I keep glancing at the place on his shirt where my hand was, as if a piece of myself was left there and I can’t decide if I want to take it back. That sliver of myself could go missing, lodged in a sidewalk crack or left in a cold, abandoned building.
No more than twenty minutes into the two-hour session, Luca starts shifting in his seat.
“Are you OK?” I whisper.
“Fine. Totally fine. This stuff is fascinating,” he says, holding his eyes open. “Who knew you’re supposed to stop at a red light? Or use a turn signal? Or wear your seat belt? Consider my mind blown.”
Five minutes later he says, “OK, I’m dying, Wren. I need you.”
The teacher coughs, signaling for both of us to pay attention.
“For what?” I whisper.
Luca scoots his chair closer to me and starts scribbling in his notebook. He passes it to me, pointing to the question he’s written at the top of the page.
Pick a letter?
Underneath he has drawn a hangman.
Of all the games he could have chosen, Luca picks one shockingly similar to Wheel of Fortune, making him feel even more familiar.
When I don’t give a letter instantly, he becomes more insistent, this pleading, pathetic look on his face. I write down the letter T.
The puzzle has two Ts.
Luca taps the paper impatiently.
“What happened to waiting?” I whisper.
He gestures to the hangman. “This is clearly life or death, Wren.”
I write a letter S.
He draws a circle for a head on the hangman and smirks.
I write an E.
Luca fills in one space with the letter E, but the puzzle isn’t filled in enough to solve. The letter R gets a stick body added to the hangman’s head. I grunt, annoyed.
“Now you know how I feel,” Luca whispers. “When you want something, but you can’t quite get it.”
I carry on as if his statement doesn’t send me spinning, twirling, thinking, wanting. My hangman is already gaining body parts. I can’t let him die. The puzzle is barely filled in.
___ ___ ___ ___ / ___ ___ ___ / ___ ___ / ___ ___ T / ___ ___ T ___ / ___ E?
My next choice is O. My hangman lives on.
___ ___ ___ ___ / ___ O ___ / ___ O / O ___ T / ___ ___ T ___ / ___ E?
The next two letters are giveaways—Y and U—and the phrase starts to take more shape.
___ ___ ___ ___ / Y O U / ___ O / O U T / ___ ___ T ___ / ___ E?
My next two guesses are C, which gains the hangman an arm, and M. Another space is filled. The answer is so close I can feel it. My next guess is L.
___ ___ L L / Y O U / ___ O / O U T / ___ ___ T ___ / M E?
The solution comes to me so quickly, I don’t have time to think before it tumbles out of my mouth, too loudly to take back.
“Will you go out with me!”
The class goes silent. The kind of silent that actually has a sound, like too much pressure in your ears.
A grin is plastered to Luca’s face.
“Well, if you insist,” he says.
The entire class looks at us. Mr. Angry Driver’s Ed Teacher crosses his arms over his large belly.
“Wait. What?” I say, confused.
“Are you two done with this ridiculous display of teenage hormones?” the teacher asks.
“Yes,” Luca says. “Sorry, sir. Proceed. What were you just saying about the gear shift? The P stands for ‘Park’? Captivating. What an inspiration to teach such riveting material.” When the teacher starts up again, Luca whispers, “Sorry. I guess I failed the Marshmallow Test, but whatever, marshmallows are delicious. I don’t need two of you. One is perfect.”
His posture has shifted. He’s rejuvenated.
“My grandma was right about one thing, and that rarely happens these days. Staying awake in Driver’s Ed can lead to positive changes in my life.”
I’m glad he sees it that way. I, on the other hand, am drowning. It’s hard to breathe. I’ve never been on a date before. I’ve never even kissed anyone. Not a peck or a smooch or a passing, accidental cheek kiss. What have I done?
When we’re dismissed, Luca stands and says, “I’ll pick you up at seven. Tomorrow. Wear something comfortable.”
“Tomorrow?” I snap.
Gracefully, he slings his backpack on, smooth and easy, like everything else Luca does. I can’t move.
“What about all that talk of being patient?” I ask. “Waiting for me to come to you?”
“Leia says we need to be the change we want to see. I want to be with you, so I’m making that change happen.”
“Why?” The question slips out in a whimper. “You barely know me.”
“Why does that matter, Wren? We all start out as strangers. Even love grows from a state of loneliness.”
He turns to leave, and I say, “Make it eight.” Chief will be at work then, and I won’t have to explain myself.
“I guess waiting one more hour won’t kill me.”
As he rides down the street, I see the piece of my heart dangling off his T-shirt and catching the breeze as Luca sails over the concrete beneath his board. I’m hanging on by a thread. One wrong move and the sliver of me Luca carries will be cut free, only to get caught in the air and drift away. And yet I’m not reaching out to take it back.
My choice has been made.
He can have me.
16
MIRROR IMAGE
The carousel ride is just coming to a stop when Baby Girl sees me approach.
“Be mindful exiting the ride,” she says into the microphone when the cheerful music-box tune has stopped. “Remember what Gandhi said. ‘If we all just stopped stepping on each other’s feet, our shoes would last longer.’ Have a beautiful day in the great city of Spokane. Namaste.”
She’s still dressed in her bathrobe, her aura of eggplant purple intact.
“Don’t you get sick of this music?” I ask her. “It’s the same annoying tune over and over again.”
“It’s symbolic.”
“Of what?”
“Life,” she says. “You want a ride?”
“No, thanks.” I’m nauseous enough as it is, and time is ticking. Every second brings me closer to tomorrow night, and Luca.
“Have you ever been on a date?”
“What kind of date?”
“There are different kinds?”
“Of course. There’s a friendly date, a hookup date, a ‘get drunk and have sex’ date, a ‘get high and watch Netflix date’ . . . and then there’s a date-date.”
“How can you tell if it’s a date-date?”
“It’s a night you’ll never forget. That’s why you remember the date.”
“I think I have a date-date tomorrow,” I say pathetically. “I don’t even know what to wear.”
Lizzie should be here. I don’t want to be mad at her, because anger never brings anyone home, but I can’t seem to stop it.
“Will you help me?” I ask Baby Girl.
“I’m no help. I’ve never been on that kind of a date.” She walks back to the carousel. “Sorry, Wren, the ride must continue.”
“Please!” I blurt out. “After all, Martin Luther King Jr. said ‘help’ is a four-letter word. Imagine what would happen if people spoke of help instead of shit.”
“He didn’t say that.” But she stops. “I can come over after my shift tomorrow. It ends at four.”
“Thank you.”
Baby Girl starts the carousel for a new set of riders. And the music plays on.
Impression, Sunrise, 1872
Dear Songbird,
Did you know a critic used the word “impressionist” to ridicule Monet about this painting? But did Monet change his art? No.
He stayed true to his heart and forced the world to start seeing through different eyes.
I love you,
Lizzie
Wren Plumley
20080 21st Ave.
Spokane, WA 99203
“What about Lizzie’s closet?” Baby Girl suggests.
She drags me down the hallway to Lizzie’s room. I haven’t spent much time there since she left. Without Lizzie there, trees that used to feel real don’t so much anymore.
The late-afternoon sun comes through the window, casting a warm glow on the forest and sky. It almost looks like it’s daytime in the perpetual night painted on Lizzie’s walls.
Baby Girl rummages around Lizzie’s closet as I run my hands over the painted trees. We’re the only two people in the house right now. Chief is at the gym.
I didn’t tell him about my date. Boys are not a part of the routine. Chief would ask questions. He might even call out of work just to meet Luca, and while he wouldn’t be in uniform, he’s always wearing a gun. And a mustache.
“Let’s see what Lizzie left behind,” Baby Girl says, throwing clothes on the floor and ordering me to try them on. But I can’t seem to. The pile grows and grows, but I know I won’t find anything for me among Lizzie’s secondhand clothes.
Instead I lie down in the hammock. The room still smells like Lizzie, like sunshine in the twilight. But there’s something wrong with the room now, and it’s not just that Lizzie isn’t here. I can’t quite figure out what it is.
“Do you think she’s going to come home?” I ask Baby Girl. My question makes her pause, a pair of cutoff shorts and a flowery, flowing shirt in her hands. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that.”
Baby Girl sits down on the floor next to me. It’s as if we’re lost in the woods at night. Even the carpet feels like grass beneath us.
“We never know anything for certain,” Baby Girl says.
“Who said that?”
“Me.”
“You’re wiser than you think.”
The starry sky above me feels inaccurate now. I’ve spent time staring at the stars from my perch on the roof, and looking at the ones I painted, and I wonder if I ever saw stars properly until Lizzie left.
Baby Girl gently rocks me side to side, like the wind does to the trees, like a mother does to a baby. The movement is so habitual, I know she must have done this many times to Lizzie.
“You have two options, Wren,” Baby Girl says. She gestures to the woods around us. “Seek or surrender.”
“Meaning?”
“Hope you’re going to find something out there, or stay scared of what might exist.”
“I kind of like you as a Buddhist,” I say.
“I don’t know . . .” Baby Girl examines her worn-out bathrobe. “I’m not so sure I’m cut out for it. It was comfortable for a while.”
“What will you be next?”
“I haven’t decided.” She holds Lizzie’s flowing top up to her own torso.
I don’t know if Baby Girl tries on different personas because she doesn’t know who she is or because she’s afraid to be herself. Her dad pushed and prodded and squashed the person she was, made her think she wasn’t good enough, until one day Baby Girl vanished. Ever since, she’s been searching for a person to be who’s worth loving. And that I understand.
“Take it,” I say. “Take all of it.”
“Seriously?”
Baby Girl exchanges her bathrobe for Lizzie’s top and a pair of cutoffs, shedding an old personality for a new one right before my eyes. She makes it look so easy, but maybe that’s why none of them sticks. If being yourself were as comfortable as Buddhism, everyone would do it.
Baby Girl checks herself in the mirror that hangs in the closet. Her aura changes to a different shade of purple. This time it’s mauve.
“It fits you perfectly,” I say.
With Baby Girl dressed in Lizzie’s clothes, here in Lizzie’s room, for a brief second our house feels like it used to. Like love just walked in and took a seat on the floor next to me.
What was so wrong with my and Chief’s love that Lizzie left? Sure, it wasn’t always obvious. Sometimes we had to dig in the couch cushions in search of it, where it hid among the coins and lost hair bands. Maybe sometimes it was dressed in yelling and cursing and crying. But if a person looked closely, felt between the cracks, a sliver of love could be pulled free.
A person doesn’t walk away from love unless it hurts too much to stay.
That’s how it was with our mom. We were too small to remember her when she left, so instead of missing a mom who chose to leave us, Lizzie and I created a person we needed—a person so extraordinary, our small life couldn’t contain her. Her only option was to leave.
But a person feels what’s missing, even when it’s something she can’t remember.
And Lizzie? What was her pain? I thought I knew it all because we shared the same story, but I’m starting to think there’s more—more she didn’t tell me.
“Maybe you could be my sister,” I say to Baby Girl. “For your next persona. Just try it on while Lizzie’s gone. Since the clothes fit and all.”
And after a moment Baby Girl says, “OK. Tell me what Lizzie would do.”
So I tell Baby Girl about the game we’d play, imagining all the places our mom could be and all the things she could be doing instead of being with us.
“Like in Doctors Without Borders, somewhere in Uganda,” I say.
“Or helping with hurricane relief in Puerto Rico?” Baby Girl asks.
“Flying the helicopter for the search and rescue team in Yellowstone?” I offer. “Or diving for buried treasure in a pirate ship recently found off the coast of North Carolina. And she plans to donate all the money to cancer research.”
“Working at a diner in the desert, somewhere along Route 66, and wearing a name tag that says ‘Velma,’” Baby Girl says, excited. “But really she’s incognito, working for the government on a top-secret mission.”
“As an alien hunter,” I say. “And the diner is actually a science laboratory.”
“What are they studying?”
“Love,” I say. “Humans never seem to get it right.”
“No, we don’t,” Baby Girl says.
“What does Buddhism say about love?”
“That falling in love is a returning home.”
I’m not sure if Baby Girl is telling the truth, considering she hasn’t quoted a single person accurately . . . ever. But I dare to ask, “What does that mean?”
“Love is a mirror. A reminder that it exists in us always.”
“Most days when I look in the mirror, I don’t like what I see,” I say.
“If love was easy to see, we wouldn’t be lonely right now,” Baby Girl says. “Yogananda said that.”
“Who’s Yogananda?”
“Does it matter?” Baby Girl smiles wearily. “Do you want me to curl your hair for your date-date?”
“No, thanks.”
“We could practice kissing with a pillow.” When I turn down the offer, Baby Girl says, “I’m not sure I’m cut out to be your sister.”
I tell her that most of the time, Lizzie was just there. That words don’t matter as much as presence does. Sometimes we just need people to occupy space for us.
Baby Girl takes my hand and walks me over to the mirror.
“Just so you know, I like what I see,” she says, and because Baby Girl is looking at me and not at herself, I’m pretty sure she’s telling the truth. “So what are you going to wear tonight?”
“I think the only choice is to be myself.”
Baby Girl leaves me standing at the mirror, where I’m staring at my reflection. I narrow my eyes, searching the girl before me.
This is me.
I’m left with two options: hope there’s more to me, something unseen that’s waiting to come out, or fear that this is it, that all I’ll ever be is standing in front of me, already here.
17
CHEROPHOBIC
Luca should be here soon. I’m back on the roof, eyes on the sky above, bu
t really I’m trying not to worry about what might happen on earth tonight. Dusk has just begun. Slowly the stars will appear, one at a time, each taking its turn lighting the night.
A text comes through to my phone.
Wilder: Some people have an actual fear of happiness
His bedroom light turns on.
Wilder: It’s called cherophobia
Wilder: They think joy is always followed by sadness
Isn’t it, I think. Happiness never lasts. Sadness finds a way to seep into the cracks, waiting until the right time to freeze and break everything apart.
Me: Is there a cure?
Wilder: Yeah do happy things
Me: Sounds easy enough
Wilder: IDK
Wilder: Sometimes happiness is hard to find
A star ignites above me.
Wilder: What’s it like out there?
So I tell him. The air temperature is perfect—not too hot, but not cold. I smell wet grass from this afternoon’s rainstorm. A breeze rustles the trees. I tell him how, from up here, if I close my eyes, it feels like I’m floating.
Wilder: Are u happy now?
Me: Actually I think I might be cherophobic
Wilder: At least u know the cure
Me: I’m scared tho
Wilder: You could stay inside
Wilder: With me
I take a deep breath.
Me: But then I wouldn’t smell the rain
Me: Are u still thinking about opening the window?
Wilder: Sometimes but if I open it something is bound to change
Wilder: What if it makes me worse?
Wilder: I’m used to this life
Another star lights the sky. A flip of a switch.
From down the street I hear a skateboard rolling over pavement, and the very next moment, Luca stands at the foot of my driveway.
Me: What if it makes u better?
18
TAKE THE PLUNGE
Luca wears a pair of black jeans with tears in the knees, a white T-shirt, and his well-worn black-and-white-checkered Vans, skateboard in hand. He looks wild and unkempt, his hair a mess, his nose ring somehow more pronounced in the fading light of day.
Postcards for a Songbird Page 8
