He mocked him. S . . . s-orry, D . . . D-ad.
Tate’s head hung so low I wondered how he could breathe all crunched up like that. Then his father slapped him upside the head, and Tate tumbled backward, falling onto his bottom. I bit my bottom lip because I was crying and mad and filled with something I didn’t understand. Rage.
But I did understand rocks. So I picked one up, packed it in fresh, powdery snow, then crept across the lot until I was only a few feet away from the two of them. His dad’s back was to me, but still my heart galloped in my chest, and I was breathing hard and fast. Up close, Tate’s dad looked scary. Like a giant about to eat a whole village of children. From the ground, Tate met my eyes and shook his head once. But I ignored him because my dad had taught me that what’s right is right, and this seemed like the rightest thing I could do. So I lifted up my fist that had gone cold holding the snow-covered rock, and I pulled it behind my head, and I closed one eye and stuck out my tongue so I could aim better, and then I let the snowball fly. When it sailed through the air, the snow flicked off in a spiral so that when it landed exactly where I had aimed—smack-dab in the middle of his big, fat head—the sharp part of the rock bit right into his skull. I knew this because he said, Ow, goddamn it, and bent over like I’d shot him.
I grabbed Tate by the hand, yanked him to his feet, and ran inside BTI and into the laundry room, where we hid between a vending machine and the wall. My heart thumped so hard I felt it in my temples, and beside me Tate’s breath was ragged and hot in the small space. I felt his body jerk, and when I looked at him, his mouth was open like he was going to talk, but nothing came out. I was still holding his hand from before and I didn’t let go, waiting until he spoke. He m . . . m-ight k . . . k . . . k-ill you.
I shook my head, squeezed his hand. I don’t think he saw me, and besides, my dad won’t let him.
Afterward, I hid under my covers, suddenly unsure and scared. Would he come after me? When Dad came home later, I told him everything, and he pulled me into his lap and rocked me, his soft laughter vibrating against my ear. You’re the bravest girl I know, Claire. But maybe next time leave the monsters to me.
And now Bill’s dead. I can’t help but think about Tate. He left Whittier because he couldn’t bear to live anywhere near his father, was scared of becoming just like him. He never would have; I’d always known that, but Tate hadn’t. He thought leaving was his only choice. I look at the article. Would this change anything? My fingers tap the desk. Of course not. And it wouldn’t matter if it did, because I am a ghost of the person he once knew. I rub my arms against the cold truth. By now, he’s likely built a Whittier-free life somewhere in the lower forty-eight with his wife. My cheeks burn at the thought of him ever knowing me like I am now. I pin the article to a bulletin board I keep beside my desk. I want to remember that Bill Dunn is gone, if only for Tate.
I push “Favorites” on my phone, click on Dad’s name.
“You’ve reached Vance, building manager. Leave a message.”
“Hey, Dad, it’s Claire.” I pause, cradle the phone against my shoulder, scratch the skin on the top of my hand until I’ve left red lines. An uneasiness wriggles in my gut, but I can’t place why or what could be causing it. I glance at the article. “Did you know that Bill Dunn died? I wonder if Tate knows.” The clipping is wrinkled and worn, and when I check the calendar, a burn spreads across my cheeks. He died a year ago. Of course Tate knows, and Dad, and everyone else. Silence from the other end; that’s right, because I’m—I check my notes—leaving a message. There’s a line highlighted and circled with Tell Dad! written beside it. “This bear ran in front of my car today, and it reminded me of the bear you scared out of the lobby when I was seven. Do you remember that?” I smile, the memory rich in detail, comforting in its clarity. “Okay, I’d better go. I love you. Talk soon, Dad.”
I head to the kitchen to make something to eat, but a nervous energy worms through my leg muscles, and I have a sudden desire to see Ruth, share my day with her. It’s a habit I developed when I was nine and my mother began sleeping most of the time. At first it was only a morning here, an afternoon nap there. I thought Mom was tired, so I didn’t think too much of it, until I’d come home from school to find her still in bed, blinds drawn, the air that drifted from the room smelling like unwashed hair and sweat mingling with the musk of alcohol. Things started to pile up around the apartment: dishes, laundry, garbage. And when she did emerge from her room, she couldn’t meet my eyes. Like she’d given up. I missed her sitting with me at the kitchen table after school, a plate of cookies between us, her head cocked to the side as she listened to me talk about my day, my homework, my friend troubles, anything and everything. I missed the feel of her lips on my forehead, kissing me good night. Her soft voice, humming gently while she measured and stirred, the sweetness of her creations clinging to her skin, a perfect perfume. She was disappearing, pieces of her falling off like discarded clothing, bit by bit, until one day I realized the mom I loved was gone.
It takes me only a few seconds to get to Ruth’s door. I knock, but there’s no answer. I knock again. From inside I hear a shuffling, then what sounds like muffled voices, more than one. I put my ear close to the door. “Ruth?”
“Hang on,” comes her voice. The door opens a crack, and Ruth pokes her wiry gray head out. “Game night doesn’t start until seven thirty.”
My notebook shakes in my hands when I blurt out, “Did you know that Bill Dunn died?” I flip pages. “And that I thought I could give guitar lessons?” I snort. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous idea?”
Ruth’s apartment has always been a refuge for me. To some she might come off as unfeeling, like she’s made of steel, because she keeps her emotions on a tight leash. But I know a different side of her. I know the woman who let me sleep on her sofa after my mom left, whenever Dad was on the road and I didn’t want to be alone because I was having nightmares. Who rested a cool cloth across my forehead when I had the flu. Who made tea and drank it with me while I cried over my heart, which Tate had shattered when he left Whittier. And I know the woman whose husband went through the tunnel with Becky from the second floor and never came back. Ruth may not show her feelings, but they’re there; they just run so deep they’re cool.
Still, Ruth doesn’t invite me in, and drifting out from behind her in a mouthwatering breeze is the aroma of oranges and cinnamon.
“Were you baking?” I ask doubtfully. The air is rich with buttery dough, and my stomach responds with a quiet growl. “It smells amazing, Ruth. When did you—” Movement from behind her, and then a cough or a sneeze brings my eyebrows together. “Is someone here?”
Ruth sighs and pushes the door all the way open. “It’s Alice, Claire. She’s here and I know she’d love to talk to you.”
Her name hits me like the cold winter wind that sweeps up from the harbor, and for a second I can’t get my breath.
Ruth’s eyes soften. “Come in.”
My mother appears from behind Ruth, the same and yet so different from how I remember her last—stumbling down a row of folding chairs, her eyes glazed and too bright, tripping, falling, grasping for anything to keep herself upright. Her words smushed together in a long slur. ImsoproudofyouClaire.
“I’ve moved back to Whittier, Claire.”
I cross my arms against the painful beating of my heart. “Why?”
She doesn’t answer, wringing her hands like she’s unsure of herself. “I would like very much to be part of your life, if you’ll have me.” Her shoulders rise when she takes in a long breath. Like she’s preparing for battle. I feel my face harden. If she wants forgiveness, that is not something I can give, nor is it something I think she has the right to ask. Not after all the pain she’s caused me and Dad, even Ruth, who stands there likes she’s forgotten it all. My lips press into a firm line. I remember for all of us.
“I haven’t been back long, but I don’t believe you’ve written it down yet.” She smiles, and lines fan
out from her eyes. “That’s okay—when you’re ready.”
The words collect in my throat, a logjam of biting and perfectly timed responses expressing the years of sadness and disappointment that are a callus around my heart. That can describe this everlasting feeling of not being good enough for her, for Tate, for anyone. And now . . . my thoughts trail away because now, I knit my eyebrows together, turn to my notebook. Now it is ten years later, and she is back in Whittier. I picture the look of horror on Dad’s face when he saw Mom at graduation, lurching toward me. Saw him lift his bulk from the seat, stretch his arms out even though he was too far away, the lines of sadness that had carved a path in his face. He’s never said it, but I know he’s never given up hope that she’d come home. Never stopped believing she’d get better. And hurting him, even more than the pain of leaving me, is what I can’t forgive her for.
I swallow and all the words disappear. “I don’t want to see you.” I am thirteen and she is the mother who left me. My fingernails bite into my palms, and I use that little bit of pain to keep from crying.
Mom gives Ruth a sideways glance. “I understand, Claire. But I’ve been sober for nearly ten years now, sweetheart, and I know it doesn’t seem that way to you, but I am stronger now, and the things that made me drink don’t hurt me in the same way. I want to be here for you now.” She chews on her bottom lip. “Vance thought it was time for us to be together.”
Anger rocks me, starts in my fingers, moves up my arms, and I’m speaking through my teeth. “Dad doesn’t want you here, Mom. I just talked to him—” I stop because I’m not sure that’s true, yet just because I can’t remember doesn’t make it untrue either. I start to flip through my notebook, looking for an interaction with Dad that might indicate he knew she was back, because he would have told me.
“It’s true, Claire.”
Ruth’s voice shocks me, brings me out of my notebook that is full of teaching aspirations, bears, but nothing about Mom, not a mention that she’s living back in Whittier. I look up. “True?”
“Alice has moved home. She and Vance want to help you—”
I hold up my notebook as if it’s a shield that can deflect her words. A part of me understands that my reaction is juvenile, but I can’t help feeling as though everyone I thought I could trust is keeping me in the dark. It’s a terrible feeling, but that’s why I have my notebook; that’s why I write everything down.
So I don’t forget.
I turn away from them, my chest hurting with the effort to keep from crying, and hurry back to my apartment, write everything down I can remember. Mom lives in Whittier, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell me. They say Dad knows but it’s not true. He’s never told me and I know this for a fact. Don’t believe them.
Once it’s all down, I can breathe out. I sit back and let my pen fall to the desk. I rub my hand; it aches. The corners of my mouth are weighted into a frown, and I can’t lift out of the fog that surrounds me. I read the lines that explain this clinging sadness. Mom lives in Whittier, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell me.
I sit at my desk and stare out the window. A cruise ship is docked in the port, its length and height dwarfing the smaller boats that fill the slips in the harbor. Cars and trucks dominate the parking lots. In September, Whittier is still bustling with tourists and fishermen and adventure seekers, but by the end of next month, everyone will leave, taking their boats and their money and their wide-eyed enthusiasm for all things Alaska, and give us back our town.
A buzz from my phone shocks me out of my thoughts and reminds me to head up to the fifteenth floor for game night. There are only fourteen floors in BTI, but the elevator numbers skip thirteen, a nod to the more superstitious among us and a laughable oddity for the rest of us. I stand and stretch, but when I sigh, it catches on a sob. I cover my hand with my palm, wait for the feeling to pass. Sad. I am sad. I start to open my notebook when my phone buzzes again with a reminder. Game Night. Instead, I slide my notebook into my shoulder bag and head up to the community room. I don’t want to know why I’m sad. I want to see my friends and have some fun.
When I get there, Sefina, Harriet, and Kiko, who has taught the elementary-age kids for as long as I can remember, have already gathered, plus a few faces I don’t recognize. There are sandwiches, salads, chips, and sodas, and I fill my plate, grateful for the food.
“How are you doing, Claire?” Kiko says.
A question like this is difficult for me. So I evaluate how I feel at this moment—surrounded by friends, my belly full—and I answer honestly, “I’m really good, Kiko. How are you?”
Kiko studies me for a moment, and I try to understand her pause. Are things not good for her? Has she been ill? Could she have a tough group of kids this year?
“I’ve been better.” She smiles and touches my arm. “But I do have a new student, and oh my, she is a spirited one. Curious, energetic, and spicy. She reminds me of you.”
I laugh. Kiko was my teacher when I went to school here and is the reason I wanted to be a teacher in the first place. “Then she’s in good hands.”
“You’ll get a chance to meet her when you come in on Tuesday. The kids love when you volunteer.”
I smile and nod, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about, but as it sounds like something I would enjoy and since I’ve always loved being around kids, I have no doubt that it’s a part of my schedule. “I can’t wait!”
Sefina appears by Kiko’s side, holding a bowl of small white papers. “It’s celebrity charades tonight,” she says and winks at me. “But only well-known people from before can be entered.”
I duck my head when Sefina says this to hide the burning in my cheeks. She means well, I know, but the public announcement affects me regardless. I write down what Kiko said about volunteering and then try to keep on top of recording the game and who did what and who was the best guesser. I have to pause when my hand burns from writing. One minute blends into the next, and I try to relax and enjoy the game and the laughter even as it fades. Sometime later, I return home to my quiet apartment, and before I go to bed, I sit down at my desk to review and make a plan for the next day’s activities, record everything on the calendar and my phone, and set out my clothes for tomorrow.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday, October 1
It’s an Alaskan morning when the sun creeps slowly above the mountains, staining the sky outside a watercolor of light blues and dusty pinks. A journal lies open beside me in bed, the one with the leather cover and the pages that are going soft from the years. It’s the first thing I reach for because it’s where I start every morning: reading about me. On the first page is a letter I wrote to myself, dated eight years ago. One I’ve read every morning since I first wrote it, and I know this because I instructed myself to make a hash mark on the pages of the journal for each time I read. The marks fill pages, grouped and totaled by month and then again by year for a running total of 2,920 times that I have read this same damn letter. I read the letter even though I don’t need to—years of sticking to the same routine have left an impression, if not the details. On some level I know that I’m different now.
You were pregnant and developed eclampsia that made you have a seizure. Because of that you lost the baby and your ability to form new memories. It’s hard and it sucks but it’s better this way. You couldn’t have been a good mother to her. Not like this. But you have Dad and Ruth and Sefina and you are organized and detailed and you have found a way to survive this through your lists and calendars and because it’s the only way you can be normal.
You lost the baby. I press a palm against my eyes to block out the truth, but the words hover in the darkness. I would have been a great mom. Loving, kind, caring, and all the things my mother couldn’t be to me. I close the journal and set it on my bedside table. Mirabelle. It means marvelous and wonderful, and it’s exactly what she would have been to me. I wipe at my eyes but they are dry. The information is not new; I can feel that it’s not and that it’s so
mething I’ve mourned and grieved about and known for quite some time, even if it punches a hole in my heart every time. Something I don’t have to remember to just know.
I inhale a ragged breath and move on to the laminated card that sits on my bedside table. There’s a small clothespin clipped to the side and even with the words Step One: Read the journal, followed by Step Two: Shower, Step Three: Get Dressed, and Step Four: Check calendar for today’s schedule. I move the clothespin even with Step Two but hesitate before standing. There is a painful stiffness, an ache that spreads from my lower back, radiates up my spine and across my shoulder blades. It rushes up like a wave, pushes into the base of my skull, runs its frothy tips around the sides of my head. I press my bare feet into the carpet, let my head hang, grip the bed with my fingers until the pain retreats into the background. I have headaches now—it’s all in my notes—and I know to wait for the blur in the edges of my vision to sharpen before I push up from the bed and head for the shower.
Hot water runs down my back, at first spreading goose bumps across my skin until the heat seeps into my bones. I sigh and close my eyes, reveling in the sensation before I begin to wash my hair. Hanging beside the shampoo is a laminated card with another clothespin and a line of instructions. Wash hair, wash body, shave under arms, shave legs, done. I move the clothespin as I do each activity, making sure I don’t end up showering until the hot water runs out.
I find a pair of athletic leggings, a sports bra, a T-shirt, and my University of Alaska sweatshirt hanging over a chair in my bedroom. A pair of tennis shoes and pink socks are on the floor under the chair. I set my clothes out when I review my schedule every evening. Must be Jazzercise day. I don’t even have to remind myself to know that it’s Monday. Ruth’s always taught Jazzercise on Mondays. I started going to her class when I was in college and would come home for breaks and holidays. Now it’s part of my routine and helps to keep me in shape. After I dress, I head out to get myself organized for the day.
Memories in the Drift Page 5
