by Amy Piers
Jacob works in Wealth Management, with the ironic caveat that he, himself, isn’t wealthy. He tries to act rich—I guess it’s his way of keeping up with the Joneses. He wears insufferably expensive clothes, and must approve of Sarah’s every outfit before she can leave the house. They met a little over a year ago in a douchey nightclub, while Sarah was completely unraveled by the loss of her son and her husband’s subsequent rejection. Dallas’s mother’s savior was, and I suspect still is, the bottle. A one night stand gave them bouncing baby Aurora, and while she was pregnant Jacob moved in and out of the house at least three times. Because Jacob has shown himself to be so intelligent and considerate, he bought Ramsay, a $2,000 Purebred Irish Wolfhound, as a ‘practice baby’ and then proceeded not to train him. That’s a 130lb dog, in a 300sq ft backyard with a 16sq ft trampoline. Real smart, Jacob. Now everyone resents Ramsay for being ‘stupid,’ simply because he was never trained to be ‘smart.’ Jacob could use a lesson in cause and effect, but he’s too entitled for things like that.
Here’s what gets me: they drive an $80,000 car, yet their fridge and pantry are a barren wasteland. Dallas’s shoes are falling apart, the knees of his pants are threadbare—but Jacob has every new gadget on the market. Aurora is even well-dressed, at half a year old; because that’s what you get when your dad is biologically your dad. Sorry Dallas, your fate lies in holey pants, frozen food, and worn out gym boots.
I’m repulsed by the vibe in this house. When everybody is home at once it’s enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I get the sense we are wading through toxic levels of unprocessed grief—knee deep in things that will somehow replace Grey. The dog and baby being the most prominent of replacements. I wonder how Dallas can possibly grow and change in this environment, and I’m concerned Sarah doesn’t realize the level of damage that continues to take place.
Any fool could see Sarah and Jacob are contributing to Dallas’s condition, yet Sarah can’t (or won’t) assume responsibility. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I’m not sure she has the ability to step up and give him what he needs. She can’t see the forest for the trees.
[I see red.]
Zoe comes over to me and crouches down, so her eyes are near mine, and her tells me that her is leaving. Her doesn’t say goodbye, I don’t say goodbye, but I high five she’s hand. Her leaves through the normal door.
Mom picks up the baby and says questions to her that she can’t answer. She can’t talk yet, at least I haven’t seen her talk. Maybe her can, but she doesn’t want to. Mom comes into the living room and sits with me.
“Sounds like you had a good day with Zoe,” she says.
I shrug my shoulders, “We’re making Ramsay green.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“There’s no such thing as good and bad. Just normal dogs what do good and bad stuff,” I tell her.
“What? How is he green, though?” Mom says, all confused.
“If white is the color of all the things. Red is bad, green is good. Imagine Ramsay is white and sometimes he’s red if he’s a bad boy, and sometimes green when him’s a good boy,” I explain, and I’m pretty excited. “So Zoe and me are gonna make him green most of the time. We are going to teach him manners.”
“I can’t believe we’re paying a glorified babysitter to train our dumbass dog,” Jacob yells to Mom from the kitchen.
“I’m sure you’re doing writing and math, too?” Mom says, like a question.
“Yeah, but mostly training Ramsay. Him can’t do manners today. It doesn’t happen that quick—you have to be patient,” I let her know, because her might not know how long to wait. Her smiles, and takes the baby to the other room with Jacob. I go outside and see if Ramsay wants to go on the trampoline.
I jump up and down for fifty hundred times, and Ramsay doesn’t know how him can get in. From outside I hear Mom telling Jacob something;
“She probably has a bigger picture plan with the dog training. I’m sure they’re doing the regular reading-writing-arithmetic business, too. ”
“The whole thing is bullshit,” Jacob swears. “Expensive-ass bullshit.”
“We have to be patient,” Mom says, and I smile because that’s our word for today.
“I’ll give her a week,” he growls.
Ramsay is still having trouble getting onto the trampoline. I open the net a teeny tiny bit, but not too much, and I call his name while tapping my knees. Him isn’t sure about how to jump up here, but I remember what Zoe said today: We have to be patient. I keep jumping, I keep calling and calling his name. I wonder why he forgotted something he already knows how to do? I wonder when he might remember.
I lay on the trampoline again, and watch fog rolling in the sky. In San Francisco we don’t get normal summer, we get the foggy kind. Zoe teached me a thousand things about the weather today—she said the season when school goes back is called fall but it feels like winter because of where we are on the map. I think it’s cold enough for a snow man, but it doesn’t snow in our land. Zoe also said that in a few weeks it will be Indian Summer, near Halloween time, which isn’t for a while. Its month is October, and our month is called August—all the months have names, but none are called Dallas. When I look at the gray fog racing, racing, racing over the sky, I start to think about Grey. I wonder how loud I would need to yell for him to hear me? I just want to tell him I’m sorry for making him dead.
I’ve tried this so many times before, and he just doesn’t listen. I whisper his name at first, and wait and see if his ghost is around. I don’t know if ghosts are real, or if I want them to be real. I say his name a little louder, just to try again. I wait for a hundred minutes, and nobody says anything to me.
“GREY!” I say, loudly this time. Mom comes out of the house.
“Dallas, it’s freezing out here. Come inside.”
“I’m talking to Grey,” I say, trying not to cry.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she tells me. “Go inside before you catch a cold.”
I cross my arms and stay where I am. I stare into her eyes and yell, “No!”
Mom reaches into the trampoline and grabs me by the arm. “Go inside!”
I jump off the trampoline and run straight to my room. I hide under the desk in my special tent, and I take out a picture of Grey that I keep in my hiding place. The picture is kind of fuzzy, but it’s still Grey. Crying is for babies, but I can’t stop water coming out of my eyes. I hold the picture, and Grey’s favorite toy close to my chest. I wonder when I will stop missing him?
I hear Jacob ask Mom, “What’s up with him? He was fine a minute ago.”
“Nothing,” she lies. “He’s just playing a silly game. Make believe stuff—you know how kids are.” Mom’s voice sounds a bit shaky. I can hear her walking around a bit, then she says, “I’m just going to take a shower.”
The water sound runs for a long time, and I get out of my tent. I walk by the bathroom, and I hear Mommy crying. The door is shut, but I know what crying sounds like because the baby does it all day long. Mom used to cry in her’s shower after Grey died, so Daddy didn’t know her was crying. When Dad saw, him would leave the house and one day he just never came home. He made a new family, and so did my Mom. I am the only one who didn’t make a new family. I never choosed Jacob—and Jacob never choosed me.
I peek around the corner to the living room, and I see Jacob on him’s computer. Aurora is in her’s baby swing, going side to side while she falls a bit asleep. Jacob kicks his shoes off and does a big fart.
Him doesn’t look like he’s going to leave here anytime soon.
CHAPTER TEN
Playing Catch Up
[I see you.]
7:13pm
Julia arrives home with an enormous pizza and her younger brother Ezra. We open the box and sit around the proverbial “box” watching stupid reality TV shows together. The mindlessness of reality TV is addicting, and I let myself get totally caught up with the shows and forget about Dall
as altogether. Ignorance is bliss, but it doesn’t last long.
“How was today?” Julia asks.
“It went well, thanks,” I say, with cheese dangling from my lips. I wipe my face on a napkin. “His step-dad is a dickhead, though.”
Ezra laughs, “What did you do today?”
Julia’s brother comes over about once a month or so, but we only technically know each other on an acquaintance level. He was a total baby when we were growing up, being two and a half years younger than Julia and me, so we never gave him the time of day. Though, I could always see how eager he was to be part of our conversations. We’re trying to re-establish the relationship as adults, but I’m not quite as into the idea as he seems to be.
“I’m just starting to homeschool this kid,” I say, to keep the conversation flowing.
“Wow, that’s amazing—what’s he like?” Ezra asks.
I shrug, “Meh.”
We glue our eyes, again, to the box. The show is like a train wreck—I shouldn’t be watching, but I can’t look away.
10:45pm
“I’m going to bed,” I yawn.
“I want to hear more about this job,” Ezra adds, slightly desperately.
“Maybe some other time,” I reply, grabbing my pillow and heading out.
“I’m moving to San Francisco next month,” he quickly blurts before I leave. “You’ll have plenty of time to tell me then.”
Ezra smirks, paying me an uncomfortable amount of attention while I couldn’t be less interested in making small talk. If I ignore these signs, perhaps I will escape my fate of being the object of his affection. I notice him noticing me, and my strategy is to pretend I haven't noticed. That makes sense, right?
“Goodnight,” I yell. Julia mumbles the same words back at me, while Ezra perfectly enunciates his farewells. I would cringe at how hard he's trying, but I don't have the energy.
12:07am
Despite going to bed over an hour ago, I’m wide awake and desperate for sleep. Side note: today was a great day. I hope tomorrow is just as productive—I can see Dallas has a lot of untapped potential.
2:45am
I must’ve fallen asleep for a few hours, but it feels like I barely closed my eyes. I’m so frustrated that I’m awake, and my mind starts to wander as I try my hardest to count sheep. Ezra's unwelcome affection has me curiously anxious about my future. I wonder who I’ll marry? I wonder if I’ll know he’s the right one when I meet him? Is ‘love at first sight’ a thing? What if I die alone? What if I never get married and I become a crazy spinster? I need to sign up for an online dating site. No—I don’t. I seriously don’t. I haven’t got time for meeting random guys. What if he looks like a babe in the pictures and is a nerd in real life? I’m too young to sign up for a dating site.
4:00am
He’s standing on the edge of the roof, laughing maniacally while his arms restlessly flail around his torso. I walk closer to him, and he stands with his back to the precipice. He looks me in the eye and says, “You were wrong about me. I see RED.” He leans back and falls. I scream—looking over the edge to see his broken body bleeding the brightest red. He lays dead on the sidewalk as people walk around him like he isn’t there. I scream and no sound comes out.
I sit bolt upright in my bed, shaking and gasping for air. Then, I hear three polite knocks.
“Zoe—are you OK?” Julia wonders, opening the door.
“Sorry…” I mumble groggily, “Bad dream.”
“Um… do you need anything?” she asks, half asleep. Ezra awkwardly appears behind her, and I pull the covers over my head.
“I’m fine, honestly,” I mumble, before realizing I need more oxygen. “Thank you.”
Ezra and Julia close the door, and return from whence they came. I take a moment to die of embarrassment, then I get up to use the bathroom—tiptoeing past Ezra snoring on the couch. Looking outside the bathroom window, I see the pitch black of night, broken only by streetlights scattered evenly on the roadside. The one nearest our house is flickering. I wonder if we’re all just flickering lights in this life, inconsistently swaying between brightness and desolation, productivity and stasis, good and evil. I hear creepy nocturnal birds squawk their pre-dawn songs—evidence that life exists at this hour, despite the fact that I feel more alone than ever.
I guess sleep will pass straight by me tonight.
#
[I see red.]
The long hand on the twelve and the short hand is pointing at the nine. At this very exact time, I look out the window and see Zoe walking up the stairs. I don’t think I’ll hide from her today, but I still don’t like her, so I just won’t be the first to say hi. She knocks on the door, and Mommy opens it up to let her in.
“Perfect! You’re here!” Mom says.
“Good morning!” Zoe tells Mom. I wonder what’s inside her backpack today? I wish for blocks to build things, but I know they’re bigger than her bag. I wish for books about dangerous, mean animals, and I know they definitely could fit in her bag. I wish for a guitar, but it’s just a silly wish because them are too huge for a backpack.
Mom rushes around and says, “Sorry, I really have to go—ah—same food as yesterday, I might not be able to answer my phone today—meetings. Jacob has already left to take Aurora to daycare, and he’ll be home around three.”
“No problem, I’ve got this,” Zoe brags.
Mom runs out to the black car with the four rings and the garage door goes up, up, up with a sound like drrrrrrrrr. Mom drives out too fast and the front bit on the car scratches on the driveway. The garage door goes down like drrrrrrrrr. Zoe sets her things down and doesn’t say hi first either. Her looks tired because her is yawning, and she also has coffee. Kids can’t have coffee because their hearts will beat straight out of their chest, but adult hearts need some fastening.
“I guess I’m going to have to eat pancakes all by myself,” Zoe says out loud, to nobody in particular. I’m thinking about pancakes now. Oh man, I want pancakes.
“I’m not saying hi first,” I yell.
“Oh, hi Dallas!” Zoe says with a smile. Phew—she said it first! Now, pancakes.
“I want pancakes, too,” I say, running from the living room.
“I thought you’d say that!” says Zoe.
Her opens the bag and I can already tell she tricked me. It’s full of little bags of white dusty stuff and some tins and boxes and milk and eggs.
“Liar!” I yell. “Them aren’t pancakes!”
“They will be soon,” she says, laughing. I still don't believe her.
[I see you.]
From what I know about Dallas, he’ll agree to the activities on the schedule until, in reality, has to do them. I’m going to follow through on having him complete the scheduled tasks, but they’re open-ended enough to be combined. So, we were scheduled to eat breakfast at 9 am and do number activities at 9:30 am? Today, we make pancakes—killing two birds with one stone.
“Let’s see…” I feign discovery, waving a recipe above my head. “Oh! Look what I found!”
“Just a stupid paper,” Dallas moans, in a brilliantly six-year-old way.
“This stupid paper is going to tell us how to transform this bag of ingredients into some delicious pancakes. We just need to follow the instructions,” I exclaim, knowing full-well that following directions isn’t one of his strong points. “First, we need a measuring cup.”
“What means measuring cup?” Dallas questions.
I open a few drawers and cupboards. Jeez, looks like friggin’ Halloween in here. Cobwebby as the dickens. I’m pretty sure nobody has cooked a meal in this house since Jesus was a baby. Luckily, at the back of the drawer, there’s a pile of unused measuring cups with tags still attached. Also, I know that fractions are typically on second-grade curricula and Dallas is pre-K at best. Today we’re focusing more on counting than fractions. Other goals include, but are not limited to: expanding his culinary repertoire past chicken nuggets.
“
These are measuring cups,” I reply, shaking the cups on their plastic key-ring. “Measuring is when you do an exact amount of something.”
“I thought pancakes got maked by water in a shaking thing? We only made them one time at my house, but one time I got them at the cafe, but we can’t go to the cafe if I am being bad,” Dallas admits.
“Well, today, we’re making pancakes from scratch.”
“What means scratch?”
Jeez, this kid is cute sometimes. I giggle, “Scratch just means it’s made from real ingredients .”
“Why don’t you just say that?”
“Scratch sounds better.”
Dallas scratches his arm, then laughs. “Yeah!”
[I see red.]
Zoe has paper that looks like this:
Her will turn the list into pancakes, and I’ll help her. She got these cups from a cupboard I never knowed about, and we are measuring amounts of white things to a big bowl.
“One and a half cups of all purpose flour,” she reads, then holds up a paper bag with words on it. “This says ‘flour.’ F-L-O-U-R. F says ffff—remember?”
“Oh yeah!” I say, practicing biting my lip. “Not my tongue out like thhhh. Them are different sounds.”
“Those are different sounds, yeah! I can see you’re learning a whole lot lately,” she says. “One and a half cups—that means this one, and this smaller one. Let’s fill this one first.”