‘Then I’ll stop by sometime, since I just live down the street?’ he says as he walks away.
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks for the invite, neighbor,’ he calls over his shoulder.
Did I invite him?
Contents
Empty adj. 1. Containing nothing, having none of the usual or appropriate contents. 2. Vacant, unoccupied. 3. Destitute of some quality or qualities.
Now, a day later, I wonder what friends means to Dane. I wonder at his voice that is so different from his eyes. I wonder if I know anything at all. But I do know this: the word I felt when I looked into his face was the right word.
Home
The house is empty. Saturdays are empty, I decide. There is no banging. No restoration. No school. No anything. Mother left early in the morning. She didn’t tell me where she was going but asked me to stay close by. I wanted to say no. But I didn’t.
Lily’s been out in her greenhouse all morning. She didn’t invite me to join her. I wouldn’t want to anyway. I’ve looked out my bedroom window twice, trying to see what she is doing, but most of the inside of the greenhouse is out of view. I don’t care what she is doing.
I lie back on my bed and look at the ceiling. A Cotswold ceiling is fairly uneventful. It matches me.
Mother and Lily don’t know, but Father was right. My memory is coming back.
It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.
I remember shopping for socks, feeling the socks, paying for the socks, looking at the receipt for the socks. Every detail of a sock-shopping outing that happened five years ago. Who cares about socks?
But then others … those come out of nowhere, too. Last night in the hallway, I was dizzy with the rush of this memory. I had to lean against the wall in the dark and close my eyes. It was so clear. I was sobbing. Screaming for Mother. I saw her crying. A tear, briefly, before she walked away. I cried for her to come back. I tried to reach out for her, but Father held me back. No. He held me. I was a toddler. Maybe eighteen months old.
I wore a bright red coat; Father, a black one. He kissed my cheek. Wiped my tears. Promised she would return. I kicked my feet. He held me tighter. I remember it like it was yesterday. How can I remember this?
If I have to remember a lifetime of memories, bits at a time, will it take me another whole lifetime to reclaim them all? Or one day will they all connect up and explode inside of me?
I peek out my window again. No sign of Lily. The floor creaks beneath my feet. I walk to the other upstairs rooms. They are all still empty. Will Claire ever fill them? But with what? With only me? I go downstairs. I have never really properly explored the downstairs rooms. Other than a hurried rush to Claire’s bathroom when I cut my knee, I have never spent any time in the rooms beyond the hallway. It only just now strikes me as odd that I have been like a houseguest, confining myself to my room and the shared rooms only, never feeling free to roam the rest of the house. Stay close by, Jenna. I am.
I go to the first doorway on the right in the downstairs hallway. Lily’s room, I think. I push open the door, but it’s an office. Claire’s office, by the looks of the blueprints, fabric samples, and design books. It is cluttered and disorganized. Not what I would expect of Claire.
I move to the next doorway on the right. I turn the knob. The hinges squeal, startling me. Mother has still not updated the hardware and keys of the house. Maybe she thinks it makes the Cotswold more authentic, but it makes moving about unnoticed much more of a challenge. I find a large room, simply furnished. Yes, Lily’s room. A pair of her shoes sits neatly in the corner. On the bureau is a scattering of framed pictures. Claire. My grandfather and Lily. And another one of a little girl in a pink party dress and black shiny shoes. A little girl who holds Lily’s hand. The little girl Lily loved. I walk over and lay it facedown. So what if she knows. What can she do? Hate me? I feel empowered and I kick her shoes out of alignment, and I’m amazed that such a small action could feel so good. Enough of Lily’s room for one day.
The next door on the left side of the hallway is locked. I move on to Claire’s room. The master suite is large. Adjoining the bedroom is a sitting area furnished with two overstuffed chairs and a small library. An arched doorway on the other side of the bedroom leads to a dressing area, closets, and a bathroom. The closets form the same odd tunneling arrangement as mine does. Multiple closets for different needs. Overkill. The largest closet has another door at the back of it that leads toward the center of the house, so I know it would be a windowless room. I put my ear to the door and hear something. A faint hum. I jiggle the lever, but it is firmly locked.
The mattress. Mattress. Mattress. I walk to Claire’s bed, throw back the bottom corner of the spread, and slide my hand beneath the mattress. I pull out my hand and try another corner. It is there. A key. I grab it and stand. For once I remember something about Claire that is useful.
‘What are you doing?’
I slip my hand into my pocket. ‘Nothing.’
‘Looks like something to me.’
I look at the ruffled corners. ‘I was just straightening Claire’s bed. She left it unmade. There’s nothing else to do around here.’
Lily looks into my eyes, like she’s searching for something. I finger the key in my pocket, and she watches but doesn’t say anything except, ‘There’s someone outside looking for you.’
I find Ethan on the front walkway. He shifts awkwardly and then smiles. He almost looks like he is in pain. ‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Hello.’ I look at him and wait, wondering what I am supposed to do.
‘Oh!’ He reaches into his jeans pocket and his strained smile vanishes. ‘I found these keys in my truck. I thought they might be yours?’ He holds out a ring with two card-keys dangling from it.
‘No. Not mine.’
‘Oh.’ He doesn’t move.
‘Maybe they’re Allys’s,’ I offer.
‘Maybe.’
He shoves the keys back into his pocket, and the painful smile returns. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then?’
‘Your smile is so fake,’ I say. ‘You need more practice.’
His brows come together, and he snorts like he is offended. ‘And of course you’re the expert on smiles. Anything you don’t know?’
‘Not much.’ I smile. Large and sustained.
He shakes his head and looks sideways at me. ‘You win. I can’t beat that.’
I ask him if he’d like a tour, and he says yes, he has nothing better to do. Nothing better? Yes, definitely Mr Personality. He seems interested in the new walkway the workers have laid and also in the dismantling and rebuilding of our chimney. When we walk around to the back, I see that Lily has returned to her greenhouse. I feel the key in my pocket. I could ask him to leave. This might be my only chance to be alone in the house for a long while. But I don’t want him to leave. The key or Ethan. I choose Ethan for now.
We walk to the edge of the pond and he admires it. ‘Not too many people have a pond in their backyard.’
I hadn’t thought about it. We surely didn’t have a pond in Boston. Ethan and I sit down opposite each other on a flat granite rock near the edge, and I appreciate the pond’s beauty for the first time, seeing it through Ethan’s eyes. Clusters of reeds shoot up like spiked anchors around the perimeter. On Mr Bender’s side, some coot hens swim in and out of view between the cattails. ‘I hear frogs at night,’ I tell him. ‘Even in February. Lily thinks it’s strange.’
‘Not so strange for here,’ he says.
‘Are you from here?’
He hesitates, looks at me like I have just asked him to give me a pint of blood rather than asked him a simple question. His answer is just as odd.
‘Yeah.’
&nbs
p; It is not the word, but the way it is said. Drawn out with a slight nod and a sigh. I recognize it. From somewhere. Maybe I saw it on Jenna’s face or heard it in her voice on one of the video discs. A simple word that said more than was intended. Resignation. Enough. Stop. What do you want from me? Yeah. Things I think Mother never wanted me to see on those discs. Things that I think even the old Jenna never saw.
‘Here is a problem for you,’ I say.
‘That’s why I go to the charter,’ he answers. ‘A lot of people around here know me. It’s easier there.’
‘Because you can hide?’
‘You put things together fast.’
‘No. Not really. You said everyone has a reason for being at the charter. I was just waiting to hear yours.’
He leans forward, his arms resting on his knees. ‘I spent a year in the state juvenile facility. I beat someone up. When I got out I couldn’t go back to the academy, so I went to the charter.’
‘You don’t look the type,’ I say.
‘The type who would beat someone up until he’s more dead than alive?’ He looks past me, his eyes unfocused. I can hear the knot in his throat pulling tight. ‘You just never know.’
I lean forward, my arms on my knees so our positions are mirror images of each other. You never know. Ethan knows more about himself than he ever wanted to know, and I know less than I should. It seems wrong that his dark past should elevate my own blank one. His eyes are dark, full, as full as Dane’s are empty. I come forward so I am on my knees. So close to his face I should be embarrassed, but I’m not.
‘Aren’t you going to ask why?’ he says.
I close the space between us. My lips on his, wondering if the old Jenna knew how to kiss and if the new one remembers, but judging by the way his lips feel against mine, the answer to both of my questions is yes. I finally pull back.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I should have asked.’
He pulls my face back to his and kisses me again, both of his hands soft against my cheeks.
Our kisses grow heated, and everything that is curious and odd and funny and wrong about me disappears and I am no longer thinking about me, but everything about Ethan, because the warmth of Ethan, the scent of Ethan, the touch of Ethan, is all about who I am now, and only when he pushes me away because Lily is yelling in the distance for me to come back to the house do I want to answer his question.
‘I already know why. Because sometimes there is just no choice.’
Choice
I needed it like I needed air.
But no one could hear me.
No one could listen.
No words. No sound.
No voice.
I couldn’t even dream myself away.
Choices were made.
None of them mine.
At first I wondered if it was hell.
And then I knew it was.
Message
I slam the kitchen drawer.
‘It’s not necessary to slam it. I already got the message that you’re angry.’
I pull the drawer out and slam it again. I do it four more times. ‘No! Now I think you get the message!’
‘It is time for your nutrients.’
‘Like you ever cared about that before!’ I pull the bottle of nutrients from the refrigerator and pour the measured amount into a glass. When I put the nutrient bottle back in the refrigerator, I grab a container of mustard. I squeeze half of its contents on top of my prescribed beige brew. I glare at Lily, daring her to stop me, and I swig it all down. ‘There! Done!’ I slam the glass down on the counter, half expecting it to break.
‘You shouldn’t have done that. It might not … go down well.’ She sighs like she is tired, and that makes me angrier.
‘Why couldn’t you just butt out like you always do?’
‘It’s not right, Jenna.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says everything in the universe.’
‘I think he was enjoying it.’
‘For now, maybe.’
I want to cry. I want to sob loudly. I want to beat something. Anything. I want to pound on her chest and say, Please love me. I want that minute back when I was kissing Ethan and now was all there was. I want someone in the world to answer why.
Why me?
And suddenly I feel weak, like every question in my head has collided against another and won’t let me think. Now is the only word that comes out, and I know it makes no sense, but I say it again. ‘Now.’
Lily’s face wrinkles for a moment and then I see her hands stiffen, and the stiffness travels all the way to her mouth. She stands there staring at me like I have just recited a speech instead of one simple word. ‘It’s better this way,’ she finally says. ‘For Ethan and for you.’ She leaves, and I hear her walk down the hallway to her room and close the door, and I wonder if she will even notice the down-turned picture or her out-of-place shoes.
Mustard and Kisses
It is only half past twelve, and I am already back in my room. My insides are shivery. I’m not sure if it is the half bottle of mustard I just swallowed or thinking about Ethan kissing me.
I don’t care if the mustard goes down well or not. It was worth watching Lily stand there helplessly. She knew she couldn’t stop me, and the little click of power that ran through me did go down well.
I scan my empty, no-personality room, and my gaze stops at my Netbook. I should watch another year of Jenna. Or learn more about my neighbors the way Mr Bender does. I feel like I should be doing something else. Hurry, Jenna. But instead I sit at my desk and lay my head down, wishing I could sleep and wake up a new me.
Sleep doesn’t come. Neither does a new me. I stare at my awkward monster fingers and feel my clumsy funny feet sliding back and forth on the floor beneath me, listening to the creaks and ticks of the house, and the heaves and sighs of restoration.
Jenna Fox / Year Sixteen
I place the last recorded disc of Jenna’s life into the Netbook. What is there left to learn? I have more holes than substance, but I’ve pieced together a girl with the scatter of memories that have come back to me, and a life recorded beyond reason. I was treasured. Adored. Smothered with hopes. I was everything three babies could have been. I danced as hard as I could. Studied as hard. Played as hard. Practiced as hard. I pushed to be everything they dreamed I could be.
But with all the scenes, the birthdays, the lessons, the practices, the ordinary events that should have been left alone, what I remember most are Jenna’s eyes, flickering, hesitation, an urgent trying. That’s what I remember most from the discs, a desperation to stay on the pedestal. I see that in her eyes as much as I see their color. And now, in the passing of just a few weeks, I see things in faces I didn’t see before. I see Jenna, smiling, laughing, chattering. And falling. When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go? I ache for her like she is someone else. She is. I am not the perfect Jenna Fox anymore.
Like all the previous discs, this one begins with her birthday party, a lavish private affair somewhere in Scotland. Mother, Father, and I all wear kilts, and ‘Happy Birthday’ is played by a legion of bagpipers. The disc moves on to a school outing on a schooner. I scan the faces, looking for Kara or Locke. A few faces are familiar, schoolmates I remember, but not my friends, not the faces of my dreams. Where are they? Jenna’s hair whips across her cheeks. She glances at the camera and for a moment becomes rigid, forcefully tilting her head sideways, silently pleading for space. Instead the camera zooms in. I can almost see her cave. Surrender. And then suddenly she runs. Weaving herself through the crowds of classmates. Away. And the camera shuts off.
Another scene begins. Jenna in pink tights, her hair pulled into a glittered bun.
‘Give me a twirl, Jenna,’ Father calls.
Claire comes into the room. ‘Got everything? Shoes? Costume?’
‘Yes,’ Jenna says.
‘What about that makeup?’ Claire asks. ‘A little overdone, don’t you think?’
J
enna’s eyes are heavy with eyeliner, dark smears that don’t match her baby-pink tights. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘It might not please your ballet teacher.’
‘I don’t care if I please her. I told you, this is my last performance.’
Claire smiles. ‘Of course it’s not your last. You love to dance, Jenna.’
Jenna grabs Claire by both shoulders and looks down at her. ‘Look at me, Mother. I’m five-nine and still growing. I’m not prima ballerina material.’
‘But there are companies—’
Jenna throws her hands up. ‘Why don’t you be a ballerina! You’re five foot seven, the perfect height! Go for it, Claire.’ I see Mother’s face change. The hurt. I almost have to look away. Was that the first time I called her Claire?
‘Ladies,’ Father says. And the camera shuts off. That’s it. The last recording of pre-coma Jenna Fox. A small argument with voices barely raised. Why would Lily suggest that this was the most important disc to watch? What was her point? The last disc is a non-event. Anticlimactic. Why did I think it would be something big? Or maybe she was just trying to save me hours of boredom? Cut to the end? See what a dickhead I was and get on with it. Move on. Maybe that’s the something I feel. The something I should be doing. Moving on.
I’ve hurt Claire. I know that. I remember trying to tell her how sorry I was. When my whole world was frozen and sorry couldn’t get past my lips. Sorry for what? The accident? All the harsh ways I treated her? Sorry for calling her Claire when she only wanted to be called Mom? Maybe that’s why Lily won’t have much to do with me, because of everything I’ve put Claire through.
Move on.
The something I should be doing.
Deep
Claire walks through the front door just as I reach the last stair. Her arms are loaded with rings of fabric swatches and catalogs.
‘Need some help … Mom?’
The Adoration of Jenna Fox Page 8