The Wonder of Us

by Kim Culbertson

  “You’ve been doing a lot for your dad since she left, haven’t you?”

  A slight breeze ruffles the hair around Abby’s face as she watches a couple stroll by us holding hands. “He doesn’t have anyone else.”

  “What about Kate?” Abby’s big sister can be a pain sometimes, but she’s not a terrible person.

  “Oh, Kate.” She shrugs. “Kate’s a million miles from us. She has her own life.” She studies the river, a million miles away herself. “Riya?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t really feel like going out tonight with Kiara and Tavin.”

  My stomach sinks. “Abby, don’t let what happened to Henry ruin our last night in Berlin. Kiara found a cool club for us to hang out in.”

  “It’s not that—I’m tired. I’m not up for a club tonight.”

  “But what about Tavin? You two were having so much fun.” A whine creeps into my voice. I want to go to the club, but I don’t want to just leave Abby alone with my parents.

  She tries to reassure me with a smile that sags at its edges. “Tavin is great, Rye. But we’re leaving tomorrow. I don’t have any grand notions about Tavin.”

  “Why do there have to be any notions at all?” I ask, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Can’t you just hang out with him tonight and see what happens? I think he really likes you.”

  She turns to watch the lights wriggle across the water. “I like him, too. He’s great. But I just want to put on my pj’s and crash out early. Maybe watch a movie or something.”

  “But I told him you’d be there!”

  When she looks at me, the flash in her eyes isn’t from the river lights. “Why are you pushing this? What does it matter? You can go if you—”

  “I’m not pushing it!” My voice rises. “I’m trying to save you from being your normal self, from being so—” I bite my lip, dropping my volume. “Nothing.”

  She crosses her arms across her chest, her expression growing stony. “No, say it. You were going to say boring. You think I’m boring.”

  I throw up my hands. “Maybe a little! I mean, it’s your last night in an amazing city and you’re going to go get in your pj’s and maybe watch a movie? It’s like the definition of boring!”

  Tears spring to her eyes, and they send a lightning shot of guilt through me. I start to apologize, but she cuts me off. “You know what, Riya? Maybe I don’t think your city is as amazing as you do. Maybe I think hanging around in a stupid club with kids I barely know is boring. Maybe I don’t need to be a huge drama queen to have fun.”

  My throat goes dry. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She eyes a group of American tourists hurrying by us who are actively trying not to notice our fight. “Forget it.”

  “You think I’m a drama queen?”

  “Well, not all of us can be foot models,” she tries to joke, but her voice shakes.

  And I’m not laughing. “You know what, Abby? It’s fine. You do whatever you need to do. Go sit in the apartment or whatever. Do a crossword puzzle. Buy a cardigan. I’m going to go out and have fun with my friends.”

  Her lip quivers. “Fine.”

  “Fine.” We stare at each other, both of us refusing to back down. Finally, I ask, “Do you need me to take you home?”

  She narrows her eyes. “I’m a big girl. And don’t worry—I can always call the AARP and they can get me a walker.” Then she turns and heads back in the direction of the apartment, leaving me standing alone on the bridge.

  I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. My heart races, even after the long trudge back from the bridge. Maybe partly because of it. But I know it’s mostly the fight. I wish I could rewind the clock and take back the terrible things I said, wish Riya could take back hers. Why do Riya and I seem to need so many do-overs this year? I knock again. Still no answer. Maybe her parents are watching a movie and can’t hear the door? I try a more banging-on-it approach, but when the door opens, it’s Neel, wearing a red soccer jersey and a pair of shorts, his feet bare.

  “Abby?” He lets me in. “What are you doing here?” I move past him through the foyer and into the living room. “You okay? Where’s Riya?” I sink onto the couch. He’s watching a James Bond movie in the dim light of the room, several white take-out containers and a few pairs of chopsticks spread out on the coffee table in front of him.

  “We got in a fight. She’s with friends at a club.”

  “She left you?”

  “I’m not a puppy. I got back fine.”

  He motions to the food. “I have plenty. Help yourself.”

  “We ate, thanks.” Most of the apartment is dark, just a single lamp and the blue glow of the TV lighting the room. “Where are Dean and Anju?”

  He settles back onto the couch. “They went out with some friends to hear music.”

  I pull one of the fuzzy couch pillows onto my lap. “See, even Riya’s parents are more interesting that I am.” Neel eyes me but doesn’t say anything. He picks up a white take-out container and plucks out a dumpling. We watch the movie for a few minutes. Someone jumps from a train. Guns are fired. I bet no one calls James Bond boring.

  “Thing is”—I motion at the TV—“he lives this extraordinary, crazy life. But he never seems very happy. Why so glum, Mr. Bond?”

  Neel mutes the movie. “You want to talk about it?”

  I shove the pillow aside, trying to get comfortable on my corner of the couch. “What I want to do is put on my pj’s and sleep for nine hours, but apparently, I’m not ninety-seven years old, so that sort of behavior is frowned on in certain social circles.”

  He hides a grin and kicks his feet onto the coffee table, fishing another dumpling from the box. “I’m not sure going to clubs makes someone more interesting.”

  “Tell that to Riya.”

  “I’m not out right now.”

  I reach for the box he’s holding. “That’s actually helping her case.”

  He hands me the box and a fresh pair of chopsticks. “I like the way I am.” He grabs a box full of thick, saucy noodles.

  I watch him lean forward, careful not to drip any sauce on the couch. Dipping my head, I dig into the box of dumplings with the pair of chopsticks. “I like the way you are, too.”

  He hesitates in the wake of my words, twirls a noodle slowly around his chopstick. “Sorry to hear about your parents,” he says finally. At my surprised look, he adds, “Riya mentioned it. She’s worried about you.”

  I switch out the dumpling box for one with mixed veggies. “Yeah.” I spear a piece of broccoli. “Real worried.” We watch the muted action of the movie for a moment. “Okay, I know she’s worried. I mean, she planned this trip for us. But she just wants me to be normal right now, and I don’t feel normal.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “I think so. She says to give it time; things will get better. But they’re not getting better.”

  “Right, because you’re still dealing with the pain of it. As you should be. Don’t let people try to wrap it in a rosy future before you’re done grieving it.”

  My body warms at his insight and I smile gratefully at him. “Maybe it’s because my dad hasn’t been the same since my mom left. It’s like he just flickers in and out, half alive. He’s not getting better. And I can’t be mad at him for it, right? I mean, she ruined his life.”

  Neel considers this. “Parents are rubbish sometimes. It’s not right when you have to fill in for them.”

  I pause, a baby corn halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “Sounds like you’re the only one looking out for anyone besides yourself.”

  Tears prick my eyelids. “That’s how it feels. All the time.”

  “That’s exhausting.” He grabs the remote. “So, right now it’s not going to get solved. But you can just kick back and watch James Bond get chased by thugs.” He unmutes the movie.

  I catch his gaze, and he smiles in a warm and sad sort of way that feels like he understand
s, like he might need to just watch James Bond get chased by thugs, too. “Thanks,” I tell him.

  “My pleasure.”

  Neel refuses to go up the Scott Monument. I don’t blame him. It’s dicey the higher we climb, but it’s the largest monument in the world dedicated to a writer, Sir Walter Scott, which is a great history tidbit, so up, up, up Riya and I go, scaling the narrow, twisting staircase. We still haven’t talked about our fight last night. She came creeping into our room around two, and I pretended to be asleep. This morning, we kept busy packing and getting to the airport for our flight to Scotland. Now we pause to take in the view—the fat green treetops, the busy Princes Street Gardens, the dramatic profile of Edinburgh Castle nestled regally on the skyline.

  Riya points to where Neel sits on a wooden bench far below us. We can feel his frown all the way up here. “Is he having a staring contest with his phone?”

  I hold tight to the black iron grate that should ostensibly keep me from plummeting to my death, though I’m not completely convinced. “He is actively not replying to Moira’s text.”

  “She texted him?”

  “Last night. She wants to ‘talk’ about things.” We were almost done with the movie when she texted: Let’s talk, okay? Even though he told me he wasn’t going to text her back, I’d begged off as tired and gone to bed, not having the energy to wait and see if his willpower would hold up.

  Riya lets out an exaggerated groan. “And the cycle begins again. The predictable cycle.”

  We squeeze together to let a woman pass us. “He said there is no way they are getting back together.” I try to say it casually, but even I can hear the catch in my voice. She narrows her eyes, and I hurry to add, “He hasn’t responded to her text. Hence, the staring contest.”

  Riya looks impressed. “Well, okay, then. Good for Neel. Stay strong, cousin!” she shouts down at him, but he doesn’t hear her. To me, she asks, her voice thick with implication, “Maybe something happened last night to encourage his sudden determination?”

  I shrug, avoiding her eyes, and press my hand flat against the stone wall to steady myself. I turn and start climbing the stairs. “Let’s keep going up, okay? I want to text my dad some pictures of this view.”

  “Abby?” She slips a hand around my wrist, stopping me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tavin and Kiara wanted me to say it was nice meeting you.”

  “Thanks, same.”

  “They really missed you last night.”

  Without answering, I continue up the steps, feeling her gaze hot on my back.

  After we manage our way down the stairs, feeling just as wobbly as when we went up them, we walk the ten minutes from the Scott Monument across the Waverley Bridge and into Old Town to the Elephant House. The silence between Riya and me has its own crackle. Neel tries to fill the space with random observations about the various sites we see along the way, but we’re not listening to any of it; we’re too busy avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “The Elephant House,” he announces when we arrive. “J.K. Rowling penned part of the first Harry Potter novel here.” He points out the yellow writing on the front window of the famous coffee shop: Birthplace of Harry Potter. Tourists crowd the window, taking pictures of its red front with the burnt-gold-lettered name. I grow still at the thought of one writer in Scotland creating a story now known around the world. The power of a single act. Next to me, I can sense Riya having the same thought.

  Neel pushes us through the crowd. Inside, it’s cozy and warm, with wood paneling, potted plants, and colorful walls. Everywhere, elephants—ceramic, wooden, in paintings—cover most of the available surfaces. People sit at wood tables, clacking away on laptops, reading, or chatting quietly over sandwiches and soup. Neel orders us coffees and motions for us to grab a couch against the far wall that two women are just vacating. They look like local university students, their book bags crammed. The taller one tucks a copy of a James Joyce novel beneath her arm and smiles at us hovering nearby. “All yours.” Her accent is American.

  Riya settles on the couch, her eyes glowing as she takes in the views of the Edinburgh Castle visible through the window. “Can you believe she sat here with just an idea, and then it turned into Harry Potter?!” She scrutinizes the room. “One woman’s idea. Incredible.” I can tell she’s trying to repair some of the damage from last night, have been feeling it in her hawk-like gaze all day.

  “Incredible,” I echo, trying as best as I can to keep snarky comments like yep, she wasn’t boring to myself, even as they buzz at the edge of everything I end up saying.

  Neel brings us our coffees. He hasn’t even lifted the espresso cup to his lips when his phone rings. Seeing his face fall at the caller ID, Riya snatches it. When he protests, she holds up a hand to silence him. “That’s at least six calls today! She’s relentless. I’ve got this—we have a family name to think of.” She answers mid-ring. “Hello, Moira? Nope, this is Riya. Stop calling, okay? Stop texting. Just stop. No means no.” She hangs up, handing the phone back to an astonished Neel.

  “No means no?” I can’t help but grin into my latte.

  “What?” She shrugs. “Solid message there.”

  Neel drinks his espresso in silence.

  After the Elephant House, Neel skips dinner to head back to his room at our hotel, swearing to both of us that he will not contact Moira. After a quick dinner, we leave Old Town and stroll the streets through the Georgian section of Edinburgh. The sun sets late in Scotland, and the sky grows heavy with pink and orange clouds, the air carrying the smell of rain.

  “Do you think he’ll call her?” I study the raindrops dotting the sidewalk in front of us.

  “Nope.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  “I took his phone.” She pats her bag, pulling her jacket closer against the chill in the air.

  I gape at her. “You stole his phone?”

  “Had to be done.”

  I shake my head in disbelief, but I’m mostly impressed. “Still, there are landlines. Our hotel has a computer room. If he wants to contact her, he will.” I wander into a shop selling Scottish souvenirs—brightly colored sweatshirts adorned with Edinburgh in block letters, tins of shortbread, stuffed Loch Ness monsters, paper models of the castle, ceramic bells boasting the Scottish flag. I head to the counter with a blue sweatshirt. “Have you considered that maybe he loves her?” I ask Riya as the woman runs my credit card. I’ve thought of it, and I’m trotting it out here mostly to see if Riya thinks it’s a possibility.

  “Definitely not.” Riya fiddles with a rack of key chains. “Their whole on-again, off-again self-sabotaging thing—that’s not love. That’s something else.”

  She has no idea how much her words buoy me, but I argue anyway. “Maybe he thinks it is.”

  She snort-laughs as we step back out onto the rain-spotted street. “I’m sure he does, otherwise he wouldn’t have put up with their terrible pattern for the past two years. But I still get to judge him for it.” She smiles wryly at me. “Who thought Neel’s relationship drama would be his most annoying trait on this trip?” She pauses in front of a store that seems to only sell sweaters and tiny felt versions of sheep before we continue down the street. “Maybe drama queens run in the family,” she adds quietly, a peace offering, gauging my reaction out of the corner of her eye.

  I step closer to her. “Riya, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  She hugs me quickly and fiercely. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. You’re not boring. I was just frustrated. Let’s not spend the rest of this trip fighting. I want us to have fun.”

  I untangle from our hug. “Me too. I just think sometimes we have different ideas about what that is. But we’ve always been okay with that, right?”

  “Yes.” She tucks her arm through mine and we keep walking. As we peer into shops, I think about Neel and Moira. Whatever messy feelings he’s stirring up in me, his situation isn’t easy. Even if they are terrible together, he seems to c
are about Moira. He’s tired, true. Fed up, yes. But he cares. And even though he ended it for good, there is always cleanup to be done. “Maybe they will try to stay friends?” I wonder aloud, and when Riya frowns at me, I add, “Neel and Moira.”

  “Ugh, let’s not talk about them anymore. She’s such a wretch.”

  “Maybe she has a nice side that only comes out at special times of the year?”

  “Like once a month at three a.m. she does something kind for a sick child?” Riya laughs. “Doubt it.” She shoots me an odd look. “Are you looking for reasons he should stay with her?”

  “Of course not! They’re an awful couple.”

  She pulls me to a stop in front of another shopwindow, this one with dresses and shoes. “Because it’s hard enough to be a single person. Can you imagine being one half of a miserable couple?”

  I try not to think that this might be how my mom felt about my dad.

  We grow tired of window-shopping, ending up back near the Scott Monument. We stop to watch a small, roped-off amusement park area with four or five different inflatable attractions: two different-size bounce houses; a ladder that people try to climb that seems to keep flipping them onto an oversize inflatable yellow pillow; and, at what appears to be the largest attraction, kids racing around like hamsters inside clear plastic balls on top of a raised swimming pool. We can hear their muffled laughter and screams as they slip and fall and scramble to right themselves again.

  Riya points it out. “Let’s do that.”

  I hesitate. We’re in Scotland, home of castles and feuding clans and monster legends and lochs, not to mention at least a dozen museums. And Riya wants to drop ten bucks to be a water hamster?

  Then I think about last night. Why is my first instinct always no? Does that make me boring? “Okay—let’s do it.” We hurry toward the entrance.