A Shot at Normal

by Marisa Reichardt

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The last time I was in a hospital, I was sick. Too sick to pay attention to the stark white walls and antiseptic smell. The odor crawls up my nostrils, making my stomach turn and my fingertips tingle as my mom catches up to me.

  Inside here, people are being born and dying.

  One day Baby Kat was born here and a few weeks later her parents brought her back, sick with the measles, and they didn’t get to bring her home again.

  Please let Nico be able to go home.

  We head to the information kiosk in the lobby, where a man with a shock of white hair and tiny round glasses tells us Nico’s on the third floor. He hands us bright yellow visitor stickers and directs us to the elevator doors.

  Mrs. Noble is talking to someone at the nurses’ station when the doors open on Nico’s floor. I rush to her.

  “Is he okay?” I ask breathlessly.

  “He is. He’s going to be fine, thanks to you.”

  “What a relief,” my mom says, exhaling. “I’m Juniper’s mom, Melinda,” she says, reaching out to shake Mrs. Noble’s hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Melinda. I’m Adriana.”

  My whole body decompresses with relief. “I was so worried.”

  “You poor thing,” Nico’s mom says, pulling me into a hug. She holds on tight, anchoring herself. “I’m so glad you were there,” she murmurs into my ear. “My greatest fear, aside from this actually happening, was that he’d be alone if it did.” She pulls away. Looks me in the eye. “Thank you.”

  “It was scary,” I blurt. There’s no reason to be anything other than honest. “But I’m glad I was there, too.”

  Nico’s mom turns to mine. “You have an amazing daughter.”

  My mom smiles. “I think so, too. But it’s always nice to hear it from someone else.”

  “I’ve been so impressed by her. She really goes after what she wants.”

  My backbone goes straight. If I’d been drinking water, I surely would’ve choked on it. Did Mrs. Noble say too much? Did she flat-out drop a hint? In my mind, she might as well have told my mom to expect a court notice in the mail any day now. But I guess it’s only obvious to me, because my mom seems to take the statement at face value, saying thank you and moving on.

  “Can I see Nico?” I ask, peeling the backing off the sticker and fastening it to the front pocket of my flannel. I probably should’ve changed clothes, but in the flurry of everything, I didn’t think to toss my dirt-stained shirt into the hamper.

  “Yes. I know he wants to see you,” Mrs. Noble says, leaning closer. “Between you and me, I think he’s afraid what happened might’ve scared you off.”

  “No way.”

  “Good.” She loops our arms together at the elbows and pats my hand. “How about I show you to his room and then maybe your mom and I can grab a cup of tea downstairs.” She turns to my mom. “What do you say, Melinda?”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Great.”

  Great? What will they talk about now?

  Mrs. Noble leads me down the hallway to Nico’s room, while my mom waits by the elevator.

  “Please don’t tell her about Laurel,” I say. “I can’t deal with that today.”

  “I would never say anything. You have my word.”

  “Okay. I trust you.”

  She knocks, then pushes open the door to Nico’s room. I run to his side. The swelling has gone down and he seems to be breathing fine without oxygen. But he still looks like he’s been through hell. The color in his face is still faded, almost gray, and his eyes don’t look as bright and excited as I’m used to seeing. They’re filled with something else. A mixture of fear and relief.

  “I’ll give you some time together,” Mrs. Noble says. “You’re good, right, honey?” she says to Nico.

  He gives her a thumbs-up. “Stellar.”

  “Love you.” She blows him a kiss as the door clicks shut behind her.

  I set his phone on the table by the bed. Grab his hand. “You look so much better.”

  “Sure. Aside from the hospital bed and the sick-person gown.”

  “Nah. Puke green is a good color on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I look around the room. “How long are you stuck here?”

  “They wanna keep me overnight for observation. Monitor stuff. It’s a whole thing.”

  “One night isn’t so bad.”

  He reaches for me and I sit down next to him.

  “Are you freaking out?” he asks. I can hear the worry in his voice. I can see it on his face.

  “Not even.”

  “You were freaking out on the cliffs when it happened.”

  “Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t? I was afraid you were going to…” I can’t finish the rest.

  “Die.”

  “Nico. I was worried. I already have Katherine St. Pierre on my conscience. I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” I brush the hair back from his forehead, and the warmth of his skin heats my fingertips. “But you’re fine. Look at you.” I realize I sound like my mom telling me I was fine after the measles. Dismissive. Because I wasn’t fine, and neither is Nico. These kinds of things can change a person forever. “I mean, you’re okay now. And hopefully it’ll never happen again.”

  “There’s no guarantee. Unless I walk around in a hazmat suit.”

  “That’d be kind of hot. Like a man in uniform.” I nudge him with my elbow. “I probably wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

  “Your hands wouldn’t be able to get onto me.”

  “I’d make it work.” I lean over him, and my hair slides down like a curtain around us. I press my forehead to his. “I care about you. So much.” I kiss his mouth. “Please wear a hazmat suit.”

  “Should I wear it to the Snow Ball?”

  I pull back. Crinkle my brow. “I thought dances were a hard pass.”

  “I changed my mind. I think I should go. I want to. With you.”

  “Are you sure? You’ll have to dress up. In a real suit.”

  “Positive. I think I can handle wearing a tie for one night.”

  “I can’t wait to see you in a tie.”

  I lie down next to him. Kiss him again. His mouth. His cheeks. His forehead. I pull his hand to my lips and kiss it right where the bee stung him.

  “You’re good at making things better,” he says.

  “I try.” I rest my head on his chest and look around the room. “So where’s the remote, then? We need to watch TV all day.”

  “Ah. So the truth comes out. You’re using me for my tiny hospital room television.” He laughs and I love feeling the rumble of it underneath my ear.

  “Never.”

  He kisses the top of my head. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  “Okay, then. Maybe a little.” I kick my feet excitedly as he hands me the remote. “Ooh, maybe we can watch that ice movie you were talking about.”

  “That ice movie? Call it by its name, please. You know I have high standards.” He laughs into my hair. “Say it with me: The Ice Storm.”

  I poke him. “You’re my favorite film snob.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mimi and Bumpa arrived last night while I was at the hospital with Nico, so by the time Mrs. Noble dropped me off at home, they were already heading to bed, exhausted from their drive down from Sacramento.

  I’m happy to see them now, bringing their good vibes to our house.

  On Thanksgiving mornings, we usually pile into the car together to serve food at a local soup kitchen, but my mom is hesitant today, worrying nobody will want us serving food to anyone anywhere. I don’t disagree. But my dad insists.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” he says through gritted teeth. “I refuse to be a prisoner in my own town.”

  His conviction doesn’t exactly make me feel better.

  “But it’s Thanksgiving,” my mom says. “It’s an especially bad day to make a scene.”

  My dad stands f
irm. “That’s everyone else’s problem, not mine.”

  “What’s going on?” Mimi asks as she fastens her watch around her wrist. “Why is this even a big deal? We do this every year no matter where we are.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom,” my dad says.

  “I have a right to know if you’re about to feed me to the wolves,” she says, clipping on her earrings.

  “There are no wolves,” my dad says. “Just a bunch of people who can’t keep their noses out of everybody else’s business.”

  Bumpa laughs. “Sounds like all your friends,” he says to Mimi.

  She gives him a playful swat. “Oh, you.”

  Mimi and Bumpa don’t know the half of it. They’ve always been only mildly supportive of my dad’s beliefs and the way he’s chosen to live. As far as they know, my sister, brother, and I got sick with the measles a few months ago and got well. They don’t know about the scarlet A or the angry mobs or the online videos. I wonder what they’d say if they knew. Maybe I should tell Mimi the whole story. I just don’t think Thanksgiving Day is the right time to do it.

  It’s ultimately decided that my mom will stay home with Poppy and Sequoia and I’ll go to the community center with my dad, Mimi, and Bumpa.

  Things are already a rush of activity when we arrive. There are cooking stations and checklists and tables being set. I barely get my latex serving gloves on when one of the women running the meal prep sends me out back to help carry in supplies that have arrived with drivers. My stomach clenches when I see that one of the drivers is Mary, donating vegetables from her farm. Will more food come from farmers market booths? And if so, will everyone be cool with my family being here?

  “Juniper!” Mary takes a cautious step away from me. “Hello.”

  “I’m here to help you unload.” I’m matter of fact. No niceties. Mary doesn’t want them and I don’t want to give them.

  “No need,” she says. “I’ve got it.”

  “There’s a lot to carry in and we’re in a time crunch. Just let me help.”

  She rakes her eyes across my latex gloves. “You’re not contagious with anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You thought you were good before you realized you had the measles, too. Who’s to say you’re not harboring some new illness today? Maybe having you serve food isn’t the best idea. Perhaps we should talk to someone.” She looks toward the back door to the kitchen for help. “I’m sure we can put you somewhere that you aren’t handling food.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’m fine. It’s an important event and I want to help.”

  “I guess carrying my boxes in can’t hurt.” She wrestles with the door handle. Looks over her shoulder at me. “This stubborn old van.”

  The door finally creaks open.

  Mary’s van doesn’t have any seats aside from the two in front, so it’s practically packed to the ceiling with cardboard boxes full of regular potatoes and sweet potatoes and romaine lettuce and tomatoes. It’s a generous donation, and I tell her so.

  “Just grab whatever?” I ask, and she nods warily.

  We go back and forth from the van to the kitchen, where Mimi and others are waiting to peel and dice what we bring in. It takes us a few trips since there’s only two of us. When I try to grab the last box, it’s stuck in the back. I jiggle it, trying to slide it out. I give it a hard pull to loosen it. Whatever was keeping it in place comes tumbling out of the door and lands by my foot. I bend over. Pick it up. Turn it over in my hand. It’s a can of red spray paint. Scarlet. Like the A on our front door.

  I want to believe Mary used it for something else. A DIY project or the homemade banner of her farmers market booth. But that would make me a fool.

  And I’m not a fool.

  Mary yanks the can from my hand and throws it into the back of the van, where it bounces loudly against the metal floor. “Too much stuff in there.” She pats her hands around her apron, flustered.

  “It was you,” I say.

  She looks down at the ground. Some strands of gray hair fall loose from her ponytail. “What was me?”

  “You know.” I can never tell my mom. She thought Mary was her friend. It would crush my mom to know Mary vandalized our house. Like a high school bully all over again. “Why?”

  Mary shifts from one foot to the other, looking desperately at the others arriving at the community center. More cars delivering food. Nuns carrying in pies. A family dropping off bottles of water.

  “You met the baby at my booth.”

  Realization dawns. “You feel responsible.”

  Mary nods. “She was exposed to the measles on my watch. I told her mom to nurse her in my chair under my canopy shade.”

  “But you couldn’t have stopped that baby from getting sick. You didn’t know I had the measles any more than I did.”

  “And I’ll have to live with that forever.”

  “You will? How do you think I feel?”

  “I hope you feel terrible.” She narrows her eyes until it feels like they’re cutting right into me, leaving a scar. “I did this town a service by painting that A on your front door. I did it to tell everyone who you were so that maybe I could stop what happened to that baby from happening to someone else.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “I did what I had to do. On your door and on Facebook. So don’t you forget it.”

  “I can’t forget!” I lower my voice when my shout stops people in their tracks. “I think about Katherine St. Pierre every day. I don’t agree with my parents’ anti-vax stance.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I want to be vaccinated, Mary.”

  “Oh.”

  I look at her hard. “But guess what? Sixteen-year-old girls don’t get a whole lot of say about things in this world.”

  She shakes her head. “Juniper.” Her voice is softer.

  I put my hand up. “Don’t.”

  She nods. “Understood.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving.” I pick up the one remaining box. “And it looks like this is the last of it.”

  She shuts the door behind me. Locks it.

  “I’m sorry,” Mary says. “I hope you get what you want.”

  I don’t turn around. An apology can’t wash away the fact that she vandalized my house and made my family feel unsafe. I’ll always know what she did.

  And so will she.

  Lunch goes by in a rush, as a long line of people pass through the community center for a hot meal and a slice of pie. Mimi and I are on mashed potato duty, putting two round scoops on each plate. My dad washes dishes in the back. And Bumpa greets people at the door because he’s friendly like that.

  There are families and veterans. Single moms and teenagers. A girl who reminds me of Poppy because she has a box of colored pencils shoved into her pocket. And a little boy who reminds me of my brother with his curly hair and long eyelashes. I wonder if he likes dragons as much as Sequoia. When our food shift is over, my grandparents and I walk around, stopping at tables to say hello and passing out bottled waters. Some want to chat, while others want to be left alone. I listen to those who want to share stories.

  In the evening, after we’ve cleaned up and locked the doors behind us, we drive back to join my mom, Poppy, and Sequoia for Thanksgiving dinner at home.

  The house smells delicious when we walk in, like pungent garlic and the sharp bite of onion. Like spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Like real butter and cream. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and I’m so glad to be back.

  Because I have here.

  I have home.

  For now.

  My whole family sits at the table, passing dishes, sharing what makes them thankful.

  My dad is thankful for family.

  My mom is thankful for love.

  Poppy is thankful for books.

  Sequoia is thankful for nature.

  Mimi is thankful to be here.

  Bumpa is thankful there wasn’t too much traffic on the drive down.

  I’m thankful Nico
is okay after his beesting.

  I tell my family about him asking me to the Snow Ball. Mimi claps excitedly and bounces in her chair.

  “Oh, please let me take you shopping for your dress.” She turns to my mom. “May I, Melinda? My treat.”

  “That would be lovely and generous. Thank you, Mimi.”

  “Tomorrow,” Mimi says. “This is going to be so much fun!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As it nears sunset on Saturday, about two weeks later, I’m all done up for the Snow Ball dance. Hair. Nails. Jewelry. Makeup. Poppy and my mom fussed over me like a beauty pageant contestant—minus the sash—all afternoon, knowing just the look I was going for.

  I knew the sleeveless long black sheath dress was the right one as soon as I stepped out of the fitting room and Mimi pressed her hands to her cheeks and gasped, “Oh, my goodness, you look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Classic and sophisticated.”

  Even though I’d never seen the movie, I knew who Holly Golightly was and what Audrey Hepburn looked like playing her. I was sure Nico would, too. Her look was polished. Chic. Iconic. I couldn’t imagine getting anywhere near that. But when Mimi twisted my hair up and fastened it with a clip from her purse, then unhooked the pearls from her own neck to wrap them around mine, I saw it. The gloves we added pulled the whole look together.

  “I think you have a new talent,” I told my sister when she twisted my hair up to look like Audrey’s again today. She even managed to make it stay in place. Coconut oil might’ve played a part. I didn’t ask.

  When the doorbell rings, my whole family rushes to the living room. Even Sequoia. My dad snaps a photo of me opening the door to Mrs. Noble and Nico, who’s wearing a fitted charcoal-gray suit and a tie. I wait for him to fidget with his collar to remind me of how much he hates dressing up, but he doesn’t. Instead he stands there, looking tall and sleek and gorgeous, clutching a plastic box containing a corsage of ivory roses.

  “Oh no! I don’t have a flower for you.” I turn to my mom. “Aren’t I supposed to have one of those things to pin to his suit?”

  “A boutonniere.” She smiles. “Your sister has it covered.”