Definitions of Indefinable Things

by Whitney Taylor

  My shoulder brushed his as I sat beside him. It was the first time I’d touched him in nearly a month. It was the first time being next to him, huddled close, didn’t feel any more wrong than it felt right.

  “Doubtful,” I said, watching Preston’s little blanket move up and down as he breathed. He really was Snake’s Mini Me, cute enough to make even a baby hater like me soften just a little. “She’s on this new kick where she’s all understanding and kind. It’s disgusting.”

  “I don’t believe you. That doesn’t sound like the Karen we know and barely put up with.”

  “I guess you’re not the only one who’s allowed to change.”

  “You think I’ve changed?”

  “I think we both have.”

  He glanced at his hands. “I don’t feel the way I used to. I don’t know why. I’m not sure if it’s Preston, or finally being in a good place with Carla, but I haven’t eaten a Twizzler in three weeks. Three weeks. I’ve never done that before.”

  “So you think you’re not depressed anymore because you cut licorice from your diet?”

  “No,” he said. “I think I’ve lost the urge to need. And I think I’ve already been as depressed as I’ll ever be.”

  I thought about my dad and how empty the world seemed when I tried to imagine it without him. How everything reminded me of despair—​real, hollowing, pit-in-your-stomach despair. It was nothing more than fearing my own darkness.

  “You were afraid,” I said, sinking closer to him. He smelled like baby powder and not like strawberry. “Without me, there was nothing to distract you from the pain.”

  He placed his hand in mine, and I slid my fingers through his. We sat like that for only a fraction of an instant, but an instant was enough. I didn’t dread the temporariness of us.

  “When you stopped talking to me, I was in the worst place I’d ever been in. I couldn’t eat or get out of bed or do anything, really. It was horrible. I thought I wouldn’t survive it. But seeing you at the hospital changed something. I realized it wasn’t your job to make me better. Only I could do that. And I can. I can survive without you. I can survive without needing you to fix me. And maybe I’ll never be completely okay, but I know I’ll never be completely broken, either. And that’s life, I guess. Survival. That’s the tightrope.” He ran his thumb along my wrist.

  “It gets better,” I said. I’d never believed it more than I did then.

  He glanced at his sleeping baby, his face lighting up. “Life is a hell of a lot more generous than I was giving it credit for.”

  Our eyes met, we both smiled, and inevitably it happened. I don’t know if it was his will or my own, but our lips fell together, and his hand clutched my neck, and we were a tangled mess of recklessness and hurt and depression and existence. It didn’t matter if I loved him. It didn’t matter if I didn’t. It mattered that I could feel him, feel everything, and not need to hate it.

  He and I would never last. Even the happiness of now couldn’t delude us into believing that. But as long as there was a now, there was no use in worrying about a later.

  “I have something you need to see,” he whispered against my lips.

  I glanced from him to Preston. “Now is not the time.”

  “Reggie Mason, what a dirty mind you have. That is not the something I’m talking about.” He grabbed my hand and held Preston’s car seat with the other, dragging us both up the stairs. Once we reached the top, he nodded down the hallway. “Point me to your room, will you?”

  I led him into my bedroom, pausing to let him laugh at the bareness of it. The white bed, the empty walls, the uncluttered desk. Not all of us could be grunge band poster enthusiasts (see: emo narcissistic dicks).

  “It’s . . . yellow,” he tried to say through the laughter. “Like, the happiest color in the rainbow.”

  “Karen’s tried every trick in the book.” I sat down on the bed, moving toward the wall to make room.

  He unstrapped Preston from his car seat and cradled the baby’s head to his chest, leaning back against the headboard. Using his free hand, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved a DVD case with a white label reading THE SHEER USELESSNESS OF OUR CONDITION. I finally knew what this little setup was. A makeshift movie premiere.

  He noticed the twitch in my mouth as I tried desperately not to smile, and his smirk grew to full width. “And without further ado,” he announced, waving the disc at me, “I pre­sent to you The Sheer Uselessness of Our Condition. Directed by the brilliant Snake Eliot. Starring that girl with resting bitch face, Reggie Mason, and Carla Banks, the mother of my awesome child—​who would kill me if she knew I didn’t show it to her first.”

  I balled up my fist to punch him, but released it when I realized punching a dude who was holding a baby was probably illegal in Ohio.

  I stuck the movie in and let it play. It was everything I didn’t know I wanted it to be, and everything I hadn’t realized we were until that very instant. Shots of sun rays and lightning and dumpsters and collapsing buildings and bottles of pills. Sped-up shots of Carla holding all her sonograms, of her crying and smiling and talking about all the possible good things that were to come. Of me being miserable and cynical and brutally aware of it all. Of me in the Hawkesbury parking lot theorizing that nothing we do matters, that nothing makes a difference. Voice-overs of Maks and Margaret, all the same as from the sneak peek I’d watched that night in Snake’s room. Sad piano pieces, and The Onslaught soundtrack lady, and the Renegade Dystopia. Preston lying in his hospital bed blinking wide-eyed at the camera. Carla laughing. Snake and his moms holding Preston, kissing his forehead. Sunshine. Warm colors. Spring spilling into summer.

  Nothing gelled perfectly. It was choppy and rough, and didn’t fit together no matter how stunning the score, or how seamlessly edited the footage. But it was as real as the people who lived it all. It was our lives on catastrophic display. It was our uselessness. And it really, really mattered.

  As the screen cut to black, all that was left were Margaret’s words.

  It’s a strange occurrence, walking a tightrope into the night. I once believed that opening my eyes would be scary, a dreadful awareness that my journey would inevitably reach a close. Never did I realize that looking forward was only frightful when I refused to also look to the side, to observe not only the abyss that surrounded me, but the people walking their tightropes alongside my own. And now I know why they say it’s better to open your eyes than to blind yourself. If we are all destined to fall into the darkness, at least we’ll fall together.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THAT AFTERNOON, WE MET CARLA AT the park. The moment we arrived, she scooped Preston up in her arms and kissed his forehead. Snake leaned against the metal bar, a burp cloth slung over one shoulder and a diaper bag on the other. I took the swing beside Carla, digging my shoes into the mulch.

  “Snake, does this onesie really say LADIES’ MAN?” Carla asked, rocking Preston back and forth. He was awake and flashing red gums, his Snake-blue eyes taking it all in.

  Snake smiled at me from the corner of his eye. “I may have put that on him after I changed his diaper.”

  “How about you leave his fashion choices to me.”

  He glanced at me and frowned.

  “And you better be coming over tonight,” she added, doing a complete 180 from Mommy Carla to Nagging Carla. After all this time, the different Carlas still popped up so quickly they made me do a double-take. “My stepmom’s insisting on some big family dinner so you can bond with my dad. You can come too, Reggie.”

  “I’m not family,” I reminded her.

  She laughed. “You’re my best friend, who’s also dating my son’s dad. If that’s not family, I don’t know what is.”

  “On what planet am I your best friend?” I motioned to Snake. “And since when am I dating this jackass?”

  “Oh, we’re totally dating,” Snake said, his smirk growing into a full-on smile. “And you two are definitely best friends. Just embra
ce it.”

  He slid to the ground, his back against the swing set. I watched him unfasten his camera, the familiar light blinking red. I opened my mouth to protest, but realized the lens wasn’t aimed at me.

  “Again with this?” Carla said, exasperated. “You filmed me breastfeeding last week.”

  “How was I supposed to know you were breastfeeding?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because my boob was out of my shirt?”

  “Please tell me I got footage of that.”

  I cut him a knowing look I knew he’d recognize. “The Sheer Uselessness of Our Condition: Part 2?”

  He moved the camera away from his face and stared up at me. I didn’t want to look away. The only thing more useless than our condition was pretending that it didn’t have extraordinary possibilities.

  “I guess we’ll have to see,” he said.

  Smiling, I closed my eyes and kicked my legs in fast propelling motions. All that remained was the air, and my desperate need to breathe it. I opened my mouth and let the warmth fill my lungs. There was a time when I would have done this alone. When I would have lifted, torn, clawed my way to the sky inside a bubble. I could return to that life if I thought it was worth it. If feeling pain, even the good kind, proved too frightening. But as I climbed higher, the vibrations of laughter and distorted voices and wind circling my body, nothing had ever been as terrifying as it was necessary. Suddenly, I wasn’t tethered to the blackness. I wasn’t being thrashed about by the earth. Nothing slowed me down, and nothing stopped me.

  I was completely alive (see: happy) and completely aware of it.

  WHAT DEPRESSION MEANS TO ME

  For: Dr. Rachelle

  By Reggie Mason

  It’s been said that humanity exists in what is called the circle of life, a continuum of time that is characterized by the give and take of a phenomenon that never ceases to exist. However, I choose to liken our experiences to a line. A tightrope, if you will. Humans tread this fine strand, always one misstep away from tumbling into the darkness. This darkness indeed is death, but not merely death of the body. It is death of spirit. Death of hope. Death of heart. Death of wishing to escape the temporariness of time. Whether a person walks alone or alongside another, they are unsuccessful in their attempts to be more than what they are. We are all decay. We are all chaotic. We are all hopelessly flawed. We are all incurably human. And we, all of us, have monstrous hearts.

  Some choose to numb their realities with medication or seclusion. We call these people depressed. But what is depression if not an extension of human fatality? What is depression if not a painful awareness of the imminent abyss? What is depression if not a mode of self-preservation?

  Nothing on the tightrope can be explained, much less wholly defined. But every indefinable thing has a beginning, and the beginning of understanding depression is simply this:

  You’re never as alone as you think you are.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt and Margaret Raymo for believing in this story and giving me the incredible opportunity to share my words with the world.

  Thank you to my agent, Maria Vicente, and the entire team at P.S. Literary for being champions of my work and seeing this novel through every step of the process.

  Thank you to my Pitch Wars mentor, Erica Chapman, for being the first person in the writing community to take me under her wing. I can’t express how much your wisdom, support, and kindness have touched my heart and given me the confidence to keep writing.

  Thank you to Brenda Drake and the Pitch Wars family for welcoming me with open arms. I would have given up on this story years ago had it not been for you all.

  A million thanks to my big sisters—Haley, who just may be my soulmate; Kasey, who takes unparalleled pride in my accomplishments; and Jamie, who calms me down when I’m convinced my antidepressants are sending me into anaphylactic shock. I hate you all in the best way.

  To my parents, Buster and Danilynn, who keep me sane, spoil me like a queen, and love me for no reason. Thanks for never trying to tame my wild imagination. Thanks to everyone who read the manuscript for this story in its early drafts—Natalie Cook, Natalie Williamson, Kayla and Michael Humphreys, and Maureen Lovell—you all are the reason I’m holding this book in my hands.

  And to Betty Phelps and Jessica Phelps, my second mother and my adopted sister, thank you for your unconditional love. Without your warmth and snuggles, I would have never survived the path to publication.

  ONE

  THERE’S A SWEET burnt-jelly smell in the air. When I enter the kitchen, Ivy’s standing by the toaster.

  “Hey, Ives. Making a snack?” I stick a mug of water in the microwave and get a tea bag out of the cabinet.

  “Yeah.” In her pajamas, with her round face, big eyes, and blondish ponytail, she looks like an oversize five-year-old. She doesn’t say anything else. Ivy’s not a big conversationalist.

  The toaster clicks, and by the time my tea is ready, Ivy is installed at the table, a Pop-Tart on a plate, a glass of cold milk at its side. She’s got her iPad in front of her, and she’s doing something on it—​probably playing a game. I open my laptop to work on an English paper, and the two of us fall into companionable silence.

  There are footsteps in the hallway and then Ron’s in the doorway, filling it up with his broad shoulders. He’s wearing his after-work uniform: sweatpants and a T-shirt with sleeves short enough to show his bulging biceps.

  Ron’s beefy without being cut. His face is heavy, especially down at the jaw and chin, but he wears his light brown hair on the longer side in front, so he can thrust the mass of it back with his fingers—​it’s a ridiculously youthful gesture for someone edging toward sixty, and I’m convinced he practices it in front of the mirror.

  My mother married him over a year ago. He still feels like an intruder in our house. I don’t think he’ll ever not feel like one.

  “Hey, there!” he says with unconvincing geniality. “Look at you two girls, working away! I’m going to assume you’re doing homework and not messaging boys.” He crosses to the refrigerator. “Your mom’s thirsty, and as usual, I’m waiting on her hand and foot.” He snaps his enormous hand like he’s got a whip in it. “Coosh-oo! She orders, and I obey.”

  Neither of us responds. He grabs a half-empty bottle of wine from the fridge and two glasses from the cabinet. He’s heading back out when he notices the plate in front of Ivy.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Pop-Tart.”

  He sighs. “Oh, Ivy,” he says in the overly gentle tone he always uses with her. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? About making better choices? About eating to fuel our bodies and not just because we’re bored?” Ron’s always trying to micromanage Ivy’s diet. He acts like it’s all about her health, but I eat just as much junk as she does and he never says anything to me about it, because I’m thinner than she is. Not that Ivy’s fat, exactly, just kind of solid. She’ll never be a supermodel, but that’s not exactly her destiny anyway, so who cares?

  Other than Ron, I mean.

  “I was hungry,” she says.

  “Were you?” Ron says. “Were you really hungry? Because you ate quite a bit at dinner tonight. Quite a bit.” He leans against the side of the doorway, wineglass stems threaded through the fingers of one hand, bottle in the other. There’s a scar on the side of that hand—​he claims he cut it as a teenager working in a lab one summer, but I bet it was from a broken beer bottle. He acts all cultured now, but I’m convinced he was a total bro back in the day. Probably beat up all the nerdy kids and high-fived his friends afterward. “A lot of what you ate was carbohydrates—​potatoes and bread. You didn’t touch your salad.”

  “It had peppers in it.” She appeals to me. “I don’t like peppers, right, Chloe?”

  “No one does.”

  “Chloe,” Ron says. “Don’t.” His voice tightens when he talks to me, but I prefer that to the patronizing
tone he uses with my sister. Which he now slips back into. “You don’t have to finish that, Ivy. We can wrap it up, and you can have the rest for breakfast tomorrow. Or we can just throw it out—​processed food like this belongs in the trash anyway, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Don’t tell her whether or not she’s hungry,” I say. “It’s her body.”

  “Can you just stop?” he snaps at me. “I’m trying to help her out here.” He flashes a strained smile in her direction. “I want to keep our sweet Ivy healthy.”

  “Her health is fine,” I say, because it is—​Ivy never gets sick. “You’re the one with high cholesterol. Worry about yourself. You really need that wine? Lot of calories in wine, you know.” I deliberately eye his waist—​he’s always complaining to my mom that no matter how many sit-ups he does, he can’t get back to a size twenty-eight, so I know he’s self-conscious about it.

  Ron stands up straighter, sucking in his stomach—​it’s the kind of thing people do when you stare at their love handles. “When I want your advice, Chloe, I’ll ask for it. But don’t hold your breath.” He turns back to Ivy. “You could be so pretty,” he says. “I mean, you are so pretty. You don’t want to go and mess that up by eating so much junk food you get fat and pimply, do you? Don’t you want a boyfriend one day? And a husband? My mother got married when she was younger than you! Doesn’t that blow your mind?”

  “I know,” Ivy says. “She was nineteen when she got married, and your father was twenty-three. You were born two years later in 1961. Mom was born in 1972. She’s eleven years younger than you.”

  For a moment he blinks at her, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of accurate information she’s just thrown at him. Then he recovers. “Yeah, well . . . good. It’s good you remember. My point is you’re old enough to be thinking about boys and to care about how you look. Like Chloe.” He jerks his chin at me. “She always looks nice. I’ll give her that.”