“About your . . . feelings. About your sister.”
I told you so, said the staircase spirit.
“That’s okay,” I said.
“Your parents can always call,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell them.”
My parents took one look at me and lit up as if I’d been dying and the doctor had cured me. As if I’d been dead and she’d resurrected me. For maximum embarrassment, they slapped each other a modified high five. The doctor squinted into this beacon of family bliss. She was glad to send us on our way with a positive outcome and no reason for a follow-up appointment.
The corridors and the hospital parking lot looked different than they had on our way in. My reprieve had changed them back into places where bad things happened to other people. The three of us walked to the Jeep with the duckling bounce of schoolkids who’ve been ordered not to run in the halls. How warm and gentle the sunshine was, how artfully the trees had been sponge-painted onto the cloudless suburban sky. I wanted to eat the air. I was overcome by a giddy lightness—weightlessness, really.
We went into the city for lunch, to an Italian place where my parents used to go when they first moved to Emersonville, before Margaret and I were born. We sat at a table with a red-and-white checked cloth, lit by a candle in a wine bottle wound with straw.
My mother said, “It’s exactly the same.”
“Time travel,” said my father.
“Don’t mind me,” I said.
“That never happens,” my mother said. “Nothing’s ever the same.”
“As if . . . ,” my father said.
I said, “Can you pour me some water?”
The Indian waiter wasn’t remotely interested in hearing how many years had passed since my mother last tasted their fabulous ravioli.
I said, “Let’s order.”
“Good idea,” said Dad. “Our sensible Nico.” I knew he was trying to be nice, but I wished he hadn’t said that.
My mother ordered a glass of Chianti. My father shot her a warning look, then said he’d have some, too.
“You’re driving,” she said. “Understood,” said Dad.
My mother said, “It’s the same menu!”
As I watched them trying to recapture that long-ago time, I gradually lost my urge to yank them back to the present. I tried to be invisible, so as not to make them wonder how they could be newlyweds with a thirteen-year-old daughter. I liked being left alone to enjoy the sense of well-being that came not so much from my clean bill of health as from the conviction that Margaret had engineered it. It was her choice that my heart had been fine, just as it would have been her decision if the doctor had told me I was dying.
For the first time since Margaret’s death, I remembered what hunger felt like. I ordered linguine with clams. First I spooned up the buttery sauce, a slippery twirl of pasta, and after that I amused myself by teasing the meat from the shells. My parents’ conversation was like elevator music.
Mom and Dad ordered espresso. When they asked if I wanted one, they seemed reckless, slightly wicked, as if they were inviting me to get drunk or high. The coffee shot to my fingertips. It was light-years faster than Elaine’s and what they served at the Nibble Corner. When I touched the silverware, I felt as if I was discharging a mild electric shock.
My parents’ good mood lasted almost all the way home. My mother reached back between the seats and squeezed my knee and said, “Thank God, honey. I mean it. If only we could all feel like this forever.”
“I’ll take one day of it,” said my father.
“An hour,” my mother said.
The hour ended when we got near town. The mood in the car took a dive. We were afraid to go home without an escape plan in place. That was when my parents got the idea of our going somewhere —Boston!—for the Fourth of July weekend. Maybe they hoped that our high spirits would burble up even higher in a bigger city.
I wanted to go to Boston with them, but not for the Fourth of July. Aaron and I had been talking about spending the Fourth together.
A few days before my doctor’s appointment, we’d driven to Miller’s Point. Aaron tried to make it seem spontaneous. When we parked at the lookout, he said—as if it had just popped into his mind—how awesome it would be if he and I could watch the fireworks from there.
Awesome hardly described it. I had never wanted anything so much. But I couldn’t imagine getting my parents to agree. It had crossed my mind that if the doctor said I was dying, my parents would probably let me do anything I wanted. I’d knocked on wood, like Mom did. Be careful what you wish for.
Only now, a plan suggested itself, unlikely but not impossible. What if I talked them into going to Boston and letting me stay home? I would have to be cunning and patient and wait for the perfect moment.
We’d reached the outskirts of Emersonville. I pressed my nose to the window as if I was overjoyed to see each stupefying landmark. Oh, look! The post office, the out-of-business realtor, the women’s cardio-fitness gym where the pharmacy used to be!
My mother turned.
“What was that?” she asked.
“What was what?”
“I could have sworn you said something,” she said.
“You’re hearing things.” Then I mumbled, “If you guys go to Boston, can I stay here without you?”
The question had popped out of me. I wished I’d waited and thought it through.
“Absolutely not,” said my mother. “Why would you want that?”
My father found me in his rearview mirror.
“Watch the road, dear,” said my mother.
“Look who’s talking,” said Dad.
“Meaning what?” my mother said.
“Nothing,” said my father.
As we turned into our driveway, my mother heaved a theatrical sigh that, I suddenly realized, Margaret had learned from her.
“What a shame,” my mother said. “We were doing such a good job of pretending to be a happy family of three.”
Twelve
OUR TOWN WAS SO PROUD OF ITS FOURTH OF JULY, YOU WOULD have thought the Declaration of Independence was signed in the musty Grange Hall where the Cub Scouts held bake sales. A rich woman who’d spent girlhood summers at Mirror Lake had left Emersonville enough money so that, every summer, we could hire a celebrity fireworks company to help us honor the birth of our nation.
On Mirror Lake we had a tradition within the tradition. All the families who lived on the shore held parties, and everyone got into boats and floated out on the lake, from where you could see the light show in its full unobstructed splendor. As the rain of stars fell around you and rippled over the water, all you could hear were the rockets popping and the oohs and ahs of the partygoers, carried on the night breeze.
No one ever got tired of it, no one ever outgrew it. When kids grew up and left home, they’d bring their own children back to see it. Long after Margaret and I had learned to act annoyed by everything that gave our parents pleasure, we couldn’t pretend we didn’t love being out in that firestorm of colored light.
That summer, any holiday would have been hard, but the Fourth was the hardest. We knew we’d never convince ourselves that we should try to enjoy it, that Margaret would have wanted that, that we should think of her and be happy. I still couldn’t look at the lake. I couldn’t imagine rowing out on the water and feeling my sister’s absence like a hole in the boat. Even if I stayed in my room, with the blankets over my ears, I would hear, or think I heard, the pop and hiss of the rockets, and the murmurs of the merrymakers too stupid to know they were a heartbeat away from disaster. But why begrudge them whatever happiness they could have before it was their turn to learn what we had found out?
Going away for the holiday would have seemed like an ideal solution if it hadn’t meant leaving Aaron alone in a town full of kids who’d already forgotten Margaret. My parents had each other, I had the two of them, but poor Aaron had only me to help him get through this.
Of course, it w
asn’t the same for him. He’d never spent the Fourth on the lake with Margaret. My parents would never have invited him to come out on our boat. But one of his paintings at the Senior Show was of fireworks reflected in the water. Maybe he’d been on another boat, at someone else’s party.
I tried to remember last summer. Had Margaret seemed distracted? Had she gazed out over the lake, wondering where Aaron was, and if he was thinking of her? The only image that came to mind was of her glowing face tilted up as if the light were rain, pouring into her mouth. The Fourth shot to the top of my list of forbidden things, another reason for Aaron and I to try and survive it together.
I did what anyone my age would have done. I invented a barbecue with all my old friends, ferociously chaperoned by a posse of paranoid parents. I told my parents I’d miss them, but I would be sadder to miss the party. I argued as if my life were at stake, because I believed that it was, that I would die of boredom and grief if they separated me from Aaron.
I said, “It’ll be really fun. It’s the first thing I’ve wanted to do since . . .” They knew since when. I’d played the Margaret card with Elaine, but not, until then, with my parents. I couldn’t help noting that both times had been about wanting to be with Aaron.
I called Samantha and told her I needed a favor. If my parents phoned, her mother should back up my barbecue story. Samantha’s mom always seemed to enjoy lying to the other parents, and Samantha was so happy to be able to help her grieving friend that she didn’t even ask what I was really doing. She mentioned that Violet was going away for the holiday. I was glad she warned me. Violet’s mother occasionally stopped by the bookstore.
Samantha asked, “Do you want my mom to say you’re sleeping over?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “That’s okay.” At that point, I was still thinking that I could stay alone in my house.
“Wow,” said Samantha. “Who is it? Can I ask?”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s not what you think.”
“I believe you,” said Samantha. “Wow. Have fun, I guess.”
My parents never phoned Samantha’s mom. At first I was relieved that they trusted me, and then insulted that they still thought of me as a truthful child instead of a scheming, secretive teen. They didn’t think I was old or sophisticated enough to lie the way Margaret had. Anyway, they didn’t need to call. They weren’t letting me stay home without them.
I badgered them like a lawyer fighting to save my client (me!) from the sentence of spending the holiday without Aaron. I began with hopeless arguments, the dismissable litany of what other parents let other kids do. Kids my age babysat for infants, worked as camp counselors, traveled to Europe. My parents had always hated leaving us overnight, even when Margaret was in high school. They only did it twice, in emergencies—once when Gran Bradley had her second stroke, and once when her caregiver quit. Both times had been bliss. Tequila, old movies, loud music, falling asleep on the couch. When Mom and Dad came back, they’d seemed amazed and overjoyed to find us still alive.
The argument about the Fourth raged and smoldered for days. My mother stayed unmedicated. Some maternal instinct must have kicked in, but her determination only fueled my own.
One night, my father said, “We need to decide about Boston.”
Hadn’t the bookstore customers warned me: no decisions for a year? But the question of whether to go with my parents or stay in town with Aaron didn’t seem to require one. I kept thinking about Margaret telling me that sex meant knowing what you wanted. This had nothing to do with sex. The very idea was repulsive. Still, I imagined Aaron and I exchanging a chaste little kiss, the airy peck that an angel might give to express some tender promise. Happy Fourth of July. Okay, not happy maybe, but we’d gotten through it.
“Nico, you look flushed,” said Dad. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s warm in here.”
“How do you like the fried chicken?”
“Fantastic.” I peeled a slippery tendon from a drumstick and dropped it back on my plate. My mother had stopped pretending to eat. She was losing weight, too. We should have been recovering. Why were we getting worse?
Dad said, “If we’re going, we need to make reservations—”
“Reserve two rooms,” my mother said. “We can always cancel. Reserve three rooms.”
“Eat something, Daisy,” said Dad.
I pictured myself in a hotel room, flipping through the channels while my parents napped next door. Or maybe they would insist that I be with them. Together. They would hand me the remote and pretend to be interested in what I wanted to watch. How much fun we were having, piled on the king-size bed! I’d torture them with MTV while I wondered what Aaron was doing.
Brandishing the drumstick like a ragged club, I said, “I’m not going. Sorry, that’s it. I refuse. I don’t want to leave.”
“All right.” My father sighed. “I guess we can all stay home for the weekend. It’s not going to kill us.”
My mother knocked on wood.
I said, “Mom! Dad! Don’t be hasty. Think it over. You guys could use some time alone.”
“We can’t leave you,” my father said. “Knowing you were here by yourself, we couldn’t possibly . . .” What was he going to say? Enjoy themselves?
“Can I say something?” I tried not to look directly into their heartbreaking faces. “What I want to tell you is, how great you guys have been, how much you’ve helped me during this . . . during this . . . you know. . . .”
I was sincere, or half sincere. The insincere half was thinking that I might get my way if I flattered their vanity about what good parents they were. Which was true, and not true. They loved me, they were good to me. But if they’d been more attentive, I wouldn’t have been trying to trick them into leaving me with Aaron.
My mother actually nibbled a scrap of crisp chicken skin.
My father said, “Thank you, Nico. But still—”
I said, “I want to go to this party.”
I could tell my mother was weakening even as she said, “I couldn’t stand to think about you knocking around this big house with no one here in case—”
“In case what?” I put my hands over my ears. My parents imagined fire, lightning, crazed pedophiles, ax murderers. I hadn’t imagined anything beyond watching the fireworks with Aaron. Only now did I picture coming home to a dark, silent house. Maybe Aaron would walk me inside, but that would be strange, too. I wasn’t afraid to stay by myself. But what if I couldn’t sleep? What if I heard noises? What if there was a thunderstorm and the power went out? My courage wavered enough so that I was almost glad when my father said, “You’re not staying here alone.”
“Okay, I won’t stay here a-lone.” I imitated him perfectly, his tone of doom and foreboding. Even as I was mimicking him, inspiration struck.
I said, “I’ll stay at Elaine’s.” It was the perfect solution. What I wanted, minus the scary part. The look I gave my father was pure, flat-out blackmail.
“Hadn’t you better ask Elaine?” my mother said. And I knew I’d won.
Perhaps my parents were simply too worn out to argue anymore. Perhaps they welcomed this chance to let me try my wings in a limited test flight. Perhaps they were telling themselves that a new life was beginning, filled with risks and adventures, as they bravely stepped aside and let me past as I groped my way toward adulthood. Or perhaps they were simply tired of each other, of themselves, and of me.
EVER SINCE I SAW DAD KISS HER HAIR, ELAINE HAD BEGUN TO annoy me. Her voice was too loud, she smoked. I tried to come up with more irritating character flaws, but I kept forgetting and thinking disloyally that I liked her. It should have been more difficult now that I knew she was an evil homewrecking liar. I told myself that the ends justified the means of being friends with someone who could do that to my mother and me. I wondered how far I would go, how low I would stoop in order to be with Aaron.
When I asked Elaine if I could stay with her,
I stressed how wonderful it would be if my parents could spend time alone. “They love each other so much. And it’s been so hard for them. They haven’t had a minute.”
Elaine didn’t flinch. She said, “A change of scene and a little privacy might be just what the doctor ordered. Of course you can stay over. We’ll have a pajama party. I’m not doing anything for the Fourth. A picnic with Tycho rushing around and scarfing down the aluminum foil and screaming when it touches his fillings isn’t my idea of fun. Fireworks terrify him.”
Elaine and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of the bookstore. My dad was at the counter, waiting for me to come in and take over. She hooked her arm around my shoulders and drew me away from the window.
She said, “Does your wanting to stay home have anything to do with . . . romance?”
Romance. The word disgusted me. Especially from Dad’s girlfriend.
“No,” I said. “We’re just hanging out. Just for the Fourth.”
“Just hanging out,” Elaine repeated.
“Right. I promise, okay?”
I’d promised without her prompting me. Maybe that was why she believed me.
“Okay. But if I’m going to be your stand-in mom for the weekend, I want you to come home early.”
I said, “What about the fireworks?”
“The fireworks? I thought you guys rode bikes. It’ll be dark.”
I improvised. For once, the staircase spirit would have nothing to add. “We can see the fireworks from the park. We can walk there.”
Elaine said, “Fine. Have a blast, so to speak. But I want you back at my place twenty minutes after the fireworks end.”
I calculated how long it would take from Miller’s Point to Elaine’s without speeding.
“How about twenty-five?”
“Deal,” said Elaine. “After that, you turn back into a pumpkin. And I’m calling out the state troopers.”
Thirteen
JULY 4 FELL ON SATURDAY. MY DAD CLOSED THE STORE FOR THE weekend. Early that morning, my parents dropped me off at Elaine’s. They thought there would be less traffic on the holiday itself. They’d decided to stay just one night and come back Sunday evening. As we said our good-byes on the sidewalk, my parents hugged me and gave me so many warnings and so much last-minute advice, they could have been leaving the country or putting me up for adoption.
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