But I didn’t.
I didn’t.
Mostly, I was ashamed. It’s a corrosive thing, being ashamed.
And maybe Dad felt it and maybe he didn’t, but the fact is, he’d been perfectly healthy all of his life, and then right in the checkout line at Publix, he just collapsed. And when I found myself next to his hospital bed, pleading to God — tubes snaking out of Dad’s body and a machine breathing for him — I found that Owen was the easiest thing to forget.
Sixteen
“Hey.”
Faith jerks around toward me, surprised. Or at least I think it’s Faith. She looks completely different than she did a week ago, when she padded into the kitchen wearing Rusty’s pajamas. Her blond hair, which hung halfway down her back that morning, is now cut into a bouncy, shoulder-length bob.
I’ve been outside for probably thirty minutes now. I come out here sometimes, right before sunup, just to sit on the steps, arms wrapped around my pulled-up legs, listening to the cicadas and the quiet lapping of the Gulf, the heavy, humid air pressing down on me like a paperweight. It’s consistency I’m after, I think, some sort of evidence that certain things are constant. This morning is the first time I’ve caught Faith slipping out of the house, though.
“Hi!” she says, sort of loudly, shifting her weight and blinking her doe eyes a couple times. She points with her thumb to her car. “I was just leaving. It’s not like I stay overnight a lot.” Glancing at her bare feet, she laughs once, just a quick ha, grinning with a friendliness that makes me feel horrible for the things I thought about her the first time we met. “Okay, so I kind of stay here a lot. But I won’t anymore if it bothers you.”
I shrug. “It’s fine.” At this, she collapses down beside me on the steps and starts putting on her sandals. She smells like dryer sheets and daisies and clothes you find at Target. Her face is smooth and makeup-free, and she looks probably a decade younger than her actual age. Glancing sideways at her, I say, “You cut your hair.”
“Oh. Right.” Her hand shoots up to her head, like she forgot. “I had this gut feeling I was due for a change. That’s something I do — go with my gut. Rusty finds it rather terrifying.”
I do my best to fend off the huge smile that I feel migrating to my face. Because what am I thinking? Smiling enthusiastically at Rusty’s girlfriend is practically the same thing as smiling enthusiastically at Rusty.
Faith roots around in her purse for a second. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she mutters, pulling out her car keys, which are shellacked together with a melted lollipop.
I raise an eyebrow. “You have kids?”
“I have twenty kids.” She must see the shock in my expression because she goes on to clarify. “I’m a preschool teacher.”
“Ah. Phew,” I say, and there I go, starting to smile again. This time, I don’t fight it. “Do you like being around kids all day?”
She looks wistful for a moment. “Yeah. I do,” she says. Then she pries the lollipop off her keys. Making a face, she wraps the candy in a jumble of tissues she finds in her purse. “Before that, I worked as a secretary for an accounting firm.”
“What? Really?” I can’t picture Faith in a blazer and sensible heels. Actually, I can’t picture her wearing anything that isn’t casual or cotton. Which is odd because I hardly even know her. “So why’d you start teaching preschool?”
She stands up and brushes off her backside, shouldering her purse. And then she grins, spontaneous and bright. “I went with my gut.”
#
My conversation with Faith blasts some sort of fresh air into my head, and by afternoon I feel like I might actually be capable of a little female bonding. So I stride out of the house like I’m wearing heels and lipstick, like I’m heading to a women’s rights protest or something. Suddenly I have a purpose, even though it’s only to try to sort a few things out with my former best friend. I have to believe that while my relationship with Janna is fractured, it isn’t broken beyond repair. In fact, it’s quite possibly the only connection here that I might be able to salvage, and I need that desperately right now.
There’s no way on God’s green earth I’m knocking on the McAllisters’ front door, so I head to Island Pizza on the off chance that Janna’s working again. By the time I step into the restaurant, I’ve almost convinced myself that I won’t find her there, so I’m mildly surprised to see her leaning casually against the counter, bright red apron tied around her waist, hair twisted into knots all over her head, talking to Andy. I pause for a moment just inside the doorway, my heart thrumming in my ears. Suddenly I feel like I’m doing something vaguely dangerous or criminal, like scaling over a fence onto private property.
It’s midafternoon, so the only customer is an old guy in a corner booth, sipping soda and penning answers into a crossword puzzle. Neither Janna nor Andy notice me right away. Andy is leaning across the counter, laughing, saying something to Janna as she beams back at him, sunrise bright. I look sharply away. I think about all the mistakes in my past — some Janna knows about, and some she doesn’t. No way could I tell her about what happened with her brother. Sharing that particular secret would create a whole new sort of misery between us. Just thinking about it now thrusts me back in time — all of a sudden I’m waking up in that bed again, groggy and confused and dehumanized, every trust I’ve ever had in the world slipping away like sand through my fingers.
I swallow. I’m still alive, though.
I’m okay.
I can do this.
I don’t walk straight up to her. Instead, I make a beeline for the old-school jukebox in the corner of the room. The place is suddenly dead quiet. I’m very aware that my little ambush has caught Janna’s attention. My whole body goes prickly and warm as I run a shaky index finger down the glass in search of one particular song. When I find it, I root around in my purse for a quarter, pop it into the machine, key in the song number and press the play button. Then, trying to look much calmer than I feel, I walk up to the counter to the tune of “I’m Too Sexy.”
Like old times.
Janna arches an eyebrow as I come to a stop in front of her. I can’t tell whether she’s annoyed or impressed. Andy shifts his weight and tugs down on his faded black T-shirt that says I was into Civil War reenactments before it was cool, which may or may not be ironic. He props his hands on his hips and then drops them to his sides. “Hey, Grace. How are you? Calzones are on special today. I was just leaving.” And he practically runs out the door.
I chew on my thumbnail.
Here’s the thing: I’ve always had a very clear sense of the rules of friendship. And I know without a doubt that I’m the one breaking them. Or that I had broken them — same difference, seeing as how I’ve let this awkwardness drag on so long. Fact is that I never actually apologized to Janna; I flushed eleven years of friendship down the toilet and then didn’t even bother to say I was sorry. What sort of person does that?
I steady myself with a hand on the counter, where Janna is busying herself by wiping down the already gleaming Formica. “So I was never good at this, you know,” I say.
Janna raises both brows. A light coat of mascara is the only makeup she’s wearing, so her freckles are out in full force. “This?”
Suddenly I’m exhausted, like I haven’t slept for two years. “Confrontation.”
Janna just stares at me, and then she rolls her eyes. A renegade curl has escaped one of her knots and is springing straight up in the air. “That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it,” she says. Yet she doesn’t appear mad mad. Her expression is annoyed, like she’s been waiting for this moment for God knows how long, and now that it’s come, it’s a total letdown.
I draw in a breath, and in my exhale, I say, “Look, I’m sorry. About Owen. About everything. I should have — I should have stayed away from him.”
Understatement of the century.
Un
blinking, Janna says, “My appendix burst last year. I’ve never felt pain like that. Dad had to actually carry me into the hospital, and I ended up having emergency surgery. It was terrifying. And Owen” — I flinch before I can stop myself — “he was a mess for months after the accident. Total disaster. And that’s not even to mention what Mom and Dad have been through. The girl from the accident? My parents felt obligated to pay for her medical bills. All of them. So, yeah, we ended up totally broke. It would’ve really helped to have my best friend the past couple of years, Grace. But you disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“But you were mad at me,” I say. It comes out in a whine.
“I was hurt, actually,” Janna says. Her eyes are leveled on mine, but her lower lip is trembling the smallest bit.
I fold my arms over my stomach. “I’m so sorry.” My voice is just a whisper. “I just — I just wanted to make sure you knew that. What I did was stupid and careless and I’m so, so sorry for hurting you.”
I wait for a moment for her to say something, but she doesn’t, so I turn and walk slowly toward the door. The song hasn’t even ended yet. Pathetic. But Janna’s eyes snag on mine right before I walk out, and she gives me a small nod.
Seventeen
“Because it’s bigger,” I explain to Rusty late the next morning when he asks, for probably the fifth time since I moved in, why I’m sleeping in this particular room instead of the one I’ve slept in since I was born. He’s hovering in my doorway, shirtless and unshaven, eating powdered donuts out of one of those boxes you get two-for-three-dollars. “And there’s better light in here,” I go on, gesturing toward the window. Never mind that my curtains are closed, because it seems like every time I glance out the window I see Owen.
I mean, honestly.
First thing in the morning, there he is, standing on the McAllisters’ front porch, drinking a cup of coffee and gazing out at the ocean like he’s trying to stare a new truth into it. And there he goes in the afternoon, heading to the garage, where he works past dark on whatever project has been holding him captive. And there he is every Saturday night — just like freaking clockwork — stepping out of the house in crisply ironed clothes, climbing into a Jeep and disappearing for hours.
On the other hand, I’ve lived here for two and a half weeks now, and this is probably the third time I’ve seen Rusty. He’s always hanging out with Faith or working at the bar or fishing or sleeping. I don’t know what I was expecting from him when I moved in, but it wasn’t quick, informal conversations in front of the coffeepot, all of them variations of “Hey, how’s it going?” or “Sure is hot today.”
Now, as he hovers in the doorway, he repositions his hat, leaving powdered-sugar fingerprints on the brim. “Well, at least let me buy you a bedspread,” he says, gesturing to the old, crumpled-up blanket thrown over my sheets. I don’t know whether he’s remembering how I reacted when he offered to buy me clothes, but he shifts his weight, looking nervous all of a sudden, like maybe he’s afraid he crossed some sort of line again. It isn’t an expression I remember from all those years growing up. He’s always been so confident.
“I don’t need a bedspread,” I tell him.
He peers into the room, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned. “Seems weird, your sleeping in here.”
I understand the implication. This room was where Dad always slept. And if I look out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see Dad in here, leaning against the wall, one leg kicked out casually, watching Rusty and me like he used to, back when our relationship wasn’t painful.
“But if you want to call it your own, I s’pose that’s your decision,” Rusty says, snapping my attention back to him. Just like that, Dad’s gone.
I stare at Rusty for a moment, thinking maybe he’ll actually mention Dad. Which is beyond misguided. It’s clear that Rusty and I will never really discuss Dad’s death, that my feet will remain stuck in this quicksand of confusion and sadness.
True to form, Rusty takes a step back, reminds me that I have an appointment coming up with my therapist, nods a goodbye and ambles away.
#
Literally every horizontal surface in the house is dirty, so that afternoon I grab a rag and a spray bottle and start cleaning. Keeping busy is the best way to ignore Eleanor, who seems constantly underfoot, hanging out in the living room or wandering the hallways or burning something in the kitchen. Even when she isn’t home, I feel as though she is, with her ashtrays and half-empty soda cans dotting the house and her glops of makeup in the bathroom sink.
This afternoon, she’s sitting on the couch, my violin in one hand and a glass of booze in the other, wearing a white robe with a huge, dignified-looking family crest embroidered on the front. Which is noteworthy only because (1) she’s been wearing it for two days straight, and (2) we don’t have a family crest, and if we did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be dignified. More likely than not, it would consist of a pair of rolling eyes, a prescription for Zoloft and the word goddammit.
She strums a chord on my violin, not even bothering to use the bow. Rusty used to do the same thing, except he’d sing along in a loud, twangy baritone, which I always thought was the funniest thing ever. But here, now, with Eleanor plucking at the strings, it feels a little patronizing. “Do you like playing this thing?” she says pleasantly.
I blink at her. “Do I like playing that thing?”
“That’s what I’m asking.” She plays a new chord. The violin buzzes disagreeably at her, and she makes a surprised face and goes back to the original chord, humming a tune I don’t recognize.
“What sort of question is that?” I say. Eleanor doesn’t reply, just props one of her ankles on her opposite knee and jiggles her foot, awaiting my answer. It isn’t a condescending gesture, but it sort of feels that way. I wonder whether it’s a gift of hers — making me feel idiotic without even trying. I dismiss her with a wave of my hand, sliding out of the room to find some more paper towels. When I come back, she looks at me as though she’s still waiting for my answer. So I sigh and say, “Of course I like playing it.”
With the violin, there’s no bluffing your way over a twisty spot, like you can with the guitar. There’s no lying, because it will call you out, expose all your weaknesses. And I have a lot of weaknesses. Still, I love playing the violin. I love listening to it. I love humming along with it. I love the way the bow feels in my hand. I even love the way my neck aches after I spend hours practicing.
Nobody else in our family is musically inclined. In fact, Dad and Rusty burst out laughing when I informed them that I wanted a violin for my birthday. I was nine years old, and back then the world seemed huge and endless and full of possibility. So I stood there, hands on my hips, and stared them down till they stopped. When they realized I was serious, they swallowed their laughter and did their best to humor me. Figuring it was just a whim, Dad bought me the cheapest violin, an old Stentor that I practiced on till my fingers chafed. Through the years, I’ve gone through three more before settling on a Mendini that seems more like a friend than anything else. I never took lessons. Instead, I taught myself how to play — just the internet, my stubbornness and me. Money was always tight for us, and I never gathered enough nerve to ask Dad if we could afford lessons. I have to wonder how much better I’d be right now if I’d been taught by a proper teacher.
Eleanor’s ice jingles as she takes a long pull of her drink, yanking me back to the present. There’s probably nothing wrong with drinking alcohol in the middle of the afternoon. But then, there isn’t much right about it, either. And since my mom died from alcohol abuse when I was two, I have strong opinions on the matter.
I crouch down to wipe the dust off the entertainment center. “I mean, I’ve played for a long time.” Eleanor leans back on the couch and nods at me, her overly pleasant expression indicating she’s indulging me. I fold the paper towels in half and clean behind the television. “I guess
there’s something calming about it,” I go on, doing my best to keep from sounding defensive. “Over the past couple of years, it’s been … I don’t know — helpful, I guess?”
It’s an honest thing to say to her — more honest than I intended, really — and once I say it, I half expect her to laugh. That doesn’t happen, though. She has a strange set to her mouth, like maybe she’s getting ready to say something serious. She must decide against it, though, because she swoops one arm dramatically at the front window and changes the subject. “Hang out on the beach much since you’ve been back?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say. Eleanor cocks a questioning eyebrow at me, so I clarify. “It’s too hot.”
She shrugs. “This is Florida. It’s always too hot. You can get in the water to cool off.”
I move Dad’s lucky bamboo, dust underneath it and then set it back down. Turning toward Eleanor, I say, “I don’t really like swimming in the ocean, remember?”
She guffaws like she’s never once heard me say this, though I know for a fact that I’ve told her, time and time again.
I mash my lips together. I will not respond to her. I will not respond to her. I will not respond —
“It’s just not my thing,” I say, sort of loudly, and then I smile at her. I don’t feel like smiling, but I conceal this by scooping up a pile of fast-food bags, walking out the front door and stalking down the driveway to the trash can.
I don’t see Owen right away. Not until I’ve stuffed the bags in the trash and turned to make my way back to the house.
He’s standing in front of his garage, watching me.
I feel a familiar stab in my chest, a missile finding its target. I hate how my body reacts to his presence. Also, I hate how I can’t walk out of Rusty’s house without seeing him, without feeling as though I should wear a disguise. Because why am I ducking around when I haven’t done anything wrong? Why am I the one who always feels guilty?
The Leading Edge of Now Page 7