Life Before

by Michele Bacon

  “I do.”

  Our hug is like reverse tug-of-war: both of us waiting for the other to disengage. I refuse to let go first.

  Kat whispers, “Oh. This is it. This is the moment I’ll take with me out into the world.”

  When we finally let go, Kat delivers a chaste kiss on my cheek. “Good night, Xander.”

  “Good night, Kat.”

  If I ever see Kat again, it won’t be for a very long time. With the couch to myself, I rest my head inside Kat’s little pillow nest, my conscience clear. I was true to myself, and true to her, and true to Gretchen. And what else is there, really?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Running back to something takes a lot longer than running away from it.

  I can’t wait to get off this bus. After this small step backward into Laurel Woods, I can catapult myself into the future, one in which I can embrace my own name and my past.

  Forget the catapult: I can start doing that today. Right now, I am an orphan. It is a very strange and disquieting feeling. I am homeless, in a completely different way, and this time it’s permanent.

  I have other labels now, too: the guy whose mom was murdered and whose father is going to prison. But now, I own it. And in two short weeks, I will turn eighteen. I’m already a different person than I was on the last day of school, or in the mini-woods with Gretchen. I have tasted life—my own, interesting life—and I want more.

  My Greyhound shudders and lurches, and I hear more, more, more. More music. More books. More people. More understanding. More discussions about everything and nothing and what makes everyone else tick. More travel.

  I have been missing Laurel for weeks, but now I want one more Reuben from Curt’s. Or one more hour at the Free Library. One more walk to Ben & Jerry’s. One more biking tour.

  Hugging Sophie good-bye this morning opened my Mom wound a little more. I hope Sophie improves. I’m glad she has Curt and Kat. I’ll take a bit of Sophie with me. Curt and Kat, too. And probably Bingham from the hostel, which already seems like ages ago. Of course, he still knows me as Graham.

  Being Graham Bel taught me a lot about being Xander Fife. For maybe the first time in my life, I belong to myself. And I am just fine. And interesting. And good.

  Part of my heart is buried with my mother, and a huge part of it lives with Jill. But I love Kat, too, so part of my heart will travel with her. And a little piece of my heart stays in Burlington, where I made it on my own. And next month, when I finally—finally—make my way to college, other pieces of my heart won’t go with me.

  Maybe that’s what life is: a series of tearing your heart into tiny pieces and giving them to other people. Maybe as soon as you detach yourself from someone you love, you can never be whole again.

  Okay. So what part of my heart is mine?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  One second I’m standing in the Youngstown Greyhound station working the buckle on my backpack and the next I’m nearly thrown to the ground by one hundred pounds of squealing Jill.

  Tucker’s not far behind, hands in his pockets. “Hey.”

  I wrap my arms around him just as tightly as I had Jill. “Congratulations, buddy.” I cock my head toward Jill.

  Tuck stands up a little straighter. “It’s not like that, Xander.”

  “I already told him everything,” Jill says. “Don’t be weird.”

  “There is such a thing as private relationship business, Jilly.”

  Their focus is off me as we walk to Neapolitan. Tucker calls shotgun while I’m stuffing my bags into the trunk.

  “Nuh uh, I have been gone twenty-three days. The least you can do is let me sit in front.”

  Tuck folds the seat forward. “Rules are rules.”

  I climb in the back, and we’re off.

  Jill says, “Mom emptied Ryan’s room after you called, and my brothers have been bunking together. She says you might need privacy.”

  “Which is more than she’s doing for me, by the way,” Tucker says. “Janice watches me like a hawk. Lights on when I’m over. A genuine curfew, even on the weekends. Janice framed a photo of us, and I’m not even allowed up to Jill’s room to see how it looks on the wall.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Tuck. What’s the photo, Jill?”

  “The three of us at Quaker Steak. She paid Gretchen to snap it in May. Mom framed it as a graduation present, one for each of us.”

  “Sweet.”

  Jill has more and more and more. “Nine Inch Nails is playing at Blossom on Thursday, and I’m sure we can get another lawn ticket for you. Tucker refuses because of the noise, of course.”

  Tuck says, “That’s hardly fair,” and they quibble all the way home; I can’t get a word in edgewise. It’s good to be back.

  The weight of the air changes when we reach the town limits. We pass the Dairy Queen, and I wish I’d eaten more Ben & Jerry’s in Burlington. Ben & Jerry’s is light years ahead of DQ when it comes to flavor.

  Still, DQ is home.

  Jill parks in her driveway and I glance at my own house, two doors away. A brown and yellow real estate sign hangs from a post next to the driveway.

  Jill follows my gaze. “It went up last week. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”

  “It’s okay. I never need to step foot in there again.”

  Janice is yelling at the little boys. We duck into the backyard to find Ryan running around, completely naked.

  Janice says, “He is covered in baby oil. I have been trying to catch him for twenty minutes.”

  Same old, same old. Last time it was Vaseline.

  Janice wraps her arms around me. “Welcome home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, I would like nothing better than for you to live with us this summer. What do you say?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Janice beams. “That is exactly what Jill said you would say.”

  My best friend knows everything there is to know about me. Rather, she knows everything I knew about myself when I left Laurel. I desperately need to fill her in on everything else. I want her to know about Curt and Kat and Burlington. They’re important parts of me now, and things still don’t feel real until I tell Jill.

  All this time, I thought life in Laurel was going on without me. In reality, my life was temporarily not here; I took it with me and made it my own.

  I turn to see Jill and Tucker holding hands, something Jill has not done with anyone since the fifth grade. Life is different now, and it’s rolling forward.

  _______

  I’m sifting through all my crap in Jill’s unfinished basement because I can’t stand my Burlington clothes for one more second.

  Janice comes down to load up her washer. “Sorry it’s such a mess. We had to move everything very quickly.”

  “Hey, I appreciate you got anything at all.” I’m hoping she got some decent clothes, although I guess everyone has already seen me at my worst. I want tonight to seem like more of a date than just a night to hang out.

  Janice points to one dented box. “That one’s your mom’s. Most of her stuff I donated, but I kept some things I thought you might like to have someday.”

  Memories of Mom flood my mind. She only exists in memories now, which is both nauseating and freeing. If I can let go of the negative and abusive memories, her life can be all happiness and love. Maybe that box is full of things that made her happy. Her Beatles bookends, maybe. Or her favorite books. Or the scarf she knitted me, complete with seven holes.

  I need to see what is left of her life.

  I unfold the flaps and find her pillowcases on top. Then a sweater and other clothes. I turn my back to Janice and bring a handful of T-shirts to my nose. I fight back the tears, but they win. Mom’s voice has been in my head a lot, but it’s harder to imagine a scent. And here she is. Ivory soap and cardboard boxes and—big inhale—Mom. It’s heaven and holidays and home. I breathe in the fistful of cloth again.

  Love you, Mom.

  I don’t need a
nything else from this box. I especially don’t need the file folder from the day before Mom died, but I’ll bet it’s in here. What a mess. I made a mess of her life.

  Janice touches my shoulder lightly. “You okay, Xander?”

  “I can’t help but think if it weren’t for me, she would still be alive.”

  “Actually, I’d argue she would have died a long time ago if it weren’t for you.”

  “If it weren’t for me, she never would have stayed with Gary. I’m sure you’ve worked out that they got married because she was pregnant with me.”

  Janice purses her lips.

  “It’s okay, Janice. I’ve done the math.”

  She puts her hands on her hips, drops them, and looks at the ceiling. “This is a conversation you should have had with your mom.”

  No kidding.

  Her voice is quiet. “You got the math right, but the story wrong. Your mom got pregnant with you because she thought Gary would marry her.”

  I don’t believe it. “No way.”

  “A year or two ago, we had probably too much wine and got to talking about high school. She told me how head-over-heels she had been for Gary. For over a year, they were crazy about each other. He took her to Cleveland and Pittsburgh and Columbus and they dreamed of traveling the country together. Gary had a bit of a wandering eye, though, and your mom was desperate to keep him. When she found out she was pregnant with you, she hoped he would settle down with the two of you. That’s how she justified it: Gary would stop ogling other women once they were married.”

  I don’t know about this. In some sense—if it’s true, which I’m not willing to concede—Mom choosing Gary makes things better. In another sense, what happened to that guy? An adventurous father would have been awesome. We could have been a real family. Then again, maybe family is like life: it’s always the real thing, though not always the version you want.

  No one would have wanted this life, but it’s mine. That family was mine, too, and I’m done lying about it.

  “Janice, I’m sorry we lied to you about him. I was living a lie for a long time.”

  “You weren’t living a lie, Xander. You were ashamed of your parents. You kept secret the things that were happening in your life. You didn’t keep yourself from people. The Gary stuff, your mom? It’s tragic, it’s awful, but those are things that happened to you, not who you are.”

  I actually appreciate the after-school-special sentiment. I remember how light—how free!—I felt when I confided in Kat. I want all of life to be that light. And maybe when I get to college I don’t need to tell everyone my life story, but when the topic arises, I won’t be embarrassed.

  Not everyone needs to know everything, but some people deserve to. I check my watch. Gretchen is probably already waiting.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Quaker Steak is in three hours, but I needed to see Gretchen first. Alone. She said she’d meet me, but she’s not here.

  The fields are full of soccer matches. I choose a bench that faces the pee wee games, where four-year-olds chase the ball for an hour without keeping score.

  Eyeing the thin line of trees that separates the park from Gretchen’s neighborhood, I wish I had searched harder for my old phone. Maybe I wasn’t clear about where we should meet.

  No Gretchen. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Just when I decide she has changed her mind about the whole thing, Gretchen steps from between two trees. She brushes her hair away from her face as she searches the fields. When her eyes find me, she smiles, and I congratulate myself for sitting so far away.

  For a minute, I’m just a guy waiting for his smart and beautiful girlfriend to walk across the world’s largest field. It’s one of those moments that will become a forever memory. A happy one.

  Okay, she’s running now, but that’s maybe because I was staring too hard. She kisses me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I will replay this over and over in my head.

  We share the longest hug in the history of the universe. This isn’t how I expected our first date to happen. It’s exactly six weeks late, for one thing. “I’m so glad you agreed to meet me here.”

  Gretchen laces her fingers through mine and starts walking. “I would have met you anywhere.”

  Walking together feels like the most normal, natural thing. Like nothing ever happened. Gretchen stops and kisses me lightly, then not so lightly. I wrap my arms around her back.

  A little boy—or girl, it’s hard to tell—squeals, “Ew, ewwwwwwww,” and we erupt in laughter. We kiss again, picking up where we left off, as though these last weeks didn’t happen.

  But they did.

  I pull away from Gretchen and grab both of her hands. “Gretchen, I want to be here with you, doing this. Right now. But we need to talk first.”

  “I thought we agreed that we’ve been talking for years and needed to catch up on … other things.” Her cheeks are the softest shade of pink I’ve ever seen.

  I run my fingers through her hair. It’s still heaven. “We’ll get to that, I promise. But this can’t wait. That’s why we’re in public right now. We have the rest of the night and all of summer for the other things. All the other things, I promise. But hear me out: there are things about me that you don’t know.”

  Gretchen admits that she does know, now. She recaps for me what she’s seen on the news since my mother died. She knows Mom was abused. And I was abused.

  I stop her. “But there is more that I was afraid to tell you. There is so much more that you don’t know.”

  She can’t look me in the eye. “You don’t have to tell me. I understand.”

  She leans in to kiss me, and again I pull back. What is it with my brain? “No, Gretchen. I need to tell you. So that you really know me before we … get into the other stuff. Which I promise I cannot wait to get into with you.”

  Bewildered, her gaze shifts endlessly from one of my eyes to the other. “Alright.”

  Sitting in the sunned grass, legs crossed, holding Gretchen’s hands, I share the whole story.

  She listens intently, and my life feels real. This life, right here. Right now.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Now that I’ve earned my author badge, I want to acknowledge several things:

  First, that I cannot write with my captivating daughters underfoot. Megan Thornton, Brooke Monroe, Rachel Noveroske, Sierra van Burkleo, Tessa Boutwell, and the Napping Gods ensured I had the space and time necessary to write and edit this book.

  Second, that writing novels is a team sport. Sarah Quigley, Anique Drouin, and Amanda Blau provided invaluable insight. The Thomas Ford Library Teen Book Club contributed honest and heartfelt feedback. My editor, Nicole Frail, and her intern, Alexandra Ehlers, transformed crucial aspects of Xander’s story.

  Third, that Heather Booth’s keen editing eye improves any book immeasurably. She sharpens my focus and precludes my embarrassment. She also is the 2015 Illinois YA librarian of the year!

  Fourth, that even my uncanny sense of direction cannot navigate the publishing world. My agent, Andrea Somberg, is my compass.

  Fifth, that my high school English teacher, Maxine W. Houck, is always right. (She also is the person who said, “It is not the answers authors give, but the questions they raise that make them interesting.”)

  Finally, that without Charles Bacon’s unwavering support, I never would have found the confidence required to become an author. Seventeen bonus points for you!