you.”

  “Except me.”

  “No. You be nice and let me win.”

  “I can’t.”

  She would play frown and fake sniff. “You meanie.”

  “I know, I’m terrible.”

  Other times at night she would sneak attack me by running her cold toes over my foot and leg when I least expected it. She knew I had ticklish feet, and her toes and fingers were always ice cold at first touch. I would jump, startled, and she would laugh a satisfied semi-evil laugh, then curl up tightly so I could not tickle her in return. Her neck and under her arms could not be touched without violent reactions.

  “You brat,” I would say. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “No, but I’ll get even.”

  “But you still give me butterflies,” she’d try to soften me.

  “I do not.”

  “Uh-huh,” she would drawl. “Because I love you a whole, great, big, huge bunch, and I’m excited that when I wake up I’ll get to see you again.”

  “You’re crazy,” I’d say.

  “But you adore me.”

  These bedtime arguments were never fully settled until one fell asleep. The last one awake was proclaimed the victor in their own mind. If one of us woke during the night, the other might sometimes wake also, sensing it. Then there would be no arguments, only soft sleepy words. Other times we would wake separately and tell each other of it the following morning, keeping a mock tab that way on who was watching out best for the other.

  In more serious nighttime talks revelations were made in the safety of the dark. Sometimes, after being kicked, I would wake her from a bad dream, which were happening less frequently, and she’d feel the need to confess those unpleasant memories, the worst always being the dream of being held down, pinned helplessly, screaming for help and feeling like it would go on forever. It helped her to get everything out, as if the quiet words were expelling and lessening the power of the memories, though it was never a pleasant process for either of us to get through.

  “Were things ever good?” I asked one night.

  “A long time ago.”

  “Do you ever think of those times?”

  “I try. Sometimes Mom and I talk about things.” She laughed slightly. “I used to d
rive him crazy with my Care Bears movie. I watched it over and over again.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “It was a tape. I wore it out. Either that or he broke it and just said it was worn out.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes it just seems harder to forget the bad parts than it is to remember the good.”

  “Isn’t that the way …”

  “Maybe. I don’t purposely dwell on the bad.”

  “I know that.”

  “But that’s all over now, isn’t it?”

  “It’s all over,” I said. “Keep reminding yourself.”

  “And you’ll never get tired of me?”

  “No.”

  “I couldn’t handle it if you did.”

  “You’ll get tired of me before I get tired of you.”

  “That’ll never happen.”

  “Good.”

  “Thank you,” she sniffed.

  “Stop thanking me.”

  “But I am thankful.”

  “A thankful brat?”

  “I am so not a brat.”

  Afterward it would be better and a lighter mood would take her, and once lighter just that difference in her tone would help force away the images her stories planted in my mind. The night would be good again for both once the bad had been dealt with. For her it was never like nothing had mattered, but it was somehow less real once she’d set it to the air, as if by opening up she’d allowed figurative light into a place that thrived on secretive darkness. Whichever it was, talking helped her, and afterward she was happy again.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asked one night. Her habit of asking permission had faded but never fully ceased.

  “No,” I teased. I knew by her tone that it was not a bad-story night.

  “Wanna know what I really want?”

  “What do you really want?” I said, expecting her to go off about a purse or a pair of shoes or something silly like that.

  “I wanna have a little girl someday,” she said softly but very seriously.

  “No smelly boys like me?”