Miss You Love You Hate You Bye

by Abby Sher

  “No no no no no no no,” Tata yelled. She swatted his hands away and refastened the cap. “Stop that, ya big jerk.”

  “You stop that, ya big jerk,” Gus replied, swatting her back. They got into this little slappy fight and Gus let loose with one of his hyena-like giggles again. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that in such a long time. It did feel pretty spectacular to see his eyes flashing with giddy mischief. But I also had a job to do—which was protect Mom’s convalescence and keep it quiet up here.

  “Gus. Please?” I said. “Can you just keep it down because Mom really needs her rest.”

  “Gotcha.” Tata gave me a thumbs-up and a wink. I wanted to tell her we weren’t buds, but honestly, I was jealous of how much fun they were having and how Tata’s sunny grin somehow made my stupor even darker. I turned to leave.

  “Wait. Hank!” said Gus. “Remember Gusaletta?”

  “Um, yeah.” He hadn’t spoken about his alter ego in so long. I felt like he was taking out a precious relic to show us. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and break his trust. “I loved Gusaletta,” I said. “I miss her. Or him. Or…”

  “See?” Gus laughed. Tata was chuckling now too. “I told you. I’ve always been at least partly fabulous.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t,” Tata told him. “I just said you needed to embrace your fabulousness more.” She turned to me for backup. “Am I right?”

  “Sure,” I answered. “Be fabulous.”

  Gus beamed. “And what was your name?” he asked me. “Madame Snorkelbutt?”

  “I dunno.”

  “No, Archduke!” Gus yelped. “Archduke Snorkelbutt! And you wore Mom’s mirrored goggles and those crazy Hawaiian shorts of Dad’s. They came up to your armpits!”

  Tata was full-on cracking up now.

  “My dad was a big man,” I said. “And he liked bright colors.” It felt like I should defend him in some way.

  “So I heard,” Tata said. “Sounds awesome.”

  I wanted to be mad at Gus for sharing those memories with a total stranger. But then again, they were his memories too. And Tata actually looked like the one person who could appreciate those long-ago moments almost as much as we could. I felt my eyes filling up again and the back of my neck prickling. Because I had no one special to share those memories with, and I had no one to trust my alter ego with, and I had no one who could understand all that I was losing.

  I really had to get out of this bathroom before I fragmented into a million sobbing pieces.

  Gus grabbed me as I turned to go though. He drew me into a hug and whispered, “That took balls.”

  It was hot and there was so much ammonia and hair dye in there, but I wanted to stay in that embrace for the rest of the century.

  “Thanks,” I squeaked.

  As I closed the door behind me, I heard Tata singing softly:

  “Clean up, clean up, everybody clean up

  I help you and you help me!”

  It was the song Gus and I sang when we were little.

  Hold my hand, please.

  Always know I love you truly.

  No one has your patience, brilliance, or piano skizills.

  Not to mention your awesome hair.

  After this is all done I don’t know who I’ll be exactly, but I

  Hope I can be a great friend to you.

  CHAPTER 20

  prelude in c

  I was outside the Toobeys’ house the following Wednesday afternoon when I got the call from Travis.

  “I just wanted to tell you that Zoe’s intake process is done,” he reported. “And I … I…” He drew in a jagged breath and then stuttered into silence. I really didn’t want him to start crying on the phone.

  “Thank you so much for telling me,” I broke in.

  “No, thank you,” he replied.

  “Sure. Okay.”

  I still had a mountain of unanswered questions—like had he decided on the clinic in New York City that looked like a spa with bubbling fountains and all-white furniture or the one outside of Philadelphia with pictures of girls holding hands in circles? Had Alli ever come out of her narcissistic cocoon to help? Was there screaming, clawing, wailing? And how was Meowsers after his Ritalin overdose?

  Actually, forget that. I really couldn’t care less about that cat. Which maybe makes me a bad person. But it’s the truth.

  “I guess she hates us both now,” said Travis.

  “No no no,” I protested. But I couldn’t even convince myself. I didn’t want to pretend that I had any insights or promises. There were too many things I just didn’t know, especially about the future.

  “Well, maybe,” I added in a quieter voice. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? No. What are you sorry for?” Travis asked.

  “Right. I’m not sorry. I’m just sad for all the pain and difficulty and everything.”

  “You have been a great friend to my daughter.”

  “Ha! I don’t know about that. I mean, I knew something was wrong and then I didn’t say anything. And then I did say something, but it wasn’t the right something. Or … I don’t know.”

  Travis just let me ramble until I had nothing else to say. For a minute, I thought he’d hung up on me, but then I heard his breath, stilted and uneven.

  “Hey, Hank?” he rumbled into the phone. “We’re all doing the best we can, y’know?”

  “Yeah,” I heard myself squeak. There was no flirtatious wink or croony chorus to go with these words, but somehow I wanted to curl up and go to sleep inside the quiet acceptance Travis had just given me.

  “Well.” Travis cleared his throat. “I should get going. Just wanted to touch base.”

  “Thank you. Yes. And I have to get going too.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Well, just know, if you need anything. You have my number.”

  “Yeah, same here,” I said. I wondered if Travis had anyone else to talk to about this. I vaguely remembered him having a younger brother and a strained relationship with his dad, but that was about it. The thought of me meeting with Zoe’s dad in a café to chat about our feelings sounded highly illegal and unkosher though. Travis cleared his throat again and thanked me at least three more times before hanging up.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever hear from or see him again. Which shouldn’t have meant diddly to me, but he had been a fixture in my life for so long. I hadn’t realized until now that I was saying goodbye to so many faces besides Zoe’s.

  * * *

  As I walked into the Toobeys’, I heard Arabesque No. 1 being played the way it was supposed to sound. The notes soaring and dipping as if on a lyrical trapeze. It was Mrs. Toobey on the piano bench. With accompaniment by Mr. Toobey, who hovered over her, humming. Clutching tightly on to the side of the piano, as if it were holding him up.

  I didn’t want to go into the room without being invited, but there was literally no place for me to sit in the living room. Mr. Toobey must have worked furiously over the course of the past week. There were at least a dozen new canvases leaning against different surfaces—a coffee table, a wooden chair, a walker. They weren’t all bananas and bloodied soldiers either, which was a relief. These images were calmer—sunsets and mountain ridges. A lake fading into the horizon. A rowboat with two fuzzy figures leaning in toward each other—just like on my Debussy book jacket.

  “Left your book here!” Mrs. Toobey shouted over the music without missing a note. “Come on over. We’ll play it together.”

  “That’s my Roslyn!” Mr. Toobey told me gleefully. He nodded his head and waved me over, but I wouldn’t move. I waited in the doorway until the final chord progression floated out and disappeared. Watching Mrs. Toobey’s weathered hands lift off the keys, levitating for a moment in the afterglow, and then dropping into her lap.

  Mr. Toobey clapped and stomped his feet like a preschooler.

  “I told you!” he yelled. “Bravo! Encore!”

  Mrs. Toobey gave a quiet smile. Then she scooted
herself away from the keyboard and stood up, waddling over to me.

  “What’s up?” she said, tipping her head back so we could meet eye to eye. Or eye to nostril. I tried not to gawk at her dark nose hairs.

  “I’m just … I’m just having trouble.” I faltered.

  “You want to switch back to Saturdays instead? I kept your old time open,” Mrs. Toobey said.

  “No. I mean, no, thank you. I mean, I think I have to take a break. At least for now. It’s too much.”

  “What’s too much?”

  “All of it. It’s all just too much. I have all this homework and all these tests and pretty soon I’ll be doing college applications too and now my best friend’s in a clinic. Although I can’t call her my best friend anymore because she hates me. And then my mom broke her ankle and I just…”

  I knew my voice was grating and Mom’s fracture had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Did you hear my Roslyn play yet?” Mr. Toobey asked us both.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Toobey and I answered in unison.

  Then she turned back to me. Nodding solemnly while she chewed the inside of her cheek. She did not seem mad, just concerned. She took both my hands and sealed them between hers. As if she were holding me together. Maybe she was.

  “First of all,” she said, “thank you for telling me some of your feelings and I can appreciate that you have a lot going on right now. That must be very challenging. However—” She paused here and padded over to one of the windowsills shrouded in spider plants. There was a wooden cabinet underneath, the knobs bound together by a thick rubber band that she yanked off. As the doors popped open, a pile of music books slid out. She picked out what she needed and shoved the rest back in, then bounded back over to me with her selections. Her caftan was swishing so fast against her thighs, I thought she might catch fire.

  “I do not accept your resignation,” she declared.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she dumped the chosen books on top of one of her Steinways and ushered me toward the bench.

  “Sit,” she commanded. Then squeezed her ample tush in next to mine.

  “Now, the closest thing to hip-hop I could find was this Billy Joel medley from a few years ago,” she said, handing me a pamphlet of sheet music. “I can also order you something more hip-hoppy if you give me a more dynamic description—”

  “Yeah, I don’t need that anymore.”

  “But I want you to be playing music that excites you,” she told me. “Can you show me an example, maybe on your iPhone 5000?”

  I wondered what she’d say if I showed her the Pussycat video. I shook my head to clear away that thought.

  “It was just—”

  Her eyes blinked and fluttered. I watched the flecks of rhinestones in the corners of her cat-eye glasses, catching every last ray of sun from this day and scattering them across her wooden floor. I wanted to be this woman so badly. She was clear, strident, and determined. She devoted her life to sharing these sacred vibrations, often composed hundreds of years ago.

  “To be honest, it was never my idea to begin with,” I admitted.

  She cocked her head to one side, trying to understand.

  “I don’t know what a hip-hop ballad is either,” I added.

  “Well, then!” Mrs. Toobey took that information in and leapt up from the bench on a mission. She started scrutinizing all the music she’d taken out. Licking the tip of her stubby pointer finger and riffling through the pages.

  “Let’s tackle something loud. Whaddaya say?” She didn’t actually need me to agree. Most of Mrs. Toobey’s questions were rhetorical. “Now I do think you have a great articulation of Chopin, and you have those lovely long fingers. Ooh, no, I know what!”

  She kept opening up new tomes, snapping the spines or taking miniature busts of Beethoven and Mozart to keep the pages open.

  “Listen,” she told me. “I’m going to play a few of these for you, and when I get to something you like, you just yell. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  For the next half hour, Mrs. Toobey reeled through concertos and études. Cracking open new books and new sounds and minor chords that I never knew existed before. Sometimes she leaned into the keys and mined the faintest tones. Other times she sprang off the wooden bench and landed on the notes, splaying her fingers so wide I thought they’d pop out of their sockets. Mr. Toobey stayed glued to his spot by her side the whole time, singing along and swaying. Often reminding me that his Roslyn was going to Juilliard.

  The piece I chose was Prelude in C-sharp Minor by a Russian composer named Rachmaninoff. It was complicated and stormy. With chords that used all ten of my fingers at once.

  “Aha!” Mrs. Toobey said with a wide grin. She even pumped her fist in victory. “I knew you’d like that one.”

  “But is that crazy?” I asked. “Will it take me forever to learn?’

  “And so what if it does?” she replied. “You in some kind of rush?”

  “I guess not,” I said. “Not that I know of.”

  There were no other places where I needed to be and no more fires to put out. Which broke my heart but also gave me so much more room to breathe and listen.

  And, hopefully, get louder.

  Hank!

  Yes, this is the saddest invitation in the history of tears.

  Boring, pitiful, pathetic, stupid, with a side of burdensome.

  But here goes.

  Next weekend we’re having a Circle of Support meeting and everyone here is allowed to invite one or two people to come.

  I was wondering if … drumroll, please … you would be that one person for me.

  Would you could you maybe sorta kinda?

  I think it’s an hour drive. And the meeting itself takes an hour.

  I’m not even completely sure why I’m asking.

  If you can’t do it, that’s fine. Or if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.

  Either way, I just wanted you to know you’re the only one I really want to invite.

  Yours till the banana splits!

  Xoxo, Z

  Oh yeah, the details are on that other card.

  * * *

  YOU’RE INVITED!

  WHERE:

  THE CEDAR KNOLLS REHABILITATION CENTER (AND PENITENTIARY)

  WHEN:

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3, AT 1 P.M.

  WHY:

  WHAT ELSE DO YOU HAVE TO DO? (BESIDES EVERYTHING)

  BLACK TIE IS OPTIONAL.

  REFRESHMENTS WILL BE SERVED BUT THEY WILL NOT BE REFRESHING.

  SPOILER ALERT:

  THERE WILL BE NO BOUNCY HOUSE.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 21

  the flight of the mourning doves

  When I came home from piano, it was loamy and cool. The sun holding on by just a few pinkish threads. Mom was weeding out the wilted marigolds and planting tulip bulbs in our front yard. As soon as she heard me pull into the driveway, she scrambled up onto her crutches as if she’d just won the MegaBucks lottery, bounding toward the car.

  “H to the A to the N to the K!” she cheered, waggling her hips from side to side and doing some weird ripply move with her neck that must’ve been cool a few decades ago.

  “Hey,” I said, getting out of the car. “Are you sure that’s doctor approved?”

  “Ha!” Mom scoffed, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Follow-up appointment isn’t till tomorrow. In the meantime though, wanna see something amazing?” Without waiting for an answer, she gave my wrist a squeeze and then catapulted herself toward a runty-looking bush at the side of our house.

  “Voilà!” Mom cried. “Le Hanukkah bush!”

  It was a little fir tree sapling that my kindergarten teacher sent home with me on winter break. Apparently I’d told her that I was Jewish, so she could give it to someone else, but she’d insisted. And so we’d planted it and called it a Hanukkah bush. I used to feed it lots of fertilizer and check on its soil every day, but I’d tapered off a few years ago.
It was still looking more like a straggly ball of foliage than a tree.

  “Check it out,” Mom said proudly. “It’s an early Hanukkah miracle!”

  She stuck her booted foot out in front of her and plopped down on her butt. Then she pointed to a small nest tucked into the branches. There was a crescent of shell left on the ground that she picked up to hand to me. It was as thin as paper but held so many pearly swirls of color.

  I had forgotten that Mom was tracking the birds’ progress over the summer. She’d determined from their calls that they were mourning doves. They staked out the bush late in July and gathered all their nesting fibers only to get sideswiped by a series of harsh August storms. Mom had come out each day after the winds had calmed and left out bowls of sunflower seeds and fresh water. Now the nest looked as orderly and intact as a nest could be, according to my untrained eye. And Mom was beaming.

  “I even saw one of the little guys practicing his moves this morning,” she told me. “Before they took off.”

  “Nice job,” I said.

  “Bah, it was all them,” she answered. “I mean, I’ve been out here for hours watching them primp and pluck each other. There’s so much to do when you’re a bird. And then the sad thing is I read they only last a year or so. And they’re migrating most of that time unless they live in the South.”

  “Wow, I guess you really are going buggy being home, huh? How much time do you need to be homebound?”

  “Ha!” Mom climbed back up and blew the hair out of her face. “Actually, I chose to take the week off. I think it’s exactly what I needed. What we needed.”

  I spun my head around so quickly I could hear my neck crack. There was no sign of Elan’s moped or Subaru in the driveway. No wafting hints of his next seitan-garlic spectacular on the grill.

  Mom intercepted my gaze. And I guess my thoughts too. “I mean you and me,” she clarified. “It’s been a while, huh? I mean, I have an entire pile of Sunday crosswords that are untouched on my night table.”