Now That You Mention It: A Novel

by Kristan Higgins

  “I’m well aware of that. But, Mom, come on. I was hit by a van. I almost died.”

  “That’s not what Bobby said.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have gotten more hurt for you? Being knocked out cold and lying broken in the street wasn’t quite dramatic enough?”

  For a second, I thought about telling her about the Big Bad Event, but I doubted that would impact her. I’d lived, after all. How bad could it have been?

  “Well, I’m just sayin’ we don’t have a lot of room here. What with Poe and all.”

  “I’ll rent a place in a couple weeks, okay?” I took a slow breath, remembering my resolutions, my new take on life. I was going to be sunshiny again, goddamn it. “I’ve missed you, Mom. I want us to spend time together.”

  I sensed she wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “So we’ll hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s my favorite song.”

  That got a tiny smile.

  “I’m gonna take a shower,” I said. “And a Vicodin.”

  “Don’t get hooked on those,” my mother said.

  Wrong daughter to be lecturing about drug abuse. “Thanks for the advice.”

  I stood up, positioned my crutch and hobbled into the living room. “Poe, could you bring my suitcases upstairs?”

  She inhaled a very long, slow breath, exhaled and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Sure.”

  I went up the stairs, one at a time, Boomer trying to help, running up and down, nearly killing me. The bird flew right at my head, either attacking me or trying to nest in my hair. “Jesus! Get away, Tweety!” He zoomed past again, and Boomer lunged. “No, Boomer! Down.” Imagine if my dog ate my mother’s favorite living creature on my first day home.

  “No bird,” I told him, and he looked deeply ashamed. Luckily, my mom called for Tweety, and the creepy little thing whizzed past again, diving at Boomer, who ducked, this time and went into the kitchen.

  By the time I made it to the top, I was drenched in sweat and in a bonfire of pain. God, my ribs were killing me! And my back. And my knee! And my stupid collarbone. I was one giant ball of hurt.

  I went into my room. Poe had taken my old bed, based on the snarl of sheets. The other bed, once Lily’s, was covered in clothes, magazines, makeup.

  Poe came in with my suitcases and dropped them.

  “You’ll need to clear off that bed,” I said.

  “Then where am I supposed to put my stuff?”

  “The bureau? The closet? The trash? I don’t know, honey, but I have to sleep there. Let’s try to get along, okay? I’ll be here all summer.”

  “I have to share a room with my elderly aunt all summer? Do I have to rub lotion on your feet and Tiger Balm on your shoulder, too?”

  “I was hoping you’d shave off my corns.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Poe. I’m kidding. And I’m not elderly, okay? I’m thirty-five. I’ll rent a place as soon as I can get around on my own. If I sleep well and don’t break another bone tripping on your crap, I’ll get out of here sooner. See? Clearing off the bed works in both our interests.”

  “Whatever.”

  My eye twitched. “Would you please get me a glass of water?” I asked sweetly. “I have to take some medication.” I cleared a spot on the bed, then used my crutch to snag my purse as Poe went into the bathroom. She returned instantly with a slightly grubby glass filled with water which, if experience was an indicator, would be tepid, since she didn’t run the water beforehand.

  It was lukewarm, all right, but my knee was on fire, and my left arm felt like lead. I swallowed a pill. Poe picked up the bottle. “Oh, the good stuff,” she said. “No generics for you doctors, I guess. Can I have one?”

  “Put that down and stay away from it.”

  “I was kidding. Jesus.” She stomped down the stairs.

  Boomer came up and nuzzled my hand. “You love me, right?” I asked. He licked my hand in affirmation.

  The travel and stress of my injuries caught up with me. I lay back against Poe’s clothes and closed my eyes. To my surprise, tears leaked out. Though he didn’t deserve it, I missed Bobby. I missed Boston. I missed Roseline and the hospital and Dr. Breckenridge, that old flirt.

  I missed my old life and the old me, the way things were before, when Bobby and I were still new and life seemed so perfect and clean and pure.

  I wasn’t wanted here. There was a pretty huge chance that coming back had been a big mistake.

  5

  With all the speed of an elderly slug, the first week passed. Poe had a habit of sleeping through her alarm (a lovely little ditty called “Black Dying Rose,” which consisted of someone screaming so hard I imagined he’d eventually cause variceal hemorrhaging). Somehow, Poe wasn’t jolted into a state of terror as I was, so I had to throw my pillow at her every morning.

  “What? God!” was her customary greeting. Then she’d stumble about the room, tossing clothes, grumbling, accusing me of moving her stuff, before using up all the hot water in her way-too-long shower. She’d stomp downstairs like Hagrid the giant, refuse to eat breakfast, then get in the car with my mother, who dropped her at school on the way to the hotel. At least they let Boomer out on their way.

  My dog loved it here. He’d come in after a half an hour of romping in the woods, burs or twigs stuck in his feathery fur. I’d brush him as best I could with my good arm, Boomer crooning as I did so, going into his doggy trance.

  My knee was already a lot better, though too much weight on it still made me see stars. The collarbone would take a little longer, but the pain had subsided to a dull ache.

  I napped. I read. I watched three seasons of House of Cards. I was recovering from a shock, I told myself, and not just lazy. Tweety watched my every move and, if my guess was right, whispered my activities to my mother later in the day.

  But being lazy felt pretty good. I was also starting to feel...safe. Since the Big Bad Event, I’d put a lot of effort into life, especially where Bobby was concerned—trying not to be too much of a downer, to have something interesting to say, to save pajamas for actual bedtime, to pretend I didn’t mind his nights out with friends, when Boomer and I would lock every window no matter what the weather was and stick a chair in front of the door, too.

  Here, it was surprisingly great to do nothing. Being alone in my childhood home didn’t freak me out the same way being alone in Boston had.

  At night, after a supper of Food That Would Keep Us Alive, Tweety occasionally eating a piece of bread from my mother’s lips, as I struggled not to dry heave or mention bird-borne pathogens, I’d ask Poe if she wanted to play Scrabble or Apples to Apples or Monopoly. Shockingly, she did not and would go upstairs to listen to more screamo music. I’d take a Vicodin in lieu of a glass of wine, put an ice pack on my knee and watch Wheel of Fortune with my mother. Chatting was not allowed, though shouting out the answer was. Mom beat me every time.

  On the eighth night of my exciting new life, Boomer and I were on the couch, and Bernard from Duluth, Georgia, had finally managed to figure out CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS four letters after my mother had, winning a vacation to Hawaii. Mom clicked off the TV and went into the den, Tweety swooping in from somewhere to land on her head. Gah.

  Fun was over. I decided to seek out company and distraction in cyberspace.

  Shit. My laptop was upstairs. “Poe?” I called over the music. “Would you mind bringing me my computer, honey?”

  Nothing. I waited ten seconds.

  “Poe?”

  “I’m coming! I answered you already. Jesus.” Eight angry thuds shook the house as she came down the stairs. She practically threw the computer at me.

  “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

  She stomped back upstairs.

  Was it wrong to want to kick one’s niece? It probably was. I f
orced myself to smile, stroked Boomer’s ears, took a cleansing breath and reminded myself that Poe was going through a hard time. Her whole life had been hard. Maybe. I didn’t really know, did I?

  But my sister was in jail, Poe was far, far away from her friends, and last night, I’d forgotten to bring a towel into the bathroom, so she had to see me lying in the tub with only a washcloth for cover, which is pretty much every teenager’s most horrible nightmare.

  One of these days, though, I’d win her over (pause for laughter).

  I opened my email. Ah, there was a funny note from Roseline asking me about hot lobstermen (none), my mother, Boomer, my niece. She’d also attached a picture of herself with a huge smile on her face, holding up a little voodoo doll of Bobby—I could tell, because he was wearing scrubs and a mask, and Roseline had written Bobby on his shirt. Adorably, he was stuck full of pins.

  My ancestors have your back! read Roseline’s note. Bobby should be coming down with explosive diarrhea any second.

  I snorted. Aw! You’re the best, I typed. Also, Harvard wants their degree back. Everything is fine here. I heart Vicodin! My mother’s bird is trying to kill me. Send help.

  I started to type more, then realized I didn’t have a lot to say. The truth about my mom and Poe would concern her—We barely talk, but they’re tolerating me! Besides, I had a stiff upper lip now. I didn’t whine or complain, because I wasn’t a smear on the pavement with a bouquet of flowers marking the spot I’d died. I was alive! Yay. Besides, it was only my first week (plus one day). So I just asked her questions about Amir and married life and if she’d had any fun baby deliveries lately.

  My computer pinged. Another email...this one from Bobby.

  Hey there. Missing you. The place seems too big without you and Boomer. Are you doing okay? Doing your PT? Sleeping all right? Maybe we can talk tomorrow.

  Bobby

  Damn. I wanted to hear his voice, and I absolutely didn’t want to hear his voice. Was he dating Jabrielle already? Why was he saying he missed me? I hoped he missed me. I was so glad he missed me. I hoped he was suffering and had explosive diarrhea.

  But no. I was a bigger person now. Near-death experience, et cetera, et cetera.

  Doing fine here! I typed. Boomer loves the island and finds something dead to bring home almost every day. I’m feeling much better and really love getting to know my niece again. She’s fantastic!—Lies, all lies—Boomer misses you, too—Truth—Mom sends her best—Lie—Sure, give me a call tomorrow. I have plans for dinner—to eat survival food with Mom and Poe—but am mostly free in the afternoon.

  I hit Send.

  It seemed so long ago that Bobby and I had been that couple. That couple in neck braces I’d seen in the ER—okay, fine, not the most romantic image, but you know what I mean. That couple who’s connected by a shimmer of energy. Whose love made other people disappear so that they were the only two people in the world.

  He dumped you after you were hit by a car, Nora, said my smarter half.

  Chances were pretty high that he’d blow off tomorrow’s call. If history was an indicator, he’d have a patient or coworker who needed him.

  I sighed. Then I glanced in the den, where my mother was still working, opened Google and typed in the same words I’d typed a hundred times before.

  William Stuart, Maine, obituary. From the little den, Tweety screeched, channeling Edgar Allen Poe’s raven. Boomer whined. Tweety had pecked him on the head the other day, and now he was terrified of the bird. Like owner, like dog.

  For some strange reason, my father didn’t have a middle name, something Lily and I had tried to remedy, everything from Toad, as in Frog and Toad Are Friends, to Denzel, as in Washington. It would’ve been helpful in tracking him down, that was for sure.

  There were plenty of dead William Stuarts out there and Bills and Wills. But the ones who had the same birth year as my father never seemed to fit.

  This time was no different. If my father was dead, I had no way of knowing.

  Sitting here, in the house where I had once felt so loved and safe, it was hard to believe that my father had never come back at all.

  Never even called.

  But maybe, now that I was back on the island, I could find out what happened.

  6

  On the ninth night of my convalescence, my mother told Poe and me to get out of the house. “I have something going on here,” she said. “Can you two go out for ice cream or something?”

  “I’m injured,” I said. “And I just took a Vicodin, so I can’t drive.” Also, Game of Thrones was on, and like any good viewer, I was in love with Jon Snow.

  “Then go upstairs and close your door,” she said.

  “I’m a little old to be sent to my room.”

  “Believe me, you’ll want to go,” Poe said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s work,” my mother said. But her cheeks flushed.

  Now that was odd. My mother never blushed. Ever. Nothing embarrassed her. Once, when I was in high school and Mom was in the throes of a particularly gruesome menopause (or meno-go, as the case was), she’d bled so much at the grocery store that she left a red trail in her wake. She’d opened a package of paper towels, cleaned up and added an economy-size box of adult diapers to our cart. Didn’t so much as flinch.

  So her blushing now... Was this one of those sex-toy parties? “What kind of work?” I asked.

  “It’s a new venture,” she said, putting Tweety in the cage. At least there was that.

  “What kind of new venture?”

  “Nora, just get upstairs,” she growled.

  “It’s hug therapy,” Poe said.

  I snorted. No one else cracked a smile. “Seriously?” No answer. “Mom, if you need a hug, I’m right here.” I tried to remember our last hug. Failed.

  “I give the hugs, Nora. I don’t get them.”

  “Really?”

  “People pay for it,” Poe said.

  “Like prostitution?”

  My mother frowned. “It’s a recognized therapy—”

  “Recognized by whom?”

  “—and people are pathetic and will pay for just about anything,” my mother said.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “And sometimes, they take a nap here.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Just fix your face and get upstairs. Take your dog with you.”

  “Don’t you want him for pet therapy? Which is actually a recognized therapy?”

  “Nora, get.”

  I glanced at Poe, who, for once, made eye contact. “Does she turn into a pillar of salt when someone touches her?” I asked. “Get!” my mother said, her face redder now.

  Boomer raced up the stairs, then back down, then up again as I hobbled up the stairs. Rather than going into our room, I paused. “Let’s spy,” I suggested.

  “It’s gross,” Poe said.

  “All the better.”

  I stationed myself just off to the side of the stairs, where I was hidden but could peek. Poe went into our room and emerged with the pink velour beanbag chair, sat in it, then looked at me. She sighed, hauled herself out and shoved it my way.

  “You’re a good kid,” I whispered.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “So Gran does this every week?” I asked.

  “Just in the last month.”

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Hello there, Hazel,” Mom said. “Bawb. Jawn.”

  Who were Bob and John? I peeked down. Holy crap! There were eight or nine people there. For hugs! From my mother!

  “How much does she charge?” I whispered.

  “Twenty bucks,” Poe whispered. She almost smiled.

  My mother was about to make almost two hundred dollars giving hugs? Huh. Maybe she was onto something.


  “You’re all very welcome here,” she said. Holy crap, there was Amy, who’d dated Sullivan Fletcher in high school! She needed a hug from my mother? And Mrs. Downs, who had the best example of resting bitch face I’d ever seen. I worried for my mother; Mrs. Downs seemed like the type to bite the head off a baby polar bear and eat it. Mr. Dobbins, the first selectman of Scupper Island for the past twenty years. A widower, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  A thought occurred to me.

  My mother needed a man.

  “Does Gran have a special someone?” I whispered to Poe.

  “A what?”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Nora. No.”

  “I think we should find her one.”

  Poe’s phone buzzed, and she stood up and went into our room, closing the door. I guess we weren’t going to bond over making fun of hug therapy.

  I sighed, then turned my attention back downstairs. This was the same spot where Lily and I would spy from on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus to come. We never did manage to stay awake.

  A yearning for my sister squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe for a second. My skinny little sister of the milky-white skin and big blue eyes, who used to always be so affectionate, always touching me in some way—snuggled at my side or holding my hand or with her arm around my shoulders, her sweet, sleepy smell that made my heart swell with love every time.

  Lily. My little flower.

  How had we lost that? How had so many years passed without us being close?

  My mom started talking, jolting me out of my memories.

  “Welp, you’re all here for hug therapy, so let’s get stahted.” Mom’s accent thickened. “Amy, sweethaht, ovah heah.” I saw slim legs clad in skinny jeans and ballet flats make their way over to my mother’s sturdy Naturalizers. I tilted my head down, making my collarbone flare with pain, but I had to see.

  Yes. My mother was hugging a human. It was a long hug, too. “You’re a good person,” she said. “You’re a nice girl.”

  Actually, Amy had been a raging bitch—Queen of the Cheetos—who’d made my mother’s daughter utterly wretched, but hey. Maybe people changed. Probably not, but still.