by Deb Caletti
I watched Dan Jax walk up the boardwalk to the big white house. His head was down. His shoulders sloped like lonely desert hills. His ponytail, usually buoyant and cheerful, was riding as low as a dragging tailpipe. If a ponytail could be defeated, it was. All that kite flying had tired him out. He had one hand on the boardwalk railing to aid the climb up. I had always thought of Dan Jax as being a man of total commitment. Solid. He would stand by my mother’s side and never waiver, and if she herself did, he would hold her elbow firmly and guide the way. I guess I thought she had room to falter, because he never would. Same as me and Janssen, yeah. Same thing.
But Dan Jax’s bent shoulders reminded me of something. Something that made me feel suddenly unsettled. He was only a man, wasn’t he? He could fall too, if enough weight were loaded upon him. I realized it then: anyone, anyone, could buy a ticket and get on the next plane out. We don’t like to think it. No, better not to. But it came to me. I could be left standing there by myself. I could be the one holding a suitcase full of hope and ten days of clean underwear.
I used the trick I’d accidentally discovered when I got stuck being partners with Zoe Hammell for a junior year project on the Middle East. Zoe was a golden wall of inapproachability; she’d never talk to me unless she had to, and her friends wouldn’t either. She smelled like nail polish and self-tanner, and her hair glowed. No matter what situation you’re in, just like dogs, there’s a hierarchy. You don’t understand the reasons for it, but it’s there, and I was somewhere in the middle, too average for Zoe Hammell and her friends, too boring. I’d had the same steady boyfriend for forever, and my friends liked their parents and we thought getting high was stupid. But we weren’t Shawna Jarredy and her group either. We didn’t wear creepy black felt fedoras and black vests and discuss fantasy books in odd but arrogant detail. We took AP classes and got grades that were good enough to get us into college but not so perfect that we’d become like that other group (which, let’s see, fell below us but above the Shawna Jarredys)—the isolated slaves of parental expectations.
If Zoe Hammell was disappointed at getting paired up with me, I was just as disappointed ending up with her. There’s some teen movie cliché that says that I (lower level, see above) would be thrilled and fawning at her possible attention, which was stupid. It’s a strange but cherished myth that everyone wants to be in the “popular group.” I’d always been someone who could see pretty clearly (then, anyway), someone who knew my own mind. My mind knew this: Zoe Hammell wore those sweatpants with words written on the ass, and I hated those. I ended up looking at her ass, when I didn’t want to look at her ass. In her tight shirts and short skirts, she was a walking advertisement for her own body. It was shallow, but also kind of sad. Kind of desperate. Behind any ad—even the cool, hip ones—they’re still trying hard to sell you something.
So I had to get through my time with Zoe Hammell as much as she had to get through her time with me. But I accidentally figured out something: Zoe opened up with a few compliments. (Something, no doubt, that Trevor Woods figured out too, ha, if you believed what you heard.) I once told her I liked her shirt, and she beamed and told me where she bought it and for how much and what her friends thought of it. Man, compliments worked like magic on some people—I wish I’d known that trick before. I’d tell Zoe I liked her handwriting, and she’d tell me about her second-grade teacher and about her best friend that year who moved away and left her heartbroken. The project was over and she didn’t know a thing about me, not a single thing, except what pen I used. But once, she’d even cried after I’d complimented her haircut. She broke down about the fight she’d gotten into with Trevor Woods, who preferred it long, that jackass.
I tried the trick again on the beach, and there it went, working like a charm again. First, awkward silence. And then I complimented Hailey’s sweatshirt. Wow, it was like using the secret key on the golden door. The door swung open, and I heard about Hailey’s boyfriend, Brad; it was his terrific sweatshirt Hailey was wearing, given to her on a cold night, how sweet, but then she’d kept it and it was like having his big, warm arms around her all the time, even though he wanted it back. Her great ring was a gift from her mother, after Hailey got in to UBC, where she was studying environmental science because her mother thought alternative resources would be the wave of the future. She didn’t mind, though, because the building was near the gym where the football players worked out, and Brad would have to understand: You could look, but not touch. Brad could be so insecure.
Amy ran track (You’re lucky you’re so tall, I’d said), because all the cutest guys ran track, and she played the clarinet too, even if the band kids were geeks. She used to dance until she quit, which caused a big fight with her mother, who thought she had a real future with ballet. You’re really mature for your age ticked off her sister, but opened the secret door behind the secret door, just like in those adventure movies, where the right stone is touched and the cave wall swivels and there is a shimmering treasure, but a forbidden one, riddled with skulls and bones of those who came before. Her mother didn’t think she was mature, obviously, Amy said. She hadn’t even wanted them to come on this trip. She didn’t even know this woman their father would be marrying, who would now be spending time with her children. What if their father had chosen another one like that Denise, with the kid who took drugs? What’s his name, with the tattoo? Amy said. Freak Job Junior, Hailey answered. Amy rolled her eyes. Still, Mom wanted to come on this trip with us! I’m not six.
By the time we got back, Hailey had let me try on her ring and Amy was teaching me dance moves on the sand, which I hope no one saw. I felt a little ashamed, manipulative—you could press on other people’s egos for your own reasons, and it worked too well. It felt wrong, even if it helped things between us. I also felt tired. Egos were hungry things. Like Ben and Janssen, you could feed it breakfast, and a half hour later it would want pizza. You could start out using and end up being used, and by the time I got back up to the house, Amy and Hailey seemed full and happy, and I felt nothing but empty and exhausted.
I needed a nap now too, and so I headed upstairs to my own room. In the stairwell I could hear music coming from the floor above mine. A guitar. My feet had a plan of their own, or so I told myself. At his half-open door I glanced in. He saw me. He was sitting on his bed, playing that guitar, but he stopped strumming then and met my eyes.
“You wanna come in?” he asked. Ash. His dark hair, his olive skin—so different than Janssen’s. His long fingers rested flat on the strings to still their hum.
“That’s okay,” I said.
“I’ll play you something,” he said.
No words came. Here I was, almost eighteen. Supposedly going away to college next year. Supposedly a smart, confident person. But I fled, like I was a child who’d just come across a Stranger, capital S, offering candy. That dangerous man your mother warned you about.
It was embarrassing, God, but I quickly turned away. I went back downstairs like I was being chased. I shut my door; my heart was pounding as if I’d been running. I actually put my hand to my chest, the way people do in the movies when they’re having a heart attack.
I tried to lie down. But of course I couldn’t sleep. Suddenly, I was completely awake.
I don’t know why we do it. But sometimes we just swim straight for the net.
chapter
eight
Dear Janssen—
I miss you. I miss you so, so much. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s true. I wish you were here right now. This minute. But I know you can’t come. You said you wouldn’t, until I got clear, and you’re right not to. So don’t. Even though I wish you would. Don’t.
Wait. I almost forgot. I loved your dog list. Okay, here goes. Try this.
Ways Jupiter Embarrassed Us and Ways We Embarrassed Her.
Jupiter:
1. When we brought her to the dog park, she just stood there and barked at everyone.
2. She ran away, and Mom
had to chase her through people’s yards wearing her nightgown.
3. She farts a lot, even when we have company.
4. We took her for a walk that time, and she got so upset at one guy and his dog that she got frothy-mouthed, like she had rabies.
Us:
1. We fold down her ears over her head so that she looks like the Little Dutch Girl.
2. We lift up her lips to show her pointy teeth to pretend she’s vicious.
3. We called her Juniper to see if she would still come, and she did. (I still feel bad about that.)
4. We dressed her in that dog angel costume with the halo for Halloween.
You know, Janssen, aside from the angel costume, I realize how much our dogs have patience with us. They put up with almost anything. We sing bad, stupid songs to them. We make them dance with us. Sometimes we’re really not nice, calling them names, or being short with them and hurting their feelings. We ignore them. A whole day goes by sometimes, and then I remember I’ve hardly paid any attention to Jupiter at all, like she was a piece of furniture. But then I look and see that she’s still there, alive and breathing and standing by, with her watchful, loving eyes.
But it goes both ways, because they get into the garbage, they eat your good underwear, and you’ve got to pick up their crap, but still you’re crazy about them. They mope around sometimes, looking like you’re not giving them something they deeply desire, but you don’t think, “Jesus, she’s moody! I’m outta here!” They lie where it’s most inconvenient, and we just step over them. I guess it’s a different relationship. When someone has to turn three circles before lying down, maybe you feel they really need looking after. But I’m sure they look at what we do and think the same thing.
We hurt each other, is the point. Hurt, annoy, embarrass, but move on. People, it just doesn’t work that way. Your own feelings get so complicated that you forget the ways another human being can be vulnerable. You spend a lot of energy protecting yourself. All those layers and motivations and feelings. You get hurt, you stay hurt sometimes. The hurt affects your ability to go forward. And words. All the words between us. Words can be permanent. Certain ones are impossible to forgive.
We don’t have long, intense conversations with our dogs either (except those one-sided ones), so you don’t get distracted by who said what. No one says things they permanently regret. It makes forgiveness pretty easy to hand over. You focus on the fact that the next day comes and there you are, still loving each other. They are a good friend to you, and you try to be a good friend back. They look after you and care for you, and you look after them and care for them. It’s so simple. Pure. That’s what’s so great. That’s what you treasure. You’ll never get that anywhere else. It’s a unique, wordless relationship.
And you know what else? You can totally relax and be yourself with them too. You can burp or leave the bathroom door open. You can look like shit. You can fail. You can make so many mistakes—they don’t care. They don’t judge. They love you, no matter what. And they are themselves too. Always. You don’t lie on your back like that with your feet hanging in the air if you’re not content just to be who you are. They look goofy, they bark when the doorbell rings on TV, they wuf, wuf in their sleep, chasing dream bad guys. They’re just their honest selves.
Not that they don’t tell you plenty with their eyes, and not that it’s so lovey-dovey that your relationship isn’t real. When I take some piece of garbage away from Jupiter that she’s cleverly snitched, it’s not exactly love she looks at me with. You wouldn’t respect them or believe them if they thought you were fabulous every second.
I’m not saying anything here, I hope you know. About forgiveness. About your forgiveness. About acceptance. And patience. People, it’s different, is my point.
Okay, maybe I am saying something.
Of course, with Jupiter, though, we started out with this sort of traumatic bonding, and isn’t there something about that? Where you meet in traumatic circumstances and it strengthens the tie? Did I read that somewhere, or did I hear it in that psychology elective with Mr. Shriver? Hostages, or something? Some experiment where a man and a woman meet on a rope bridge and it’s dangerous and they fall forever in love.
You’ve heard this story before, but it’s an important one. It’s a before-you story, but still it’s about us, all of us. So.
My father—well, this was back at our old-old house, before we moved up by you. He had finally left, and it was this crazy time—fear, relief. Mostly an unsettling feeling of who-knows-what-might-happen-next. I was scared a lot. We all were. He was so angry. I don’t remember what the situation was, but I remember one night Mom actually hung bells on the downstairs doorknobs. Bells from this musical instrument box we got for Christmas when we were little. She was afraid he’d break in and she wouldn’t hear him downstairs. He’d called, like, fifteen times that night, and the feeling in the house … I don’t like to remember it. Fear, is all.
But there was also this sense of … I don’t know. That we were starting something new together. The three of us. I think my mother decided to sort of celebrate that idea by getting a dog. Or maybe she just felt guilty after everything and decided to finally give in to me, ha! I wanted a dog so bad! I don’t know, but the decision felt more like triumph than guilt. Exciting, you know? We were all so excited. I’d been doing research about what kind of dog would be best for us. I was such a nerd—I read Dog Fancy magazine. I did. I got it from the library. But I woke up one night and found Mom on the couch reading it too. She was looking at the pictures and smiling, her robe tucked around her knees.
I guess you know what I’m like when I set my mind to something. I was looking at the puppy ads for weeks on the Little Nickel want-ad site online. Waiting for my baby beagle. And then one Saturday, there she was. One purebred beagle puppy, all the way over the mountains in Wenatchee.
We can drive out there, no problem, my mother said. It was a three-hour drive, and we could be back before dinner if we left right then. It’s an adventure! Mom said. (This should have been our first warning.) She called the breeder, some old guy, and claimed our puppy. We hopped into the car and headed over to the pet store to get what we needed. And then we set out over the Cascades. We were high with the thrill of unlimited possibilities. It felt like a new beginning.
It was late February, a beautiful day, and we were piled into the Bermuda Honda, listening to music. We were so happy with puppy excitement, and our mother was singing along with the radio and Ben was eating Red Vines. I don’t think my mother had ever even taken a trip like this by herself before. She had to keep looking at the map. It was a prove-something-to-yourself trip, and the radio was up and we were flying high.
Everything was going fine—we were on the other side of the pass, pulling off onto the Wenatchee Highway, about to head toward the breeder’s house, when suddenly there was a bad smell. A really bad burning smell and then smoke—huge barreling plumes of smoke—rising from the hood of the Bermuda Honda.
Mom pulled over. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, she said. Her face had gone as white as an egg.
Mom? I said. Ben had turned silent. We were sitting on a dirt road next to a gas station and endless orchards of apples, miles from home. No cell phone—this was before Mom could afford one. And what would these car repairs cost? Add that to the list of worries. The smoke kept pouring out, and Mom’s stunned face watched as the Bermuda Honda died one of its nine lives.
Mom put her head down on her arms on the steering wheel. I was scared. Again. I thought she might cry. Every bit of new-life joy was gone, and there was only fear once more. And defeat. Utter defeat. In the car, before it broke down, there had been this feeling. I wouldn’t repeat this to anyone but you, because it’s disloyal to my father, who is still my father. But there was this glee that maybe in the end the good guys could win, this rising feeling in the heart. And then the smoke, and the defeat, and the sense that anything could happen, bad things that my mother couldn’t handle after a
ll, and suddenly I realized that the simple, naïve ideas of good guys and bad guys and things turning out the way they should was probably over for me forever.
Mom? I said again. I was really getting scared. No one knew where we were. No one even knew we’d left.
I looked at Ben, and he looked at me.
But Mom lifted her head. Okay, she said. Okay. It sounded like a plan, or at least like a plan was on its way.
The gas station right there, right off that exit, it sat there like a 76 station gift from God dropped down from the heavens. But a gift without the needed batteries—it was closed. But, yeah, there was a phone booth, and Mom got out and walked toward it, but before she’d even gotten five paces, a Wenatchee County Water and Sewer truck pulled up. A kind-eyed young guy was driving, a guy who used the word “Ma’am” and who had a radio in his car. If God is up there directing this great big human play, I guess sometimes I don’t understand him. I want to love him, but he makes it hard, honestly. Sure, there is beauty and love and planets, but as a father he can shove you down from behind one minute and then pick you up the next minute and dust off your knees. It’s hard to keep up with what you’re supposed to be learning, is all I’m saying.