Lately he’s been extra cop-ish, his mustache framing a perpetual frown. Like the night lingers in his bones, even during the day, and the sunshine through his window can’t melt it as he sleeps.
Something is weighing on him, and it’s more than just Lizzie being gone.
We both sit on the couch, Chief and his beer, me and my cereal. Pat Sajak and Vanna White give us word puzzles to solve.
“I was talking to your aunt,” he finally says, “and apparently their local high school in Utah has a really great art program. The best in the state.”
“That’s good for Utah.” Apparently Chief didn’t understand that all discussions about Utah were over weeks ago. It’s too dry in Utah. Deserts can’t be trusted. They’re too one-sided. I like that Washington can’t decide whether it’s rainy or sunny most seasons. I switch topics.
“Why don’t you date?” I ask.
He spits out some of his beer. “Jesus Christ, Wren.”
“You’ve never been on a date.”
“I’ve been on plenty of dates.”
“Not for the past eighteen years you haven’t. That’s quite a drought.”
“I don’t have time to date,” he says. Chief suddenly looks extra chapped, like life was sucked out of him a long time ago. I’m just starting to notice how bad it really is.
And I can’t stop touching my lips and thinking about how today feels better than any day I’ve lived before.
“Maybe you should make time,” I say. “Maybe going on a date would help.”
“Help with what?”
With the empty room in Chief’s heart, and the clogged gutters that choke him in the middle of the night. Love might just be the water he needs.
“Hydration,” I say.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Most people don’t drink enough water.”
“I’m hydrated.” Chief shifts uncomfortably in his seat and slugs a huge gulp of beer.
“Beer dehydrates you.”
Chief groans and sets down the can. “Stop acting like the parent, Wren.”
“But if I don’t take care of you, who will?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“That’s a lonely existence,” I say. “Believe me, I tried.”
He gives me this look that speaks without speaking, and it says, Back off. But for my entire life, I’ve backed away.
“We never talk about her,” I say. This is not googling my mom’s name like Luca wants me to do, but it’s a step.
“Who?” But Chief knows who I’m talking about. I eye him intently. “There’s nothing to talk about. She left. We moved on. There’s no need to look back. She sure didn’t.”
But Chief is actually stuck. He hasn’t moved an inch. Just because we physically left Boise doesn’t mean his heart came with him.
“Was she a pea?” I ask.
“What?”
“Since you’re a carrot, was Mom a pea? Was she round and squishy and a little sweet? Did you go together like peas and carrots?”
Chief stands and frowns.
“You can categorize people all you want, Wren, but it’s more complicated than that. Life is more complicated than that.” He retreats upstairs, acting like the carrot that he is—stuck in the ground, covered in darkness. Before he disappears, he says, “I’m sorry to hear about your friend’s tapeworm, but you’re grounded for a week.”
On Monday Luca sits next to me in Driver’s Ed and pulls a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich from his bag. Sometimes when I’m with him, I feel like I could forget to breathe, and still I would survive.
“I’m grounded for breaking curfew,” I say.
“Bummer.” He sets half on my desk.
“It was worth it.” My foot reaches for Luca’s, and we meet in the middle with a simple touch. “I’m glad you came back to class. How’s your grandma?”
“Same. How are your toes?”
“Same.”
Luca wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Since we’ve already established that my patience is extremely lacking, do you mind if we just skip the awkward weeks of wondering if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend and jump to the part where we are?”
My stomach jumps to my throat. “OK,” I say. “And since we’re skipping things, can we avoid the uncomfortable will-we-or-won’t-we-kiss-again scene and you just kiss me?”
“You have a deal.”
But when Luca’s lips are about to touch mine, Mr. Angry Driver’s Ed Teacher coughs. Startled, we separate and sit back in our desks.
The peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich tastes bland compared to kissing.
The class begins, and Luca gets a piece of paper from his backpack. He writes:
You smell good
And I write:
It’s the peanut butter
And he writes:
You have some on your cheek
I move to clean it up, but Luca stops me with his hand. He gently rubs my cheek, letting his thumb linger softly, his skin warm on mine.
He writes:
I lied—I just wanted to touch you
It’s astounding how the simple act of acknowledgment can transform a life.
I write:
I think I have peanut butter on my fingers
Luca takes my hand in his and turns my palm upward, his fingertips inspecting the skin there, inch by inch. He does the same with the other hand. His light touch has my head spinning.
He writes:
Anywhere else?
I write:
My lips
Luca offers me this grin that sends my stomach on a ride and pulls my entire body tight with anticipation. His thumb comes to my bottom lip, skimming it and turning me inside out.
Then he writes:
You’re quite the messy eater
And I think, That’s what happens when you’re starved for attention your entire life. That’s what happens when the untouchable is finally touched. I want Luca everywhere.
Right here in Driver’s Ed, surrounded by the ugliness life can offer—old carpet and asbestos and a paneled drop ceiling with water marks—among all the rundown sadness, two people sit next to each other, coaxing life to the surface.
When we leave, Luca says, “See you tomorrow,” and I know what he means. He means, Tomorrow, I will see you with my entire being. I will cover you again.
It’s like I’ve been baptized in Luca.
I’m born, brand new.
“See you tomorrow, Luca.”
The next day, Wilder stands in his backyard, feet on the cement, his toes lined up with the grass.
“Should you really be outside, since you’re grounded?” he asks.
“I think I was grounded for my entire life until a few weeks ago,” I say.
“What about Olga? You don’t want to get into any more trouble, Wren.”
“She’s watching a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon.” I pull a blade of grass from the ground. “I’m allowed to be outside. I just can’t leave the property.”
“What about the roof?”
I glance in the direction of the garage. “I don’t know. I forgot to ask.”
Wilder stands still, toes tickling the edge of the lawn.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says.
“You won’t know unless you try.”
“There’s safety in holding still. Not rocking the boat. I mean, look at you. You got in trouble. You’re grounded. You shouldn’t have broken curfew.”
“It was worth it.”
“Was it? To be locked up for a week?” Wilder gives me this pained look, like he’s trying to hold on to something that’s slipping away. “You’re changing, Wren.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I’m just . . . worried,” he says. “What if it all falls apart?”
“I did some research on tapeworms,” I say. “And it turns out, they’re not that hard to cure. Some people don’t even know they have them. They cure themselves.”
“What are you saying?”
“You don’t need to be afraid of the grass, Wilder.”
“I thought we were in this together, Wren.”
“We are.”
“It feels different now.”
“Just step on the grass, Wilder.”
“It’s not the grass I’m worried about, Wren,” he says. “It’s you.”
29
A MEMORY WORTH SUFFERING FOR
We’re all together—Leia, Baby Girl, Luca, and me. Leia and Luca are on a work break. He hasn’t missed a shift since the night we kissed.
The day is hot, the August summer sun clouded only by light smoke in the air from wildfires in Canada. Some days in the summer, the air quality can get so bad, Chief doesn’t like me going outside. But soon enough September will knock on August’s door, bringing clouds and rain and the foreshadowing of October’s wind.
Today the pavement sizzles underneath us as Leia and I roller-skate in the parking lot behind Rosario’s Market. Luca rides his skateboard, almost frenzied, as if trying to exert as much energy as he can before going back inside. Baby Girl seems content to watch Leia.
“You need to start a workout regimen,” Leia says to me. “And no more shitty food.”
“I’m done with shit,” I say. I threw out the grocery list. I can no longer be an accomplice to Chief’s slow destruction by synthetic sugars and Yellow Number Six. I know better now, and I love him too much.
“Push-ups, crunches, lunges, tricep dips, squats,” Leia says. “Ten to twenty reps a day.”
“I’m happy to coach you,” Luca says as he skims by on his board, the rush of wind from his body landing squarely on mine. “To make sure you’re doing the squats right, of course.” He offers a passing wink that sends my stomach flipping.
Leia shows me the toe-stop drills I need to practice, and how to do a crossover.
“Step-ups,” she adds, demonstrating on the picnic table where Baby Girl sits in the shade, watching. “You need to strengthen your left leg.”
By the time we’re done, I’ve fallen six times, have a scrape on my elbow that’s bleeding down my arm, and am drenched with sweat. My legs might crumble, but the pain is beyond good. I crave it now.
“How about Strawberry Jam,” Leia offers as we sit down next to Baby Girl.
“But I don’t have red hair.” Sweat rolls down my back.
“Miss Fortune,” Baby Girl says.
Leia smiles at her. “I like that one.”
“That sounds like a rich girl’s name,” I say.
“Lord of the Rink?” Leia suggests.
“Too nerdy,” I say. “I’m not cool enough for that.”
Luca rides at us like he’s on water. He skids to a stop and pops his skateboard off the concrete. “Hot Brod. That’s my vote. Get it, because you’re a hot broad.”
“Yes, Captain Obvious. We get it.” Leia rolls her eyes. “Don’t stress about a name, Wren. It’ll come to you. Just work on drills for now.” She checks the time on her phone. “Break time’s over. Time to get back to the world of pesticides and BPA.”
“But it pays the bills, Princess,” Luca says.
“True,” Leia says. “But if only we just left everything alone. Let an apple be an apple.”
“A dandelion is a dandelion is a dandelion,” Baby Girl says.
“I love how your mind works.” Leia skims her hand over the crown of Baby Girl’s head. “But people don’t like seeing bruises. Even though we all have them. An apple isn’t damaged just because of one little bruise.”
“I hope not,” Baby Girl says, so quietly that I’m not sure she meant for us to hear. She stands and stretches. “I’m due at the carousel.”
“Save me a horse.” Leia winks. “I’ll come down for a ride later.”
After Baby Girl and Leia have left, Luca sits down next to me.
“I’m not sure I can get my legs to move just yet,” I say, taking my roller skates off.
He wipes a little spot of blood from my elbow. “You need a Band-Aid.” Luca gets up and leaves, then reemerges from Rosario’s Market with a first-aid kit. He wipes my elbow with an antiseptic wipe, cleaning the blood and blowing the skin dry. “It’s not too bad.”
Luca places the bandage carefully on my elbow.
“Almost done,” he says. He leans down and places a kiss directly on top of the bandage. “All better now?”
“I think so.” I’m floating. No more pain.
“That was my mom’s trick when we were little, to get us to stop crying. A kiss to take the pain away.”
“I don’t think my mom ever did that for me,” I say. “Not that I remember, at least.”
“You don’t remember her at all?” he asks.
“No.”
“Maybe it’s for the best.”
Luca tells me that some days his grandma remembers everything. Other days she can’t recall people’s names. He can’t decipher what really exists to her and what doesn’t. Some days she hallucinates. It happens with dementia patients. People think they see things at night—bugs in their beds, spirits clinging to the walls, someone in the shadows waiting for them. At times she’s convinced that the nurses at Happy Homes Assisted Living Center are stealing from her.
“Last week she told me a story from when I was little, and my dad said everything she said was true.” Luca runs his fingertips over the bandage on my elbow. “Then the next day I go in to see her and she tells me she’s been talking to my grandpa, who’s been dead for fifteen years. The second I think she’s back to being herself, she’s gone. I never know what to believe.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m coming to terms with the fact that it doesn’t really matter at this point,” he says. “She won’t remember her life, but she also won’t know to miss it. It’s us with the memories who suffer. So maybe you’re better off not knowing your mom.”
And yet . . . not knowing carries a burden, too. Which is worse?
Luca looks at me so intensely that my cheeks can’t help but flush, and my stomach pulls tight.
“I can tell you one thing that is for certain: I don’t ever want to forget you, Wren.” He brings his hand to the bottom of my chin, his thumb lightly caressing my lip. “You’re a memory worth suffering for.”
He kisses me, as if to etch the moment so deeply into our minds that no one could erase it. As if to set a groove so deep it will leave a lasting impression, an indelible mark even time can’t obliterate.
Right now, in this moment, it feels possible to hold on to something as elusive as a memory. To pin it down and set it in history as infinite. Never to be lost, forever to be believed.
“You are, too, Luca,” I say. “You are, too.”
30
BEFORE AND AFTER
“Before and After.” Beer in hand, Chief says the Wheel of Fortune category from the couch. Pat Sajak looks extra orange, his clashing pickle-green aura making it hard to look at the television. I’m doing the daily exercises Leia assigned me. Chief eyes me as I count out squats. My quads, which until recently I didn’t even know I had, are burning.
“First you come home with a wagon full of vegetables. Now you’re working out? What the hell is going on, Wren?”
“I’m saving your life,” I say.
“Wren, we discussed this. I don’t need you to save my life. I’m fine.”
But Chief was the one who told me why cops restrain people. “Most of the time, people need saving from themselves,” he said once. “That’s what the handcuffs are for.”
“You don’t want to grow man-boobs, do you?” I ask.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you know how much estrogen is pumped into cows?”
“Where is this coming from?”
I switch to push-ups. “The better question is, Why did it take me so long to figure it out?”
Chief shifts uncomfortably and focuses on Pat Sajak.
“Before and After.” Chief points at the
TV.
The contestant buys an O.
I’m mid-push-up when I say, “Hole in the Wall Street Journal.”
“Damn it. I should have gotten that.” He retreats for another beer.
I start on lunges. “What’s Mom’s maiden name?”
“What?” Chief’s voice sounds strained from the other room.
“Her maiden name. I don’t know it.”
There’s a pause before he walks back into the room, cracking open a fresh beer. “Rhine. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.” I switch the leg I’m lunging. “Did she change her name when you got married?”
“What’s with all the questions this morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“No. She didn’t change her name.” He gives me the answer like it hurts to say it.
“Was she a feminist? Is that why?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I just want to know.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Wren.”
“Cats eat birds,” I say. “I like curiosity. We’re on the same team.”
Chief takes a swig of his beer and gives me a sideways glance. “You know what I mean. You’ve never been curious before.”
“Things change,” I say. I used to think a painted forest was all I needed, but it turns out the smell of real pine needles is better, even if the needles leave a sticky residue on your fingers.
“Clearly.” Chief eyes me suspiciously.
“Was it love at first sight with Mom?”
He sinks a little deeper into the couch. “It was lust at first sight,” he finally says, and brings his beer to his lips.
“What’s the difference?”
“Lust is selfish. You have to be careful with it, Wren. It can be dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you want someone that badly, it can make you blind to reality,” he says. “Just trust me.”
Even with his eyes on the television, I know Chief isn’t watching Wheel of Fortune. He’s replaying the past in his mind.
Postcards for a Songbird Page 14
