But how do I fix this? How do I say sorry? I have no idea.
I do have a bunch of markers, and me, for whatever that’s worth.
Maybe nothing, but hey, it never hurts to say hello.
chapter twenty-seven
MAX
There’s a breach in my force field. More on that in a minute, I guess.
For now—now being the moments when I studiously ignore the breach—I’m considering the idea of reincarnation and surprisingly—surprisingly—this philosophical journey has nothing to do with a sudden need for a more optimistic take on death, but by my own slow, blank-minded evolution into a reptile.
Ten minutes ago, I unpeeled my back from the windshield of my car and rolled over to draw a diagonal line across the four tally marks already written in the dust of my hood. Day Five. I should probably be worried that I haven’t been able to work, that I haven’t attended any of my classes, but I have enough worries at the moment and so those will need to get in line.
After that, I pulled my hair up off my neck and lay back against the windshield again, face to the sun. On either side of me are rows of similar windshields, picture windows of blue sky and white clouds, light bouncing off them.
I’m tanner than I was a few days earlier. I’ve got sock lines. And yesterday, I reached the end of the internet. So now I just lie here.
Lie here and think about useless things like how similar I’ve become to a lizard and whether it might be possible to become one when I’m dead. And I don’t like being interrupted.
Which returns me to the force field breach.
I did take safety precautions. I de-friended him on Facebook, blocked him on Instagram, put a do not disturb setting on his phone number, but the one place I apparently neglected to safeguard was my inbox. And even though it still sits unread, the email is there. I know it’s there. It’s only a matter of time. A popped balloon cannot be un-popped.
I sit up, sighing. Pushing my sunglasses into a headband, I tuck my ankles underneath me, cross-legged on the hood of my car, and hunch over to cast a shadow across my phone screen. I prepare myself for the world’s longest, multi-syllabic, thesaurus-irrific list of excuses. Pardon me, but it’s Jonah, so you know he’s bound to call his B.S. “extenuations” or some similar nonsense.
From: Jonah Stephens
To: Maxine Mauro
Subject: Hello (From Here)
Okay, so first off, it’s funny how Jonah thinks that “Hello” is going to automatically spark a conversation when all it makes me want to say right now is “Goodbye.”
I think it goes without saying that I’m an imbecile.
Ugh, dear god, see what I mean? Why does he have to say “imbecile” when we all know he was an idiot?
I know this is reaching you at a stressful time and if I am adding to your stress by sending you this email, then please, delete it, no hard feelings.
Like I need his permission, right?
Still reading? Okay, great. So, here’s the thing: I have a theory that time is one long string of moments stacked up between disasters and we never know how many moments we’ve got until that next Bad Thing pops into the lineup. And you might think that my mom’s death would have made me less afraid of disaster seeing as how I’ve already seen the worst and lived through it. For a different sort of person than I am, that might work. But the truth is, ever since my mom died, I’ve been living in fear of the next disaster. I wake up feeling like I’m in a horror movie (my least favorite film genre, BTW) and I’m watching through my fingers knowing at any second, there’s going to be a jump scare. Lately, it’s been even worse than that. All I’ve been able to see is one long string of disasters. Disaster, disaster, disaster, as far as the eye could see. That is, until you came along and suddenly I was cooking disgusting food and playing Pictionary and spending more time on the phone than I ever have in my life and suddenly I was living in the moments you made. You invented spaces where there were none . . . it was like . . . it was like you made little gaps where I could come up for air and breathe. And if I haven’t said thank you for that, thank you.
But somewhere along the way, I guess I forgot you had your own string of moments and disasters and started thinking you were here just to fill mine. I know your mom is sick and you’re scared and—newsflash—things aren’t, like, normal. But I guess you knew that already. And for the record: Olivia says I am an “asshat” and based on some preliminary projections, I’d say there’s a high probability she’s correct.
I send a silent thank-you to Olivia.
Also I wrote a whole three more paragraphs and just deleted them because I could practically hear you telling me to end it there and imaginary you, like the real one, is usually right. The End.
Oh, and P.S. Look up.
I read the last line two more times. Look . . . up? My eyes travel to the sea of cars in the parking lot, to one of the white-brick half-walls that form little castles on the concrete, guarding hydro boxes and garbage bins. And there he is, sitting on the lip, shoes dangling down over the leaning bicycle beneath him, holding a sign against his stomach, written in blue marker.
IF YOU NEED ME (I’M HERE)
I’ve watched a lot of movies and, look, I know how there are probably an actual million think pieces about the myriad of ways entertainment affects our, like, lizard brains or whatever (wow, so we’re back to reptiles so soon), but you don’t realize how right those mommy bloggers are until you’re sitting on the hood of your car with a tiny, disembodied voice that sounds suspiciously like Bridget Jones narrating your next moves to you in your head. There. He. Is. Run to him. Leap up in the air and straddle him around his waist like every girl who has ever been on The Bachelor. Spin around. Profess your love. Now kiss him, for god’s sake.
But yeah, no. I don’t do any of that. I delete the email, get in my car, and leave.
chapter twenty-eight
JONAH
I guess, in a sense, Carlos was right, if only accidentally. Not about the grand gestures or the push-ups. But about the shitty part, where love punches a hole in you, and you’re lost, and you look at the world differently, and maybe, if you’re sensible, at yourself. And possibly even the push-ups, though I’m still not doing those.
But I did do a little introspection, and I found space. It was like I put a puzzle back together when my mom died, and somewhere along the way I got lazy, or negligent, and just left some of the pieces in the box. Maybe I figured it was close enough, like you could stand back and look at the puzzle and say Yeah, that’s probably Jonah . . . just don’t look too closely.
But when Max drove away and I realized that it was undoubtedly over between us, I think I lost another piece. And it must have been a corner piece or something, because the whole picture kind of fell apart. I didn’t expect her to forgive me. That wasn’t even the point. I meant what I wrote . . . I was there if she needed me, and that was it. I didn’t message her again after that day. That, at least, I did right.
But I had panic attacks. I spaced. I kept in contact with Imani and Dannie for updates about Max’s mom, but otherwise, I shut out the world. Even Carlos, who seemed to understand. I think I needed time to focus on that puzzle again. To shake up the box, pull all the pieces out, and rebuild Jonah Stephens.
So, long story short, that’s basically why I am sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of a tree. Kind of like a quasi-Buddha, except I’m wearing soccer shorts and a plaid button-down because I haven’t gotten to the fashion piece yet. The Japanese maple really is a beautiful tree. Squat and shapely and a deep, ruddy red, it’s also surrounded by a wall of round black stones that my sister built, and there is a little plaque set into the dirt in front of it, which reads:
In memory of Janice Stephens. “Take a moment. Take it in.”
She used to say that
all the time. Especially to me. She had lots of wise little sayings and good advice. I left those pieces out. But this tree and this plaque reminded me that I left out a whole lot of other memories too. Memories that I had stored away because they didn’t really involve me.
Mom and Olivia in their ridiculous plastic poker hats playing Uno every Saturday night. Mom and Olivia screaming madly at the TV during Jeopardy! with their hands poised on their imaginary buzzers. Mom and Olivia bringing whiteboards scribbled with idea webs and diagrams to their two-person book club. Mom and Olivia in the sunroom, sprawled out in the fading daylight, reading together because they didn’t want to part even for that solitary activity.
Olivia had a rough time growing up. Bullies and bad encounters. She didn’t have a lot of friends . . . even as a kid, she was brilliant and reclusive and, well, Olivia. She preferred to stay home. No sports. No real outside hobbies. It was a lot of her and Mom. A whole life of shared activities.
“Have you unlocked the mysteries of life yet?”
“Working on it.”
Kate steps up beside me, aerating the lawn with her heels. “Keep me apprised.”
“Talk to Dad this morning?”
“I did. He’s still on track for next week.”
“One more test, right?”
“Then it’s home sweet home,” she confirms. “We’ll do something nice for him.”
“Well, Olivia did build a pergola. We can just say that’s for him.”
She smiles. “True. How’s Max doing? Haven’t heard you talk about her in a little while.”
The name still has a kick to it. Not like Ashley’s. Hers was just a reminder of one bad night. Max reminds me of the lone bright spots in a bad couple of months, which is somehow worse. Her smile on a glowing screen. A playground close enough to Paris. Big blue words fading on my bedroom window.
And more than that, all the things I thought might follow. All the things that won’t. Turns out our story really was a lot like Arlo and Winter’s after all. I wasn’t there in her time of need. I ran away. And once this is over (if it is ever over), we won’t be reunited.
“Her mom is still in the hospital.”
“Well, give her my best.”
I feel a dry spot form in my throat but nod anyway. “I will.”
It’s silent for a moment, and I expect Kate to sweep back inside again. She stays.
“You’ve been sitting out here a lot.”
I lean back, digging my hands into the grass. The sun is beating down today, and I can feel it prickling the bridge of my nose. “Yeah. Olivia did a good job. Not that I am remotely surprised.”
I am very surprised when Kate sits down beside me. She’s in a freaking pantsuit.
“She sounds like she was a wonderful woman,” Kate says slowly, as if waiting for me to react. “Olivia was telling some stories during the memorial. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”
I do feel a twinge. A little voice that says, You wouldn’t have met her. But that voice is kind of an asshole, and it keeps causing trouble. I just nod. “You would have liked her.”
She kicks her heels off and sits cross-legged too. “I could have learned a thing or two. About trying to be . . . motherly. I wanted kids more than anything, you know. It just didn’t work out with Greg.”
“The surfer dude?”
She smiles thinly. “We didn’t break up because he wanted to surf, Jonah. He wanted to surf and travel the world . . . and not have kids. The rest I could have dealt with, but not that. We were going to have a family, but he changed his mind. So I left him.”
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I just turn back to the tree. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I wondered for a long time if I made the right choice. Love the person . . . hate the narrative. Do you just go with it because you love them and love conquers all and all that shit? I don’t know. And then I was so damn picky I didn’t remarry until your dad, and then, because life is indeed shit, it was too late for me. And your dad. He is an old fart now.”
“Can we skip this part?”
“Sure. Well, I love your dad, so it worked out, and I got two stepkids in the process. I was excited . . . and then one of them just put up with me and the other one truly hated me and I guess I figured I didn’t have the chops after all. And maybe I was lucky I never got my own.”
I glance at her. “Now I really feel like a dick.”
“We were both dicks.” She sighs. “But I was technically supposed to be the adult.”
“In fairness, you’ve kept us all sane and alive through six weeks of almost complete isolation. I would say that was pretty damn good parenting. And you only kicked me once.”
“That was an accident. But thank you.”
I hesitate. “And . . . maybe a little bit of my anger toward you was misdirected.”
“What do you mean?”
My eyes drift back to the memorial. “It all felt too soon,” I say finally, “you coming into the picture. But that wasn’t your fault. I was angry at Dad, but I was already down a parent. I . . . So I gave him a pass. I took it out on you.”
Kate is quiet for a moment. “I figured that might be part of it. It was fast.”
“But I should have talked to him. I’m sorry.”
“He should have talked to you. He still should. Both of you,” she says, leaning over to bump shoulders. “It’s too late to get rid of me, but it never hurts to talk things out. I know it can be tough with that man—”
“He’s almost too cheery sometimes, right?”
She laughs. “Absolutely.”
A breeze rustles the claret leaves, and I get the weird thought that Mom would have liked it here, sitting in front of her own living memorial. I’ve never gone back to her tombstone since the interment. It never felt like her anyway. Cold stone. A name and a couple of numbers that were too close together by fifty years at least. A thousand, if I had my way. And bouquets of cut flowers on either side, replaced every few weeks, living and dying in brief splashes of color.
But the tree will stay. It will, in fact, only grow.
“Did you see the paperwork I left out for you?” I ask.
“Already signed. You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely. Thanks, Kate.”
“Anytime.” She glances at me. “You know what Greg told me the last time I saw him?”
“What?”
“He said he loved me, but that he understood, and that he hoped I got my family, and my dream job—I was paying him alimony, so that made sense—and that he was sorry he changed.”
I think about that. “To be honest . . . he kind of seems like a nice guy.”
“He was. But I guess it takes more than that.”
We sit there for a while, until the sun slips behind some clouds, and go inside together.
* * *
• • •
I don’t know what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Or I didn’t, rather, until Kate decided to play Settlers of Catan with us tonight. The two most competitive people on the planet have squared off at the kitchen table, and I am caught in the middle, just trying to build a happy little village while two empires take shape around me. I’m kind of afraid.
Kate is staring at the board at the moment. Her left eye is twitching. “It’s the roads,” she whispers, sounding disconcertingly intense like she has since the moment we started. “You keep getting all the damn roads.”
I clear my throat. “Typically we try for like a one-minute shot clock—” She looks up at me, and I force a smile. “But take your time.”
Olivia looks outwardly relaxed, but I know she too is stressed. She’s not winning, at least, not cleanly, and at the moment it’s anyone’s game. Well, not mine. I am firmly in last.
I really must stop recommending this game.
> Kate rolls . . . and it’s a good one. She reaps the rewards and builds another city, and I think I see Olivia’s eye twitching now too. Kate only needs one more Victory Point to win.
I roll and collect a few logs and some iron ore like usual, which I use to do absolutely nothing because I am a poor and destitute villager. Olivia scans the board. Scans her cards. Scans the remaining pieces. She needs two Victory Points. She rolls and gets one.
Kate takes the dice, and fate, into her hands.
Both of Olivia’s eyes are twitching. Kate plots. Then she rolls. Then she reaps. And for a moment, it looks like she is just short of triumph.
But then the cards go down, a village is razed in the name of progress, and a new cobalt city arises in the desert, and one empire rules them all.
I look at Olivia. As far as I know, she has never lost anything. At least, not since she was little, playing Uno with Mom, and even then, I doubt she lost from the age of seven. And she just . . . sits there. She eyes the board, as if in disbelief, counting the ten Victory Points in her head.
Kate is grinning maniacally, almost sure to plunge the world into a new dark age. She says, “Good game, kids . . . let’s play again soon,” and then clacks out again to the theme song of her own percussive footsteps like a true conquering dictator. Olivia is still quiet.
“I fucking lost,” she says finally.
I sit there for a long moment. “Yeah.”
She puts her cards down, and for a second, I am terrified she is about to cry. Instead, she starts to clean the board, which she definitely doesn’t have to do because I was the clear loser. I help her, and we pack it up, and when she goes to stand, I stand with her.
And then I give her a hug.
She stiffens . . . and then she hugs me back. Fully this time, squeezing me tighter.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
I don’t mean the game, and I should probably say it, but I don’t have a clue how to apologize for two years of self-absorbed pity. Of not being there when my sister lost her mom and her best friend on the same day, and with her, an entire lifetime of pre-planned activities.
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