by Susan Oloier
“Thank God, you’re alive.” As instantly as she uttered the words, she caught herself and withdrew. “Where have you been?” She pushed back and looked me squarely in the face.
Confusion swarmed my head. I couldn’t concoct a lie or tell the truth.
“Your father searched the entire mall for you. The manager said you quit. We were worried sick. We even called the police. Tell me where you were.”
I remained silent.
“Answer me!”
I only thought of one thing to say as my parents remained frustrated, yet relieved, in front of me. “I know where Becca is.”
My mother’s anger metamorphosed into surprise. “You saw Becca tonight?”
I could have lied and told her that I did. I knew it was a key to having any punishment lifted. But I couldn’t lie. Not about that.
“She’s in Chicago.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your Aunt Penelope?”
“I’m tired. I need to go to bed.” I headed for the hallway.
“Come back here, Noelle. Tell me who gave you that information.”
“Leave her be, Joyce.”
I stopped halfway to my room. My dad never spoke up.
My mother ignored him. “I want a name.”
“I can’t.” I defied my mother and made the final steps to my bedroom.
“Don’t you walk away from me. You’re grounded. Did you hear me? You will never leave this house again,” she screamed.
At that point, I was too tired to care.
“I need your help.”
I heard my mother’s voice as I crept down the hall. A percussion throbbed behind my eyes and inside my head. It was earlier than I normally woke on a Saturday morning. I came out of a fitful night of sleep, tossing and turning. I spent the night thinking of how close I came to losing my virginity. Someone was in the living room with my mother. I stopped and listened.
“So Noelle told you Becca’s in Chicago?”
My heart surged with blood and felt like it would explode.
“And she told you it was me?”
It was Aunt P’s voice. Anger grew inside of me. My mother jeopardized my relationship with P to find her precious Becca.
P’s tone was riddled with implication. She fished for the information I disclosed to my mother, waiting to hear her name spoken, anticipating another accusation. I wondered why she bothered to show up at the house.
“She won’t tell me who told her. And frankly, I really don't care. The reason I called you is because I know you have connections there.” My mother choked on her next sentence before spitting it out. “Will you please help me find her?”
“You want me to help you?” Even after a night of drinking, P was still filled with bitterness. “After the way you’ve treated me and shut me out of the family, you expect me to assist you? What a joke, Joyce! Have you lost your mind? I’d think that you’d be happy Becca disappeared. Isn’t that what you wanted? Why do you want to see her anyway? So you can preach to her how wrong it is to have an abortion? So you can tell her that she’s going to hell? How can you embrace a daughter who slaughtered an unborn child when you still can’t forgive you sister for doing it fifteen years ago?”
Abortion? My head spun. I considered it. It certainly explained my mother’s hostility toward P over the years. If P was pregnant fifteen years ago then she would have had a son or daughter my age. A torrent of emotion and understanding flooded over me at once. No wonder she felt so connected to Becca through the whole abortion ordeal. Because she had experienced it herself. I had so many questions, but knew I couldn’t ask them because I’d eavesdropped on the conversation.
“I’m sorry, Penelope.”
“So am I. Chicago is a big city, Joyce. I don’t have the resources to help you.”
I thought I heard my mom muffle a sob. Of course, Aunt P knew how to get in touch with Becca if she wanted to. But she exacted her revenge against my mother by withholding information.
I tiptoed back to my room, showered, and prepared for the day. I heard more than enough personal information. I needed time to absorb it all. I sat in my room listening to the Colbie Caillat CD that Chad bought for me—for us. I listened to Oxygen until I couldn’t stand to hear it anymore. Hours passed. My parents never came to my room. I think they received too much reality over the past twenty-four hours.
I heard the phone ring several times, but no one ever came to my room to say that it was for me. I wondered if it was Chad.
My mind wandered over everything: Chad, Grace, Trina, Becca, P, my mom, my dad. Someone had to give in, something had to change. Maybe that someone was me. I hated who I had become. I desperately needed a change.
I emerged in the early afternoon. My mother veiled herself in her room. I had no idea where my father was. He developed a habit of fleeing from problems and confrontation. I knocked on the bedroom door and walked in when no one responded.
My mom was curled in a blanket at the edge of the bed. She stared blankly at the television set, but showed little interest in the TV.
“Mom?”
Sadness appeared in her eyes, and I felt sorry for her.
“I’ll help you find Becca.”
She forced a smile, which rapidly disappeared. “Thanks.”
“I know I can find her.”
I ventured further into the room and sat on the opposite side of the bed. I wanted to help her, to try to make things right again. But as much as I resented Becca for just about everything, and my mother for passing so much judgment on me, I couldn’t tell my mother that Becca was in Chicago with a married man—a man who once belonged to Aunt P. It would make our family fall apart completely. The lie seemed to be the only thread holding us in place.
Optimism sprouted from the mask of sadness she wore. The blow-out with Aunt P clearly took a toll on her.
“I was wondering,” I gambled. “Do you think Celine can squeeze me in without an appointment today?”
“You’re grounded.” She tried to camouflage her excitement.
“I know.”
I’d never been to Celine’s before.
She was much younger than I expected. When my mother mentioned her, I always pictured an old woman with gray hair who specialized in tight permanent waves and big hair. Celine was in her mid-twenties. Her brunette tresses were streaked with auburn highlights; her style was short and mussed up. I liked it. She wore Capri pants with a sleeveless black tank top and a tattoo. It was hard to believe that my conservative mother was her customer.
I told Celine I wanted it short. A smile crept across both my mother’s face and hers. To Celine my request meant endless possibilities for hair design; to my mother it meant a cross over to conservatism.
“I think we should lighten it, too.” Celine ran her fingers through the lifeless strands, visualizing her art. “What do you think, Joyce?”
“I don’t know.”
My look pleaded with her, and Celine proved very persuasive. My mother caved.
I saw my mother’s reflection in the mirror, watching every slice Celine cut into my hair. It seemed to take her mind off of everything else that was going on. Ruler-length strips of dirty-blonde fell to the floor. She painted goo on sections and wrapped them in foil. After thirty minutes of hair dressed as leftovers, Celine unfolded my hair, washed it, and styled it for me.
The reflection in the mirror seemed to belong to someone else. The style was modern and a little wild. I liked it, especially since she added blonde highlights. I looked older, more mature. Surprisingly, my mother appeared pleased, too.
On the ride home, my mother raved about the new hairstyle. She never mentioned the events of the previous night, never asked who told me Becca was in Chicago.
“Chad called. He seems like a nice boy.” Her confession came from nowhere.
“Yeah.” I knew better than to ask if I could call him back. Didn’t know if I wanted to. I was still hurt over the
rejection. I touched the pizza pendant which hung around my neck. That should have been answer enough, but I needed more. I needed him to prove I was more important than Trina was to him.
When we arrived home, I waited for my mother to prepare dinner before sneaking to the back of the house to use the telephone.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you. But your mother has been a bit surprising lately,” P answered the phone.
“She doesn’t know I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“I need Doug’s number.”
The silence on the other end of the phone was stagnant.
“I need to contact Becca,” I continued.
More silence.
“Please.”
After a great deal of begging, she finally gave Doctor Doug’s number to me. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it. Maybe nothing, but at least I had it. She asked no questions, and I volunteered nothing.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“About what?”
“The gift.”
She must have been tapping into the liquor again because she made no sense.
“What gift?” I asked.
“She didn’t give it to you.” It was an angry statement, not a question posed for me to answer. “That fucking bitch! I stopped over at your house this morning to give you a present, since I ruined your job and all. I left it with your mother. She said she’d give it to you. I hate that woman.” Her words trickled through the receiver like a soliloquy. “I’m coming over.”
“No, don’t.” I wished for everything to remain calm, even if it was just a translucent peace that distorted the truth like frosted glass.
I remembered the heated discussion from earlier in the day, and the thought of her abortion rode the current of my mind. Questions about it crested and fell. I wanted so desperately to know all the details. Did she know if it was a boy or girl? What were the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy? Did she love the father? Love the unborn baby? She had no idea that I knew, so all I said was, “I’ll get it from her.”
The middle of the night. I went to Becca’s room and sat on the bed where Becca had held intimate phone conversations with Gloria and Kevin and God knew who else. That Florida guy, Bay? The one who got her pregnant.
I held the number in my hand. It was wrinkled and soggy from the sweat of my palm. I picked up the receiver and punched the numbers on the pad. It was ten-fifty in Arizona, so it had to be close to one o’clock in the morning in Chicago. I was unconcerned about waking either of them in the middle of the night. Especially Doctor Doug.
A groggy, male voice answered.
I hesitated. “Is Becca there?”
“Rebecca is asleep. Call back in the morning.”
I immediately stepped over his words with my own. “Doug? This is Noelle. Claire’s niece. Rebecca’s sister.”
I thought he fell back to sleep because of the lengthy pause. I heard him call her baby as he woke her up. Disgust fell over me in a violent wave.
“She’ll be right there.”
Becca must have left the room to grab the phone in another area of the house because Doug asked me, “So how is Claire?”
“Wonderful,” I pretended. “She met a terrific guy. He’s a pediatrician—a real doctor.”
I amazed myself with the momentous lie I created. I loved how I was able to stab him with it.
After what felt like a long time, Becca came on the line. “Noelle.” She said it like the start of a mantra. Her voice sounded sad and far away.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I said, trying to keep my emotions in check at the sound of her voice.
“Everything okay?”
Everything was falling apart: our family, my relationship with Chad, the lies we believed as truth.
“Fine,” I lied.
There was a slight pause. Then she asked: “How’s mom?”
“Not well,” I confessed.
“Good.” Her intonation told me that she didn’t really mean what she said.
“Becca, why are you there? Why don’t you come home?”
“I can’t. I’m happy here.”
There was a pause where we both didn’t know what to say.
“You know she’s going to do the same to you,” Becca finally said.
I thought of telling Becca that I wouldn’t get into the same trouble that she had. The things that happened to her would never happen to me. But pregnant or not, abortion or not, Becca was right. My mother would crush everything original in me. She already had.
I yearned to tell Becca that Doctor Doug was a cheat, a womanizer, that he would eventually find someone to replace her like he did his wife and Aunt P. But I knew if I said those things to her, she would hang up and I might never speak to her again.
“Can’t you just come home for awhile? I miss you.”
I seemed as shocked to hear myself utter those words as she did. When I thought about it, I realized that I missed having her around, taking some of the pressure off of me, more than I missed her as a person.
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“At least come back to see my hair.”
“Your hair?” She laughed.
“I cut it.”
“I’ll talk to Doug about it and let you know.”
“Should I say anything to mom? She’s really worried about you.”
“Just…just tell her I’m okay.”
With my parents at work, I ignored the small detail of being grounded.
Before leaving, I practiced styling my hair similar to Celine’s. I bought a bottle of Bed head styling gel, making it wild and funky. I preferred a messy hairstyle. It made me look more mature. I applied my eye makeup more thickly than before, outlining my eyes to give the illusion that they were bigger, and that I was older.
Cassie and I started a tradition of hanging out at Arizona Mills. A college guy worked at the record store, and Cassie had a thing for him. Every day he worked, she bought a new CD just so she could talk to him. Apparently, her California boyfriend, Shane, was as far from her thoughts as the ocean was from the Arizona desert.
The new guy was Pete. He was twenty years old, and a sophomore at ASU. He had shaggy dark hair and a lanky frame. He gave me a brief smile, but I basically ignored him, thumbing through the racks of CDs instead.
I pretended not to overhear their conversations that brimmed with sexual innuendo. There was no way Cassie was a virgin. She seemed equipped with an expansive arsenal to combat Pete’s advances. She learned it somewhere. I couldn’t imagine she read it in a book.
Seeing the two of them together reminded me so much of Chad. How we had lingered together in the same music store, sharing headphones, listening to songs that would forever remind me of him. I missed him and all the silly and simple things about him: his obsession with pizza, his dimples when he smiled at me, and even his stupid car magazines. I inhaled the last breaths of my Camel before following Cassie. I ached to look at him, talk to him, touch him. My heart burst just to hear his voice again.
Fifteen
The summer heat was searing. Petunias wilted under the sun, their paper petals wrinkled like an old woman’s skin. Gardens lethargically expired; flowering plants and vegetables took their last breaths, then withered and finally crisped. The monsoons draped the air in humidity, but no rain fell. It was the tease of a hand over a lover’s skin.
I finally called Chad. He came over to the house, and my parents never knew. We spent hours watching talk shows and syndicated sit-coms while kissing on the couch. But our affection was as innocent as it was when we first met. It never graduated to where it was the night I went to him high and willing to do anything. And we didn’t talk about that night. At all. It was as though each of us was afraid to mention it for fear of driving the other away.
Chad clicked off the TV and turned to me. “I love you.”
“What?” I asked, stupidly.
“I love you,” he said again, brushing his fingers over m
ine.
I could feel the empty space left by his rejection filling up again. I wanted to say the words back to him because I loved him, too. But a part of me was untrusting, wondering if he was saying those things to lure me back into his bed. I wanted to believe him. I just couldn’t get Trina out of my mind. How easily he yielded to her; how quickly he sent me away.
“You do?” I asked.
“Yeah, of course.” He almost looked into me for an answer. “Don’t you love me?”
I studied his eyes, the line of his jaw, and the place where his dimples perforated his cheeks. I was afraid to say the words because, once they were out, I was opened to the possibility of more pain if he rejected me again. But I did love him. I wanted to be with him. To have his heart be my own. But to do that, I had to take back what Trina had stolen from me. She owned a piece of him that I didn’t have yet. And I wanted it. Badly.
I ran my hands through his hair, trying to soak in every bit of his face, trying to capture him like an out-of-reach butterfly. We were inches from one another as he waited for my answer.
“I love you,” I said.
His shoulders rested as though he finally exhaled.
“And I want to be with you,” I continued.
“You are with me.”
“No,” I said. “I want to be with you.” I watched as the understanding of what I said washed over his face.
He raised his eyebrows. “Wow.”
“Yeah wow,” I parroted.
“Now?” He visibly gulped.
I nodded. “Unless you don’t have—”
“I have it,” he said. “I’ve had it ever since…”
My heart galloped. “Really?”
“Definitely.” He cheeks seemed to flush at the realization of what was happening, what was going to happen. “I’ve been wanting this for so—”
I pressed my lips against his, cutting off his words. I closed my eyes, melting completely into him until I no longer knew where my heart began and his ended.