The microwave dings, and I grab the plate of food and sit in our dark dining room alone. I keep it dark because it’s different from how Jasper and I used to do it. He used to grab our food from the microwave, and I’d usually set the table. He’d have milk, and I’d have water. We’d FaceTime Tracy and quickly talk about our day.
The table is big, lonely, and quiet tonight. I stand up and walk to the cupboard. I grab a plate, a fork and knife, and fill a cup with milk. I carry it over and put it at the head of the table—where Jasper used to sit.
Tucking my hands between my legs, I will the feelings of sadness in my stomach to go away. I start to believe some kind of new truth about my current reality: It’s going to be a long life.
“I’m glad you’re back, Livia,” my dead Grandma says.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Poppy crosses her arms and leans over Jasper’s place, her pink floral housecoat shimmering in the dark.
“You can’t sneak up on me like that. In the dark,” I say quietly, still feeling the tiny needles prickling at my skin from the scare.
A long, heavy silence sits in the air like cigarette smoke, thick, unmoving, stifling.
“Do you like this boy?”
I roll my eyes, partly embarrassed that Poppy knows I’m sleeping with Simon. I wonder what she’s seen between us, and I feel the color rush to my face. All I know is that it feels good. Not the sex part—well, sometimes—but it’s more the rush of it all. The being touched in ways others don’t touch me.
But I shrug an, I guess, just to get her off my back.
“Eat. I’m certain that’s what the note says.” Poppy leans in further, trying to catch my eye.
My eyes are fixated on the green leafy substance—also known as broccoli.
“Your grandfather and I lost a child.” Her words are quick, diplomatic. “Before your mother was born. Tracy doesn’t know about it.”
I take my fork and poke the broccoli now, listening. I look up to see her take her fingers and gently pull her tight, tiny curls to the side of her forehead. Then, she takes both hands and pats her hair down. She used to do this as a nervous habit when she was alive.
Poppy pulls her eyebrows up, staring down at my food. “Your grandfather took it very hard.” She smiles. “He processed his grief in some of the same ways you do. Searched for a fix, I suppose.”
I set my fork down and wipe my mouth.
Our grandfather died when Jasper and I were barely ten. I remember riding shotgun. Jasper and I would share the front seat to the bowling alley where Grandpa would feed us French fries until our bellies popped and soda until we couldn’t contain our laughter.
“I know you feel abandoned, Liv. By your father and now your brother. But this is out of your control. You won’t feel less abandoned by seeking acceptance through another’s affection.” She pulls at her curls again.
Stop, I want to say.
I would just as soon eat my broccoli and not take on the woes of my sorrows that stare at me from across the table like a big blob of a monster.
“Hello?”
I hear Cao’s voice.
I look to Jasper’s spot before I answer Cao. Poppy is gone.
“There you are. Why are you sitting in the dark?” Cao asks, clearly not waiting for an answer because she continues, “Not that I am providing twenty-four hour surveillance or anything or that I’m your keeper or whatever, but you’ve got to let me know where you’re at. I worry, Liv.”
Cao walks to the fridge, grabs some grapes, and sits back down, opposite of Jasper’s table setting. She looks at his spot and back to me, back to the table setting and back to me. Worry colors her face, but she doesn’t ask any questions. She chews a few grapes and then leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.
“What?” She pushes her long black hair to the side and leans forward now.
Cao is eclectic in her choice of clothes. She’ll wear just about anything. Her style makes her unique in her own right. From her jam pants to her leg warmers, she’s a trendsetter. With her tiny waist and tall frame, she can squeeze into just about anything.
“You hate grapes,” I say, putting my fork down.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” She pops another in her mouth.
Maybe, sometimes, it’s easier in the dark. When the world doesn’t seem so loud, so chaotic.
“Why are you eating grapes?”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Quiet, I guess.” I always give in first.
She spits her grape out into her hand. “Thank God you caved. My mom made some Chinese meal again for dinner. I gave most of it to Rosie.” Their golden retriever. “I’m starving, and grapes were my only choice in your empty refrigerator.”
Cao’s mom, Beth, has been making traditional Chinese meals for the past three weeks, she tells me. She rests her head on the crook of her arm. “And”—she pauses—“they found my stash.”
I want to say, I told you so.
“When?”
“Yesterday. They waited.”
Cao chain-smokes out her upstairs bedroom window to prove cigarettes don’t cause lung cancer. She claims it’s a research study. But I think she got addicted somewhere along the way.
“My parents think I’m going through some sort of identity crisis. Adopted from China. White parents. Their words, not mine. ‘We want you to feel like you can be yourself, baby. We feel like you might be using cigarettes to escape whatever you’re feeling.’
“So, what does my mom do? She’s been packing me rice in my lunch, and just this morning, I found Amy Tan’s entire book collection on my desk. And the thing is, Amy Tan was born in Oakland. And, if they knew me, they’d know, I’ve already read all of Tan’s books. You’d think, if they wanted me to embrace my culture, they’d send me to some camp in China or something. I don’t know.” She huffs. “That’s me. Now, you.” She stops. “Why are you really sitting in the dark, Liv?”
I want to tell her I’m sleeping with Simon. That I can’t control it, and every time I walk away after being with him, I feel disgusted with myself, with the decisions I’ve made. Hence, it’s easier to face myself in the dark. But I don’t want to get into it. I don’t have the energy.
I grab at my necklace pendant—the one with Jasper’s thumbprint, the one my dad had made for Tracy and me when Jasper passed away—trying to hide behind the wall I’ve put up around me.
“You know, I don’t think the AC/DC shirt will fly tomorrow at school with them canceling their show in Orange, California. Lots of kids at school are pissed.”
I know what angle Cao is working. She’s trying to help by not telling me that wearing my dead brother’s shirt is weird, borderline creepfest. And that somehow I need to buck up and wear a different shirt to school tomorrow. I get that all from the look she is giving me right now.
“Wear that pink one,” she insists. She tries to pop another grape in her mouth but quickly spits the whole piece into her hand again. “Nope. Just can’t do it.” Her face contorts.
Really, I didn’t plan on wearing the shirt. I didn’t have anything else planned because I don’t care. So, I make a mental note not to wear the AC/DC shirt. Maybe I’ll wear the pink one Cao suggested—and my necklace and pants, of course. Jeans. Maybe. But pants nonetheless.
“I’ll pick you up for school tomorrow.” I force the conversation that isn’t coming easy on my end. “Wait, who drove you here?”
“My mom. She’s in the car. Do you want me to stay with you tonight? I can grab my stuff.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“You’re not good, Liv. But I understand why. And I’m not going to push myself on you, but I will text you, and if you don’t respond, I’m calling the police.” She points her finger at me.
“I texted you back, and you still showed up.”
“I know. I was bored at home.” She bites her lip. “And worried.”
I nod and grab her grapes, my plate, and then I head to the
kitchen. Cao follows me. She leans against the counter, facing me, as I put the dishes in the dishwasher.
She looks back into the dining room—to Jasper’s spot. “What about those?”
“Can you grab them?” I ask, turning on the disposal.
When I stare back at the empty spot, a sob chokes in my throat as Cao turns away from me, but I’m able to push through it before she returns.
Cao walks back in with the empty plate and the glass full of milk. Watching her carry the contents into the kitchen makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Thanks,” I say.
I wonder what Poppy thinks as I dump the milk down the drain. While growing up, Poppy salvaged everything. From leftover scraps of a quilt she’d made to her coffee grounds. And, when I say leftover scraps, I mean, a tiny piece of fabric that could be mistaken for confetti. And food. If you had two bites of a pork chop left, you’d better believe it would get eaten. Half of a piece of bread? Saved for a sandwich later. When Jasper and I spent the night at Poppy’s, she would make sure we ate all our dinner. Even if it was liver and onions. Once, I tried to hide my mushy broccoli in my milk. She found it. Made me eat it. Four hours later.
“Earth to Liv. Are you there?” Cao sits on the counter.
I try to play it off, that I was paying attention the whole time.
“Are you still seeing that counselor? What’s her name? Dr. Elizabeth?”
“No.” I wipe the counter with a sponge. “So she can tell me that setting the table for my dead brother is not normal and that wearing his shirt for three weeks that I’m a borderline mental-institution-committal-straitjacket-live-in-a-loony-bin-forever candidate? No.”
God, I could really use one of those little white pills right now.
“Maybe you should try a different counselor.”
“Cao, I’m good, all right? I’m fine.” My voice is louder than intended.
She lets out her ungodly cackle. The one she’s known for. “That’s seriously the biggest line of shit, Liv. Ever!” She stops the cackle on cue and stares me dead in the eyes. “You and I both know, you aren’t ‘fine.’” She uses her fingers to make air quotes. “Your freaking brother just died of something awful. Your twin, no less. It’s been a month. You wear his favorite shirt.”
She looks at Jasper’s shirt I’m wearing with a spaghetti stain down the front. And I’m sure the smell is rancid, but I’m too scared to wash it because, when I wash it, his scent will go away forever. I quickly make a mental note to check his hamper for any other shirts that might be cleaner that I can wear.
Shit.
I’m crazy.
Cao interrupts the chaos in my head, “At what point are you going to admit that you’re not fine?” She collapses her hands on the counter.
Cao talks a lot with her hands. She blames that on her parents being part Italian. I don’t know how being Italian provides a direct correlation to talking with your hands, especially when one considers the nature versus nurture argument with her being adopted and all, but I don’t question it.
“Look, it’s my duty as your best friend to recognize what you can’t see. Why don’t we do what we used to? We’ll head to Bob’s Footlongs for dinner on Friday nights again. Go to the movies on Saturdays.”
I want normalcy. I want to go back. Rewind to thirty-three days ago. Better yet, two days before when Jasper was at home. Safe. With me. Go back to Simon being just best friends with my brother and not a sex partner with me. Go back to when things were less messy. More average. Natural. Unforced.
“Yeah,” I say as I look Cao in the eyes, now standing.
“Good, then. And no Jasper’s shirt at school tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say again.
I collapse into bed. Usually, after my third night of no sleep, I can fall right to sleep. Exhausted, I pull the covers over the top of me, and the darkness settles around me. There are only the natural creaks of the house, and my senses feel more normal than they have in the past month.
Poppy used to make an appearance in my bedroom at night, but I told her it freaked me out. I don’t know if it’s the whole idea of ghosts, nighttime, or our old Victorian house that sways when the wind blows, but she hasn’t made an appearance since then. I guess, too, I don’t actually think of Poppy as a ghost or whatever. Not dead. Maybe a perception of my reality.
A hot sensation comes over me.
What if Poppy is just my crazy? Nobody else can see her. Nobody else can hear her. She only started appearing after Jasper died. What if I’m really delusional and I can’t see that I’m delusional because I believe what I see? And what if what I see is really just a facade of what I think is there, and it’s really not?
What if I’m going crazy?
My stomach grows queasy with this new thought information.
I roll over, facing my bedside table with the bottle of anti-anxiety medication, and I reach for them like it’s natural. Like water.
I read the label, Take one tablet every four hours, Livia Stone, as if the bottle is speaking to me.
I almost expect the bottle to grow lips and give me another lecture in Dr. Elizabeth’s tone with her holy-moly mole about self-care and sleep.
Too many kids at our school have grown addicted to medication. Some buy them on the streets. And, when I say streets, I mean, from the Gabriel Struvios of the world—the rich kids who live on the hill behind the gate. Rich kids are the biggest dealers. Some prescribed, some stolen from parents. Whatever they say about small towns, it’s not true. In fact, alcohol and drug abuse grows more rapidly per capita in small towns. And this isn’t based on data stored somewhere in a database; it’s what I’ve seen.
I turn the bottle of pills so that the label faces my dresser, hoping that it will deter me from taking my normal two at night. I see them piled on top of each other, waiting to be swallowed.
If I take the whole bottle, would I stop breathing? Would I be able to see Jasper again?
A need deep inside me wants so badly to see him again. Just for a moment.
What if I take them? What if he comes to me just like Poppy? Who’d find me if I overdosed?
Most likely, my mother, and the thought of taking the pills quickly fades because I know Tracy couldn’t handle losing both her children. One was hard enough. She doesn’t think I can hear her quiet sobs, the ones she tries to hide from me in the shower in the early hours of the morning. Although Tracy and I have a strained relationship, I know she loves me. The past two weeks, I’ve woken up to her arm around my middle and her head buried into my back.
I glance back at the pills, reach for my phone, and set my alarm for school tomorrow.
I click off the light and pray for a few hours of sleep.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick…
I click on the light and take two of the white pills that Dr. Elizabeth prescribed.
Simon: C u @ school. Good luck.
A text from Simon comes in as I head to my white 2002 Honda Civic. The text isn’t an I’m-sleeping-with-you text; it’s clearly a boyfriend text. He’s a boyfriend with a girlfriend. My stomach knots as I throw my backpack in the backseat. It’s kind, and I know he means it that way. But it’s too close. Too boyfriendly.
Me to Cao: Be there in five.
She makes fun of me because I can’t—correction, won’t type things like B4, N, B, TY, LOL, ROTFL. When I text, there needs to be full sentences and correct grammar. Call it the writer in me—the writer who hasn’t written a word since Jasper passed.
Passed sounds so much better than dead. Dead seems final. Passed seems more open-ended. Like Poppy. Whether she’s a figment of my imagination or not, she feels real. And, if she comes to me, why can’t Jasper?
My phone chimes again as I take a left onto Main Street. The rain begins to fall. November has started, and so has the rain. Thinking it’s Cao, I glance down at my phone just in case she’s sick or something, which really makes
my stomach double over. All the anticipation of my first day back without my brother builds up. I can’t go to school without her.
What if she’s sick?
Don’t panic, I tell myself.
But it isn’t a text from Cao.
It’s from my dad.
Dad: Good luck at school today, Mimi. I love you.
His nickname for me. Mimi.
Jasper and I had a hard time calling each other by name when we were little. So, I was Me, and he was You. But Jasper never got the name You-You. Maybe it was too close to yo-yo, or maybe because it sounded funny.
The last time my dad texted me was the day of the funeral, and all it said was, I love you, Mimi.
I wanted to be angry that day. I didn’t want him to come to the funeral—for selfish reasons, of course. He’d just lost a son after all. So, I didn’t do the unthinkable. I didn’t make a scene and tell him how much I hated him. I didn’t call him a homewrecker. I didn’t call him out on his cheating. I didn’t even give him a nod when we caught each other’s eye. I only stared.
The funeral was a blur to me. Gray. Spotty. Some parts, I remember, and some, I don’t.
Dr. Elizabeth said that was shock. “The body’s natural response to trauma.”
I take my pendant and pull it across the chain as I turn onto Highway 36 and go down Weaverton Gulch. I weave through the redwood trees, darkness just beyond the tree line.
Jasper’s service was closed casket and was held at Belle’s Hollow First Christian. We aren’t churchy, what with a cheating father and secrets of the Stone family swept under the rug. I was certain there was a qualifying application for having a funeral in God’s house, right? The big white church in town with the steeple that can be seen from outer space. But they didn’t ask for an application. They agreed we could have Jasper’s service there.
Pastor Randy delivered the eulogy. The only words I can recall from Jasper’s service, the ones that stuck for me anyway, were, “We were victims once. We will not be victims again.”
Standing Sideways Page 2