by Robin Reul
I’ve changed.
The rideshare drops me in front of my house sometime just before six. I don’t see my dad’s car in the driveway, so that’s a good sign. I put my key in the lock and quietly close the door behind me so I don’t wake Dylan; he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut.
As I tiptoe down the hall to my room, the door to my parents’ bedroom opens, and my mother comes out, still in her pajamas. We are both startled. She clutches her hand to her chest.
“Hallie! You scared me to death. What are you doing home so early? Is everything okay?” A concerned look crosses her face. She reaches for my arm.
My whole body is pins and needles from the adrenaline of having been caught without time to prepare. I say the first thing I can think of. “Yeah, Lainie wasn’t feeling well, so she drove me home.” I feel awful for looking her in the eye and lying to her, especially while wearing an I Heart SF sweatshirt.
“So early? Gosh—you look exhausted. Did you guys stay up all night?” She doesn’t even question any of it. That’s how much she trusts that I would never keep something from her.
“Yeah. She has some sort of stomach virus, I think, so I was up trying to—um, help her.” I try to change the subject. “How come you’re here? Don’t you have to be at work?”
“Dad is holding down the fort. I wasn’t feeling well last night either, so I thought I’d play it safe. I wouldn’t want to get the customers sick. He brought Dyl with him to bus tables, so he should be alright. Gosh, I hope you don’t get whatever Lainie is coming down with. Or whatever I’ve got. Clearly stuff is going around. Make sure you pop some Vitamin C today.”
“Yeah.”
I freeze. I can’t think of what to say next. She’s worried I’ll catch Lainie’s imaginary virus. She has no idea it is so beyond that, and I feel myself cracking wide open. I break eye contact, and that’s all she needs for her mom radar to kick in.
“Hallie? What’s going on?”
It builds inside of me until it can no longer be contained, and then I completely lose it right there in the hallway. Mom’s arms are around me in two seconds, and I’m certain if she weren’t holding me so tightly, I’d fall straight to the floor. She strokes my hair and makes little shushing noises like she used to when I was little, and I fold into her.
Wordlessly, she makes us a cup of tea, and we climb into her bed side by side. I tell her everything: the phone call on Friday, Owen’s post, taking the money from her tin, and my spontaneous trip with Jack to San Francisco. I find myself minimizing the Jack part, keeping the focus on going to see Owen unsuccessfully and coming home, as if Jack were a relatively unimportant part of the story. Mostly, I’m trying to convince myself, because if I get started talking about him, it will only make me miss him. I may never see him again anyway, so what’s the point?
When I’m finished, tears are streaming down both our faces. I tell her I’m scared. Mom leans her head against mine, takes my hand, and squeezes it in her own.
“You’ve already given up so much and are working so hard. I’m so sorry,” I sob into her neck.
“There is nothing to be sorry for. There is nothing we’ve given up that would ever be worth more than you being healthy, and that’s never going to change. We’ll figure it out.” She curls my hair behind my ear and kisses me gently on my forehead.
We talk for a while more about the call from the doctor’s office and my appointment Monday, and then finally she circles back to my trip to San Francisco. I was foolish to think I’d get off that easily.
“What were you thinking? Do you realize how dangerous that could have been, driving off with two strangers hundreds of miles from home without telling anyone where you’d gone? Who is this boy? And to visit yet another that you don’t even know without having any emotional support in place to deal with what you might find when you get there?” And then she notices my tattoo, and her mouth falls open.
“I know. You have every right to be upset with me,” I tell her.
“Honestly, I’m more upset that you lied to us or that you felt like you had to.” She looks so hurt. It makes me feel even more awful than I already do.
“I felt like if you knew everything, you would stand in my way. Find a reason to talk me out of it based on fear. These last few years, I’ve been living my life under a microscope. Nothing feels like it belongs only to me or like I have final say. But I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“I know that. But I’m always going to worry that you and your brother are warm enough when it’s cold outside, that you’ve gotten enough to eat, that you have a roof over your head, that you’re happy and healthy, because I’m your mom. You can’t expect me to turn that off like a light switch just because you’re suddenly eighteen.”
“I know.” And I do. I understand. She’ll probably still be telling me to take a sweater when I go out when I’m forty.
“I mean—am I upset? Yes. Do I think this was smart? No. But whatever pushed you there, and in this way, you had your reasons, and we have to accept that. But I don’t want you to ever think you can’t be honest with us, even if we don’t like it.” She squeezes my hand again.
It’s great that she’s being so surprisingly cool about this, because it’s exactly what I need, but at the same time, it’s almost worse. “I really am sorry.”
“For which part?”
“What do you mean?” I look at her curiously. She’s got this unsettling smile. What was all that literally two seconds ago about accepting that I had reasons? “I said I was sorry a bunch of times. I meant it. I’m sorry for lying and for thinking that by keeping the truth from you and Dad, I was protecting you somehow.”
“That’s not what I mean. Are you sorry you went? Was it at least worth it?”
My mouth hangs open—I’m unsure how to answer. Mom goes on, “Because the girl I know spends every day holed up in her room with the blinds drawn like it’s a cave. This same girl used to talk excitedly about wanting to travel the world collecting stones and making beautiful jewelry, would pirouette in the kitchen and could move a room to tears with her poetry and her art and in the next breath have them laughing. And suddenly she never wanted to leave her room. It’s like she got sick and placed herself in a self-imposed prison afterward she refused to be drawn out from.”
“It’s seriously creeping me out that you’re speaking about me in the third person. I’m right here.”
She laughs. “My point is—I hope it was worth it, because believe it or not, I’m glad that you found something powerful enough to make you leave that room. I’m glad you gave yourself permission to engage with the world. I’ve wanted that for you for a long time. I hope you found something out there that makes you want to keep coming out of that room, because nothing is going to change if you just stay in there feeling sorry for yourself. This too shall pass. You have a whole life ahead of you to see and do and be whoever and whatever you want. I want you to believe that. Not just because I’m telling you—because you truly understand that.”
I don’t say anything. She cups my chin gently in her hand and turns my face to look at hers. “I know you’re scared, especially because your friend died, but that doesn’t mean that you’re going to. This is just something you have to deal with in your life, but you have, and you will. You are strong. And most of all, you are not in this alone.”
“Dad’s gonna be upset that I took off like that,” I say, anticipating he won’t take it as well as she has. When my father gets scared, he gets angry. He acts the exact opposite of what he’s feeling. I am already dreading the conversation we’ll have when he gets home, but I’ve earned it.
“I’m sure he will be, but it’s only because he loves you. If you speak to him from your heart the way you’ve spoken with me, he’ll understand where you’re coming from.” She runs her fingers gently up and down my arm from my elbow to my shoulder and back again. She notices
the tattoo on my wrist again and lifts my arm, taking a closer look. “So you got a tattoo.”
I nod. I don’t regret it. For a moment I think she’s going to get upset about it, but then she smiles and says, “It’s pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“Did it hurt?”
“A little.”
She leans her head against mine. “Everything will be okay.”
I want to believe her. I close my eyes. I’m still listening, but I can’t keep them open a second longer. I’m completely spent. The pillow is so soft, and the blanket is so perfectly warm, and Mom stroking my arm like that makes me melt into the bed the same way it’s done since I was little. After a few minutes, she gently shifts position, extricating her arm from mine. The mattress creaks and gives as she stands.
I feel like I should answer her question, that I owe her that much.
I call out to her groggily, “Mom?”
She turns around. “Mmmm?”
“It was totally worth it.”
She smiles. “I’m glad.”
Chapter 23
Jack
Sunday, June 6, 6:00 a.m.
Amazingly, I’m up right at six on the dot. I take one glance at the shower, and despite how gross I feel, there is no way I am stepping foot in that petri dish, so I make do with a wet washcloth and a bar of soap, and I lather on the deodorant.
The sky is gray, it’s drizzling from the low-lying fog, and my sweatshirt is no match for the dampness. I bolt across the street to the diner and am waiting in a booth and nursing a cup of coffee by 6:47. I get a refill at 7:02. Alex still hasn’t shown, but it’s literally been two minutes. By 7:15 I’m growing concerned, and by 7:19 I’m also a little pissed. I pull out my phone and realize Alex doesn’t have my number, nor I his, and I don’t know where he lives or anything about him other than the address at the teen center. But he knows exactly where I am. He could easily find a way to reach me if he wanted to.
At 7:28 the waitress wants to know if I want to keep waiting or if I’d like to order something other than coffee. I get sourdough toast and a double side of bacon because bacon makes everything better.
At 7:46 the waitress comes to the table with a coffeepot in hand and asks, “Are you Jack?”
“Yeah?”
She hands me a green paper folded in half with my name written on it. “Some guy asked me to give this to you.”
I take it from her and open it as she refills my coffee. On it is my brother’s familiar scrawl.
Trust the journey, little brother. Wherever it takes you, be authentic and you’ll be all right. Best I can do for now.
Be authentic. He wrote that on the paper mixed in with his stuff at Mei’s. He must have heard it somewhere and adopted it into his lingo. He always did stuff like that. If I’m Human Google, he was Walking Urban Dictionary. He’d discard words as easily as people when they no longer served him.
I look out the window toward the street, but there’s no one there, only cars driving by.
“When did you get this?” I asked.
“Some guy handed it to the cook through the back door a few minutes ago and described you. You’re the only one here that fit the description.” She smiles and stops filling my cup. “Can I get you anything else?”
I’m not entirely surprised he didn’t show. Still, I had hoped.
“No, I’m good. Maybe just the check please?” I look at his words again. Trust the journey. Best I can do for now. I can’t help but smile. For now offers the hope there’s a later, and I guess that has to be enough. At least I had the opportunity to tell him how I feel.
I finish my coffee and am sliding out of the booth to go pay the check when the bells on the front doors jingle, followed by a dog’s yip. The noise catches my attention. I throw a casual glance in that direction and do a double take before breaking out into a smile.
“Oscar?”
He’s the last person I expect to see, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy for a familiar face. Princess starts wagging her tail furiously, although that might have less to do with her recognizing me than coveting my leftover slice of bacon. I spend the next hour continuing to caffeinate while watching Oscar eat steak and eggs as he tells the saga of how things unfolded with Operation: Wedding Breakup. Apparently, his ex lives somewhere down the street, and he’s just come from a final drive by her apartment and decided to grab a bite before hitting the road.
“So, things didn’t go the way you hoped?” I ask. Looks like I’m not the only one.
“Not exactly. I showed up at her place and parked right across the street. I had Princess in my lap, Terrapin in the trunk—I was feeling confident. I was ready to tell her she was making the biggest mistake of her life and I was here to save her from it and how great things could be if she’d only give me another chance. Before I even got out of my car, I saw her come down the front steps of her building with Kevin, and she looked so freaking happy. She never looked like that when we were together. Maybe early on, in the beginning, but not for a long time. I couldn’t bring myself to move; I sat there and watched them walk down the street, and I thought to myself, You’re a supreme douche if you do this, Oscar. Not because I might actually cause her to change her mind, but because if I truly love her, I should want her to be happy, even if I’m not the one that makes her feel that way.”
I shake my head. “Man, I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
“Yeah, well, you know…” He sips his coffee. “Now they’re married, so that’s done.”
“Did you go to the wedding? I don’t think I could stomach watching that.”
“No. I’m not a total masochist. I sat in the church parking lot and tortured myself by waiting until they came out. Then I went back to my friend’s apartment and got stinking drunk and marathoned BoJack Horseman on his couch until I passed out, and now here I am. Have you ever watched that show? Brilliant but depressing as hell, and probably not the best choice at the moment. Can you pass the ketchup?”
I hand it to him. “For whatever it’s worth, I think you did the right thing. It frees you up to meet the right person.”
“But what if she was the right person?” he asks.
“This is the part where you just have to have faith in the universe.” I find myself repeating Hallie’s words to Oscar. “If you’re meant to find each other again, you will.”
“I guess time will tell, won’t it?” He squeezes a blob of ketchup on his plate, and the bottle makes a loud farting sound that makes the waitress look in our direction. Princess lets out a single bark.
“So, what are you going to do with Princess now that she’s not the cornerstone of your happily-ever-after master plan?”
The dog, who sits between us eating bites of Oscar’s steak, perks up at the sound of her name. He scratches her between the ears, and her eyes form contented slits. “We’ve grown pretty fond of each other, actually. I think I’m going to keep her. At least I’d know she’s being treated properly. Plus, guys with dogs are chick magnets.”
“Note to self.”
“So how about you? What brings you to this obscure dining establishment early on a Sunday morning?”
“I was supposed to meet my brother, but he didn’t show up. So now I guess I’ve got to figure out how to get back to LA.”
He nods and swirls a bite of egg in ketchup. “I’m about to drive back. Why don’t you just come with me? No charge.”
Which is how I end up back in Oscar’s car, in the front seat this time, with Princess curled up on my lap, driving back to Los Angeles while contemplating life, love, and the mysteries of the universe.
As we reach the outskirts of LA, the sky glows an eerie orange from the lights and flames reflecting off the smoke particles in the air. Hard to imagine now, but after the first rainfall, these same charred hills will turn as green as Ireland. Life finds it
s way. If nature can figure out how to start from scratch after being devastated and scarred, so can I.
I remember at the last minute that my car is still at Carly Ginsburg’s house. As we approach her McMansion, I see it parked all by itself on the street. There’s an abandoned red cup sitting on the trunk and another on the roof. Toilet paper dangles from a tree at the base of the driveway next to the exact spot where I stood with Natasha, unaware of the turn my night would take. It seems like eons ago.
When I get home, I don’t even turn on the lights. I head straight upstairs to my room, where I collapse on my bed. In the darkness, I can make out the silhouettes of the two suitcases standing sentry by the door, and a rush of emotion overcomes me.
What am I doing?
This is real. This is the rest of my life, and it starts now. It’s not too late to fill those bags and catch another flight, and yet the idea makes my heart pound faster in my chest, and suddenly it’s as if I can’t get enough air in my lungs.
I’m like a can of soda that’s been shaken up and someone just pulled the tab. Everything bottled up inside me explodes. The tears come fast and furious, and I curl into a ball, fetal, my body lurching with guttural sobs and howls.
I miss my dad so fucking much. I wish he were here to tell me what the fuck I should do, to assure me that everything would work itself out and be okay. I have never needed him more, and he’s not here. Nobody’s here. I am alone, literally and figuratively.
I have never known how lonely I could feel until I felt the vast emptiness of the space my father once occupied. Our connection since he died is almost closer than the one we shared when he was alive. I know he was far from perfect, but all that bubbles to the surface are the good things that makes me physically ache: The gravelly sound of his voice. A random moment where I felt his love. How safe he made me feel in the world. The satisfied noise he’d make after his first sip of coffee in the morning. His repertoire of two jokes that he told all the time and how it used to drive me crazy. I’d give anything to hear him tell them right now. The pain of his loss is so profound, it lives deep in my bones and permeates every pore, infiltrates every thought, and sucks up all the oxygen in the room.