Love and Leftovers

by Sarah Tregay

  Indiana (I buy J.D. a postcard in Gary.)

  Illinois (It takes me all the way to La Salle to

  decide what to write.)

  Iowa (I miss Mom, too.)

  Nebraska (“I love you,” she says when I call

  from Lincoln.)

  Wyoming (“I’m sorry I was so much trouble,”

  I admit from Cheyenne.)

  Utah (“I’m proud of you,” Dad says.)

  Idaho (“This won’t be an easy adjustment,

  but I know you can do it.”)

  Dad doesn’t want to risk getting stuck in the snow

  so he listens to the weather report

  as if it were the gospel,

  and only drives

  when the roads have been cleared,

  the visibility is decent,

  and the flurries light.

  It takes us all week.

  Part Two

  BOISE, IDAHO

  Danny

  Our drive from Ogden to Boise

  takes all day because of the snow.

  I’m tired and looking forward to sleeping in my own bed

  for the first time in seven months.

  Seeing my house with its little yard,

  blue shutters, and yellow glow of a lamp left on

  fills me with familiar comfort, like a dream. Only better.

  Stepping into the family room, I close my eyes and inhale

  the sweet scent of home: maple syrup, cinnamon candles,

  and Downy dryer sheets.

  It smells like a dream. Only better.

  Opening my eyes,

  I see a boyish man with an Abercrombie body,

  a kind smile, and robin’s-egg blue eyes,

  wearing nothing but pajama bottoms,

  who looks like a dream. Only better.

  I jump backward and nearly yelp when

  I realize I’m not asleep and he is talking to me.

  “Sorry, Marcie, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He knows my name.

  I squint at him.

  He looks a little older than UNH frat boys, but not much.

  “Marcie, you’ve met Danny?” Dad says.

  “The boyfr— the bartender, yes.”

  I just didn’t remember him being so

  cute.

  Home, in Daylight

  My house feels familiar, but oddly different.

  I wander from room to room, taking inventory:

  There are more gadgets in the kitchen,

  including an espresso machine.

  There are more books on the shelves,

  including Ayn Rand novels.

  There’s an electric razor on the bathroom sink,

  next to Dad’s regular one.

  There’s another car in the garage,

  a baby-blue 1969 Pontiac GTO.

  (Mom’s old car is parked outside.)

  There is nothing different about Dad and Mom’s room,

  except Dad has moved

  into the guest room with Danny

  and Mom isn’t here.

  At least I have my security blanket,

  pancake mix, and maple syrup,

  to make me feel better about

  coming home.

  I Don’t Call Linus

  or Katie

  on the day before school starts.

  I am too humiliated

  to admit

  that I

  dumped my boyfriend

  and never

  bothered

  to

  inform

  him.

  Dad Gives Me a Ride to School

  I step out of Danny’s gleaming

  baby-blue Pontiac GTO

  in my leather boots and an old denim skirt

  topped with a soft gray sweater.

  My short-cropped hair

  accessorized with a little clip.

  My features accented with mascara

  and minty Burt’s Bees lip gloss.

  (It’s so nice to have a closet full of clothes

  and a vanity drawer full of makeup.)

  With registration papers

  and immunization record

  in hand,

  I should have been ready

  for my first day of school.

  But

  I’m not.

  Hello

  Linus isn’t ready for the girl

  who smiles at him

  with Burt’s Bees minty lips

  because he thinks

  I’m someone else.

  I am.

  All He Says

  “God, you look hot,”

  Linus whispers,

  wrapping both hands around my head

  and kissing my lips so hard

  I can’t speak

  or kiss back.

  Softening,

  he releases the pressure,

  kisses my top lip,

  and runs his tongue along the ticklish line

  where my lip stops and my mouth begins.

  If I had planned to protest,

  I no longer could.

  I gasp for air

  as a wave of tingles surfs down my spine.

  Eyes closed tight,

  we dive, together,

  into a dizzying sea

  of kisses.

  Underwater

  I can’t hear a single sound in the hall.

  As if everyone has stopped to watch

  me drown.

  He Stops Kissing Me

  when Katie bounces down the hall,

  tackles us, spins us around,

  and sings, “Marcie, Marcie, Marcie!”

  “I missed you,” I tell her ear

  as I wrap her in a bear embrace

  that dances with happiness.

  “I can’t wait to catch up,

  to show you my drawings

  and the manga I’m writing.

  You’ll help me with the words,

  won’t you, Marcie?”

  “Yes,” I tell her,

  because I want to spend

  every waking moment

  together.

  Eating Lunch with the Leftovers

  Linus is humming a lullaby, scrawling lyrics on a napkin.

  Katie is wearing a prom dress over jeans and Converse.

  Angelo is tutoring Katie in math

  and looking down her dress.

  Emily is buttoning a flannel shirt over her perfect figure.

  Olive is sewing Girl Scout badges to a vest.

  Carolina is dipping the tines of her fork into vinegar

  then into her salad.

  Garrett is telling Ian about riding his bicycle

  to Lake Lowell,

  and Ian is drumming his responses in Morse code.

  Our lunch table is so weird,

  and at the same time, so normal,

  that I am overcome with sappy,

  made-for-TV nostalgia

  and announce,

  “I missed you guys!

  I’m glad to be back.”

  Amid the hugs and high fives,

  I’m happy

  I have friends

  like the Leftovers.

  Silly Hamlet

  You don’t decide

  to be or not to be.

  Social suicide is not a question.

  (At least not in a world divided

  by cafeteria tables

  and after-school activities.)

  Because

  just like that—

  with Linus’s kiss,

  Katie’s hug,

  and lunch with my friends—

  I had become a Leftover

  all over

  again.

  Dress Rehearsal

  My school day is a blur

  of lectures without beginnings,

  novels I have not read,

  math problems I can’t solve,

  and quizzes I have no answers for.

  Instead of listening reading computing answering,
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  I walk through scenarios

  in which I tell Linus about J.D.:

  “I really liked him,” I’d explain.

  “I really needed a friend,” I’d say.

  “Yeah, it got a little out of control,”

  I’d soften the blow. “I kissed him.”

  “But J.D. and I said good-bye.

  He had a girlfriend and I have you.”

  “I won’t see him again,” I’d promise.

  “So if you aren’t gay,” I’d say gently,

  “and if you like me like I like you,

  we should give our relationship

  another try,

  time to preheat,

  simmer,

  bake.”

  I’d explain

  because I owe it to him,

  because I’ve been a crap girlfriend,

  because,

  after That Kiss,

  I want to kiss him

  again.

  The Best-Laid Plans

  (FALL OUT THE WINDOW)

  After Linus puts

  his niece down for a nap,

  he and I are alone.

  Finally.

  I am sweating jittery nervous.

  I ask rapid-fire questions.

  I put him on the stand.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?” “Oh yeah,” Linus

  says, low and slow.

  “Was I before I lost weight?” “Uh-huh.”

  “But you—

  How come—

  How come you never—

  Never once

  took my clothes off?” “Huh?”

  “Did you think I was fat?” “No.”

  “Ugly?” “No.”

  “Then what?” “I—” he stammers.

  “Marcie, I—

  I love you.”

  My World Shatters

  Knowing that

  Linus loves me

  changes everything.

  Except

  what I have done.

  Respect

  “I never once

  took off your clothes,”

  Linus says,

  sliding closer,

  wiping tears

  from my cheeks,

  “because

  I didn’t want

  to treat you

  like my brothers would.”

  Clarification

  “So

  you’re

  not

  gay?”

  “I get a boner every time we French-kiss.”

  Confession

  “I was so lonely,”

  I tell Linus.

  “I hadn’t made any friends

  all summer, because

  I thought Mom and I

  were coming back in September.

  So the kids thought

  I was kinda stuck-up,

  not talking to them

  because they were townies.

  But there was this boy.

  He brought me doughnuts.

  He took me to a dance.

  He hugged me—

  that’s all I wanted.

  I wanted someone to hold me

  because I was shriveling up

  from a lack of hugs.

  He touched me—

  the hem of my skirt.

  And all of a sudden,

  I felt beautiful.

  I felt wanted.

  I felt like a ripe peach

  he wanted to devour.”

  A Million

  I’m sorrys

  do not make

  Linus

  stop crying.

  In the Aftermath of the End of the World

  I let myself out,

  walk home

  shaking

  and confused.

  In Burst

  I throw the front door open

  and slam it shut behind me.

  “Hey, Sugar Cookie,” Dad calls from the kitchen.

  “Don’t Sugar Cookie me,” I shout,

  dropping my backpack to the floor.

  Dad looks up from his marinara sauce.

  “This—this is all your fault.”

  I rip my arms from my parka sleeves.

  “Did you know my life is a bucket of shit?

  No. A bucket is too small.

  A garbage can,

  a truckload,

  a landfill!”

  I start to blubber,

  my tears falling on the linoleum

  like drops of water off fresh-washed dishes.

  Dad Tries to Hug Me

  But I turn my shoulders, shake him off.

  “How could you?” I choke out.

  “How could you leave Mom?

  How could you break us up beyond repair?”

  Dad turns the burner down,

  then takes a seat at the breakfast bar,

  leaving a stool empty for me.

  “Marcie, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry is for dropping a fork,” I inform him,

  “for spilling milk—”

  He cuts me off. “Your mom and I have drifted apart.

  But you need to know that

  at one time we were very, very close.

  We were a family, with a baby.”

  “Me?” I ask, softening.

  “Yes, you. Sit.”

  I wipe my nose on a dish towel.

  “Charlene used to throw her all into everything she did.

  She was a great mom, a copywriter at a huge ad agency,

  and she still found time to write novels at night.”

  “My mom?” I ask.

  “She loved it. Loved it all.

  But she no longer had time

  for our relationship.

  Marcie, your mother and I

  hadn’t been intimate for a long time—

  years.

  And I don’t know if you understand,

  but that makes for a lonely existence.”

  Why We Did What We Did

  I can’t believe

  he doesn’t think

  I understand.

  I do.

  Your arms ache to hold someone—

  you move in slow motion from one hug to the next

  so you won’t jostle the warm feeling off your shoulders

  before the next hug comes your way.

  Your heart feels hollow—

  that emptiness screams like an addiction to be filled

  even if it means doing hurtful, selfish things

  to get a fix.

  “I understand,”

  I tell him. “Because

  I’ve been lonely, too.”

  Dad’s Lecture, Part 2

  “It was then,

  about two years ago,

  that I started treating myself to a martini,

  instead of coming home to Charlene.

  Because I no longer had a wife I could talk to,

  I began sharing my problems with Danny.

  First we’d talk over drinks,

  later, over lunch

  or games of racquetball.

  It took a while

  for me to realize

  that I had a deeper friendship with Danny

  than I had with Charlene.

  So yes, Marcie, this whole situation,

  your shit-landfill life,

  is all my fault.”

  Boiled Down

  “So you broke our family

  into a million little pieces

  for sex?”

  “For love, Marcie.

  That’s what families are:

  two people who fall in love,

  make love,

  and give birth to a child they love.”

  One More Question

  “Before you married Mom,

  did you know you were gay?”

  Dad nods.

  “Not gay. Bisexual.

  I was never able