by Holly Cupala
Lexi reserved most of her kicking for nighttime, but as she shifted, all of the emotions I’d been storing up for months came rushing out. “You paid me back, so maybe we’re even now,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” The halls were empty now, just her and me standing in the gray light of the corridor.
“How about this?” I gestured toward my stomach as my heart rate picked up speed. Lexi moved, swimming her back-strokes and bumping into the walls of my body. “I’ve got no boyfriend, no friends, a pregnancy I’m not even sure I want…all because you had a big piece of news for the prayer chain.”
Essence looked stunned. As if it were some great deduction for me to figure out she’d sent the news from one end of the chain to the other, ending with my mom.
“I may have ditched you, but you decimated me,” I continued. “For the lead part? A Cornish reference from my mom? I’d say that was payback. So yeah, I’m sorry we grew apart, and I’m sorry I spilled beer on you at the party, but you didn’t have to go tell everyone I was pregnant. I would much rather you said you hated me to my face.”
“So would I.” Essence looked more sad than angry. “I can’t believe you think I would do that. Delaney would do that. Maybe you would do that, but not me. In a way I’m glad you did what you did, because now I know what kind of a person you are. I don’t need that.” As she talked, her voice caught. She blinked tears away. “I can get my own parts, thank you very much. I didn’t need to hurt you for people to notice me. If you want to know who told your mom, try asking your supposed friends.”
My mind hooked on a memory: You told him? I asked. Of course not, but Essence…I think she heard us talking….
“I’ve gotta get to drama class. Tryouts for Guys and Dolls are next week.”
With a quick wipe of her navy-blue sleeve, she pushed past me and sped down the hall to the theater. I was left to wonder if I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
“Good luck,” I said after her. But she was already gone.
Twenty-four
“I don’t think I’ll be here for Thanksgiving,” I announced to my parents after montage practice. After watching Mom direct Essence and the other actors as the ideal family for the last two hours, I just wanted to give thanks alone.
“Oh?” said my dad, not taking his eyes off of his soup.
Mom continued picking through her pad Thai. “And where do you plan to be?”
My options were limited. School cafeteria? The FWCU break room? Under the University Bridge? “Well,” I lied, “Delaney is getting together a bunch of people from school to serve dinner down at the teen homeless shelter, and I thought you wouldn’t mind…”
In reality, Delaney and her dad would be giving thanks à la mode française at Rover’s, the most exclusive French place in town—no doubt with Chloe in tow.
Essence would be having Thanksgiving and all the trimmings with her parents, grandparents, and as many relatives as her mom could cram into their two-bedroom Cape Cod–style house, thankful to be rid of me.
And Kamran…since Big Boss would be closed for the holiday, maybe he would be home, eating Persian turkey pilaf, preparing for his visit to the MIT campus. Or maybe he would be with Delaney, too.
My father raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t seen Delaney around much lately. I thought, after the pregnancy…” He trailed off, probably not wanting to mess with my tender hormonal state. “Glad I was wrong.”
“Marvelous.” Mom smiled, seemingly forgetting she’d been the one to ground me for life. “We can make a pie Thursday morning for you to take.”
Mom wasn’t much of a cook, but she could make a killer pie crust. She insisted on making two pies: one for the shelter, and the other for her and Dad to eat with the tofu-turkey she was going to try her hand at baking, complete with instant mashed potatoes, canned cranberries, and a side of micro-waved peas. I was almost proud of my kitchen-challenged mother.
If I was going to eat this pie under a bridge, it had better be fresh pumpkin, not canned. I scraped the cooked pumpkin out of the skin into a bowl alongside Mom, both of us quiet except for my spoon against the pumpkin’s flesh and the poof of flour as Mom dropped a cup into the mixing bowl. It was the first time in weeks that we’d been in the same room together without rehearsals or traffic drowning out the discomfort.
“How are things at school?” she asked, never taking her eyes off of the bowl as she measured and sifted the flour.
“Fine.” Scrape.
“And work?”
“Good.” Scrape.
She pressed the dough into the pie pan while I stirred up the pumpkin, sugar, spices, and condensed milk. There was more waiting behind her eyes as she watched me stir.
I mustered up one of the yawns always at the ready—extreme fatigue brought about by the real and exhausting task of creating another human being. “I should rest before I go. I’m pretty tired, after working and the play and everything.” It felt good, doling out a dollop of guilt.
Later, as I gathered up the pie and headed out into the rain, it occurred to me I really could go to Kamran’s. Maybe I could crash the party and munch on dates with Mr. and Mrs. Ziyal as we discussed the future of their grandchild. They probably hadn’t heard the news.
If I were Xanda, I might have done it.
As I drove, I considered the options: Bridge. Church. Crash Kamran’s. Crash the French restaurant. The bridge idea wasn’t so bad, except for the homeless guys who would be as hungry for a piece of me as for the pie. Plus, I forgot to bring a fork. Luckily, First Washington was at the next stoplight, and I had my key.
I rolled into the bank lot. I could just stay here and find some hot tea, and maybe take a nap on the lobby couch. The building was dark, deserted on one of the few bank holidays of the year. Even the parking lot was empty. Nobody would be out in the rain when they could be inside watching football or Thanksgiving reruns, feasting on turkey and family love.
Just then, a black SUV pulled up beside me, blurred by the droplets on my windows—on a candied-yam run, or needing cash to contribute to the communal turkey. The windshield and windows were dark.
The driver didn’t make a move. No one got out of the passenger side. A bubble of worry formed in my chest. I stayed still, tilting my face away to avoid recognition. In a flash, I could see myself being dragged out of the car, my pie-weapon falling pitifully onto the pavement. I was helpless to protect Lexi, if someone really wanted to hurt me. I could hear myself formulating the sentence that had been in my mind since the day I saw the ultrasound: If you hurt my baby, I will kill you. I would use a pie plate, a cigarette lighter, even push Chloe. I turned the key and started my engine.
As I backed out of the parking space, a body jumped out of the SUV and lunged toward my passenger window. I froze. A hand knocked on the window, a face peered out of a hooded ski jacket. Round eyes locked with mine. I felt like I would shatter with relief, and then with fear, caught in the bank parking lot.
It was Shelley, my boss.
She pounded on the window. “Are you okay?” Drizzle from the rolled-down window was getting dangerously close to my Thanksgiving dinner, perched on the passenger seat.
“Yeah,” I shouted, “I’m fine.” I moved the pie away from the rain, and she took it as an invitation to get in.
“I came by to pick up my laptop, and you’re sitting out here in the rain. What are you doing here? Where are your parents? Are you headed somewhere?” She took one look at my pie, and one at my belly, and one at what must have been a pretty pathetic face.
“You don’t have anywhere to go, do you.” It was more of a statement than a question. “And you were going to sit there and eat your pie, feeling sorry for yourself.”
“No, I have somewhere to go,” I protested. “It’s just that—”
“It’s just that you’re coming to my house instead, right?”
“I am?”
“Because I’m not going to let you sit here with that beautiful pie go
ing to waste here in this bank parking lot. Pumpkin?”
I nodded.
“Then come on, park your car and we’ll go. And don’t forget to bring that pie with you.”
Twenty-five
I climbed into Shelley’s SUV and saw a whole new way of looking at the world. Up high, fearless, with places to go.
Twenty minutes later, we parked in front of a navy-blue and lime-green Victorian house near Green Lake. It towered above us from a foundation of mossy rocks, overshadowed by an even taller cedar. Needles and cones littered the sidewalk and parking strip below.
“Watch your step,” Shelley ordered as we threaded our way up the narrow, careening steps. “These old houses were not exactly built to code.” She offered me her hand as I tested each step, balancing the pie in my other hand.
A boy about six years old burst through the front door, throwing himself around Shelley’s waist. “What took you so long? We been waiting for you all day.” He gave her one mean frown, then spotted me. “Who’s that?”
I felt like I always did in the presence of kids: off balance, not quite sure how to approach.
Shelley laughed, a low, hearty laugh that took me by surprise. “I went to get my laptop, but I came home with a stray. So I guess I won’t be getting any work done this weekend.” I could imagine Shelley being the workaholic at home as well as at the bank. I wasn’t so sure I could buy into this softer side, taking in strays and mothering this small boy. “Rand, this is DaShawn. DaShawn, this is Rand.”
The boy was still giving me the once-over, and I was glad to have the pie in hand. I passed it to him. “This is for you.” His eyes went as round as chocolate kisses while his nose took in the squashy aroma up close and personal.
“For everybody,” Shelley shouted as he took off running into the house with the pie. “Good move,” she said to me. “The way to his heart is through pumpkin pie.”
A cloud of warmth hit me as we walked into Shelley’s house. Her husband, a wiry guy with the energy of a middle schooler, bounded out of the kitchen with a phone against his ear. He hung up and started to take our coats as he said to Shelley, “Thank God you’re finally home, because I think I’ve pretty much burned this turkey to a crisp.”
“How can you burn something in an oven bag?” Shelley demanded, taking her coat off and showing me in. “And incidentally, this is our guest, Rand. I found her outside the bank with a pumpkin pie. Rand, this is my husband, James.”
“She’s a stray,” said DaShawn, who looked decidedly disappointed when his dad scooped the pumpkin pie out of his grasp. “Aw, man.”
“Later.” James gave him a mock-warning look. To me, he said, “Nice to meet you, Stray Rand.”
“Just Rand, thanks.” I gave Shelley a questioning look. “Are you sure I’m not intruding on your Thanksgiving?”
“And where were you planning to go if you were? You forget, you left your car at the bank.”
“So you’re stuck here,” said James. “Do you generally hang out in the bank parking lot, or is this just a Thanksgiving thing?”
I could feel the blush rising. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.
“Give her a break, James,” Shelley said pointedly. “She’s not used to you picking on her all the time.” As if Shelley didn’t pick on me enough.
“Not like you, huh, baby.” He gave her a noisy smooch.
I didn’t need to see my boss and her hubby kissing in the kitchen, even though it was almost a welcome change from the frigid waters of home. I dramatically smacked my hands over my eyes and shouted, “Ewwwww! TMI, people! TMI!”
Shelley rolled her eyes. DaShawn said, “What’s TMI?” And James suddenly remembered to check the turkey.
“Too much information,” I whispered to DaShawn. He raised his eyebrow knowingly.
“Great,” drawled Shelley. “That’s all he needs—more ammunition.”
Fifteen minutes later we were all crammed into their olive-colored dining room, trying to avoid spilling green beans and gravy onto the tomato-red tablecloth, which looked like it had seen its share of mealtime battles—especially on DaShawn’s side of the table.
“Make sure you put a lot of gravy on that turkey. It’s dry as a piece of week-old toast.” Shelley loaded DaShawn’s plate with food as James made a huge production out of slicing the turkey at the head of the table. Norman Rockwell turkey, it was not. Out of the bag and on the platter, the turkey looked more like it was headed for the fossil museum. Even gravy couldn’t save it.
“What do you think, Rand?” James held the electric knife aloft, so it didn’t exactly seem like a good idea to insult his handiwork.
“Um, it looks great,” I mumbled. “Mmmm. Smells delicious.”
“See.” He puffed up, giving the electric knife another rev in Shelley’s direction. “I told you Turkey Talk was a good idea.”
“You called Turkey Talk?” I sputtered. They’d been advertising Turkey Talk all week, the “turkey helpline” sponsored by one of the local TV stations. No one in my family would ever call Turkey Talk, no matter how bad my mom’s cooking could be.
DaShawn sawed away at his meat, singing, “Don’t know what to dooo-hooo when Turkey Day finds yoooou-hooo? Call Turkey Talk, yeah, yeah, call Turkey Talk!”
“Oh, Lord,” said Shelley.
“How did you think I managed to cook this magnificent bird?” James continued to chainsaw off hunks of parched meat and stacked it high on the platter, the mirror image of DaShawn: big twin and little twin. “Rand likes it.”
“Well…,” I started, and he gave me that same mean frown I’d gotten from DaShawn as I came through the door.
“Now wait one minute. I thought you were my ally.” To DaShawn: “Guess it’s just you and me, buddy.”
“Whatever, Dad.” And DaShawn was back to his Turkey Talk jingle as we finished our dinner and then cleaned up the kitchen.
Neither Shelley nor I said much on the drive back, making the journey seem surreal after the chaos of her house.
“I really liked your son,” I ventured. “He looks a lot like his dad.”
“He’s his dad’s son, that’s for sure. Both of them troublemakers. I wish we could have him more often.”
“More often? Doesn’t he live with you?”
“He lives with his mom, but we get him every other weekend and some holidays. We get him for Thanksgiving and even Christmas this year.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Faith manages.” I waited for her to say more, but the silence stretched out into the stop-and-go city traffic, like I’d said exactly the wrong thing. If only life came with an “undo” button, I would undo what I’d said.
Undo the Christmas montage disaster. Undo what I’d done to Essence, and what Delaney had done to me. Undo meeting Kamran. Undo Xanda’s death.
Undo Lexi?
No. She was my chance to make everything right.
Twenty-six
Elna Mead scheduled the Winter Ball for the last weekend before the holiday break—as if planning for the biggest commercial season wasn’t enough, they had to add the biggest mackfest of the year.
It was hard to walk—or in my case, waddle—through the hall without overhearing people bragging about their dates (“Cole asked me! Finally!”) or their dresses (“Well, my mom wanted me to go to Nordstrom, but I told her I had to have the Betsey Johnson one…”) or the hopes of scoring (“Latiesha! Right on.”), accompanied by the appropriate hand-slapping and high-fiving.
Delaney joined the Winter Ball planning efforts, the last stage of her transformation from bad girl to prom queen. She and Chloe marched through the halls with staple guns and posters for maximum marketing effectiveness to the glitterati of Elna Mead High—as well as those she couldn’t quite ban from the event. Like Essence. Or me.
Not that she really needed to worry about either one of us. The Winter Ball coincided every year with the opening night of the Christmas montage. After that, I would go back to
my job at First Washington, and Essence would be immersed in Guys and Dolls rehearsals. I scanned the cast list, beginning at the bottom. My eyes had nearly reached the top when they rested on her name: Essence Hannah…Adelaide. Her dream role, the limelight she deserved.
At home behind the scenes, my mom wound up tighter every day. Arrangements still had to be made, the sets weren’t finished, the actors stubbornly refused to say their lines with the right inflections, and Mom questioned why she ever took on this project in the first place. My dad would take responsibility for something—anything—and she would let him. But that didn’t stop her stress from rising to volcanic levels with the deepest blame of all: If Xanda were here, everything would be different.
It was like this every December in the weeks approaching Christmas as the three of us prepared for the most important night of the year—the same night, five years ago, that Xanda had disappeared. Every year I wondered how our memories of that night could so easily be eclipsed by a church Christmas play. But every year it happened again.
Lexi could no longer be eclipsed—either by baggy clothes or by my family’s deliberate silence on the subject. I knew better than to complain about the back pain, the insatiable hunger, the tossing and turning, a body increasingly out of my control. I also knew better than to share the secret joys. The feeling of a small foot tracing the contour of my side. The bizarre, sequential jolts that I suddenly realized were hiccups. Wondering, as I searched the blacks and whites of her ultrasound picture, if her mouth would be like mine, if her eyes would be like Kamran’s. If some piece of Xanda’s soul could be wrapped in her flesh. These things were mine alone.
If anything was looking up, it was my job at First Washington Credit Union. I guess Shelley felt like she couldn’t be such a tyrant after I’d met DaShawn and could blackmail James with Turkey Talk.
When I was in the break room sketching my picture of Lexi, she came up and looked over my shoulder. “Is that your baby?” She peered at the ultrasound print as I had first done, puzzled and with a trace of awe.