by Laura Wiess
For a moment my mother and I sit stunned, caught in stricken paralysis, but then she says softly, “Oh, Nicky, honey, it’s okay,” and goes to him, arms open, while I panic and flee the room, telling myself it’s to give them privacy, but in truth I should never have seen that.
I cannot bear the sight of my father breaking.
Chapter 16
May always gives my mother spring fever, and she stalls as long as she can so as not to stress my father but finally, almost halfway through the month on a Wednesday night, she can’t take it anymore and decides the dining room needs a fresh coat of celery-green paint.
“I’ll do it,” my father says slowly, rousing from his spot in the recliner. He’s wearing his reading glasses and has been staring blankly at the same page in Stephen King’s latest novel for the last fifteen minutes.
I know, because I’ve been surreptitiously watching him from over the top of my book. Observation has pretty much become the routine we’ve settled into, seeing as how talking about how he feels, even to try to help him, has the exact opposite effect and only makes him feel worse for failing us.
His words, not ours.
“Really?” my mother says, sounding surprised, and then adds hastily, “Well, that would be great. I’ll pick up the paint tomorrow after work. If we can get it done by Saturday I’ll invite the grandparents over for Sunday dinner.” She catches the sudden distress on my father’s face and adds, “Or whenever. There’s no rush. And we don’t have to have company right now. We can always do it next week, or even the week after. Whenever you feel up to it.”
He nods slowly, his expression easing, and goes back to staring at his book.
I glance at my mother, who gives me a slight shrug, a quick smile, and gazes down at her laptop.
Ten bucks says she’s researching depression, because that’s the way it is now here at home, with my quiet, slow-moving father seeing his psychiatrist once a week and my mother doing everything she can to keep life as calm as possible until his antidepressants kick in and hopefully get him back to normal again.
And I have to give her this: She’s really trying. When the TV is on and we’re talking and it’s too much for him, kind of a sensory overload I guess, the TV goes off and we move to the kitchen. She makes his favorite foods and pretends she’s not crushed when he can’t bring himself to eat them. She gives him vitamins. Stays cheerful, thoughtful, supportive. She’s taken over all the chores he used to do so he isn’t struggling with the weight of impossible-to-fill expectations right now and I got home from work yesterday to find her near tears, wrestling to replace the stupid spool on the weed whacker so she could finish trimming the grass.
And him standing helpless in the living room, wringing his hands and watching her.
The problem is that he’s depressed, not stupid, and he knows what she’s doing, he can see it even though she’s trying her best to make the added burdens no big deal. He is very much aware that he’s letting her down—his words, never hers—and he keeps apologizing because it torments him . . . but it’s like he’s suddenly an invalid, paralyzed with no physical wound to justify it, like everything he was got sucked out of him and left this terrible, gray, empty shell sitting and suffering in a chair in the dark.
So I took the weed whacker from her, fitted the spool and finished the trimming, quick, sloppy but done, feeling his anguished gaze on me the whole time, and then all but threw the stupid thing back in the garage because really, it’s grass, and if my father can angst over grass then he can get better and go out and do it himself.
I want the real him back, goddamn it.
I feel like I’m two completely different people forced to live in two different worlds, that I have to leave the cheerful, happy, hopeful me at school or work every day and shift into a quiet, tiptoeing, worried me just to get in the door at home.
I hate it, and I hate seeing us like this.
I don’t understand why it’s happening and why he just can’t somehow be himself again. I want my father back, the smart, brave, reliable man who runs into burning buildings and drags people out, the man who once held a child’s bleeding, chopped-to-the-bone leg together until EMS arrived, after she’d slipped and fallen under a riding lawn mower while the blade was engaged. I want the man who was given his wristwatch at a commendation ceremony for being a hero, the man who protects us, who locks the house up every single night without fail, who cuts the grass and changes the oil in the cars, the one who promised to teach me how to drive and is making me a hope chest.
And sometimes I want to yell, “Stop it, Dad! Please be yourself again!” to try to snap him out of it—but I don’t because he’s always on the verge of tears these days as it is, terrible, helpless tears, and it would kill me to make him feel even worse.
This is exactly what happens the afternoon I come in and see him sitting alone in the living room, eyes closed, laptop open on the coffee table, the screen glowing in the shadows.
I stand in the doorway gazing at him, thinking he’s asleep and not bothering to mask the impatience on my face, the scared, angry wish of an immature, self-centered girl for him to just stop it, to get up and be all right again so life can go back to normal, when he opens his eyes and looks right at me. The torment in his gaze rocks me, knocks me speechless, and I stand there unable to move until he turns his face away as if ashamed and says in a dull voice, “Go, Rowan. I don’t want you seeing me like this.”
And one side of me whispers, Get in there and hug him, say something nice, something filled with love and comfort, because he looks so sad, but the other side is riveted, aghast, because the screen he has open is the website with all the terrible, hateful comments about him. Knowing he’s read them leaves me helpless, furious at their malice, at his weakness and my own, embarrassed by the stranger he’s become, and so I just mutter, “Sorry, Dad,” step back, and leave him to battle his demons alone.
Chapter 17
“Finally,” Eli says, catching up with me in the hall the next morning before homeroom. “You’re a hard girl to track down. What’re you, avoiding me or something?”
“Me?” I glance up in surprise, catch the mischief in his gaze and give him a friendly hip-bump. “Yeah, sure. I spend my whole day trying not to run into you.”
“I thought so,” he says, lips twitching. “So check it out: I caught up to the rest of the class in ‘Love and Sexuality’ so now I have Thursday lunch free again and I was thinking that if you’re not doing anything and nobody stole our spot then . . .?” He flicks back his hair and gives me a killer smile. “Cheetos, pretzels or potato chips. Your choice, my treat. What do you say?”
“Sounds like a celebration to me,” I say, leaning back against my locker and returning his smile. “That’s really great, Eli. And Cheetos will definitely work.”
The bell rings.
“Damn,” he says, glancing down the hall and giving me a regretful look. “I have to go. My homeroom’s on the other side of the building.” He falls back a step, head cocked and holding my gaze. “So I’ll see you at lunch, then.”
“Same time, same place,” I say, wondering if my cheeks are as warm as they feel. “Bye.”
“Bye,” he says with a sudden grin, and takes off down the hall.
Yeah, two very different lives.
| | |
I check my phone between classes, find a text from Nadia and read it while walking down the hall. “What?” I say, astonished, and read it again.
Me and Brett, you and Shane, Sr prom Sat night. S has 2 tickets. Say yes!
“That’s the day after tomorrow,” I say, stopping dead in the flow of students. “What is she, insane? I don’t have anything to wear to a prom! And who the hell is Shane?” I try to remember who Brett hangs out with besides Justin and can name all but the quiet soccer guy with the hair in his eyes and the big nose. Is that Shane? If it is, I had coed gym with him last year and he blocked a volleyball that was headed straight for my face. And blushed when I said th
anks.
Nadia texts again. Row? Are you there? PLEASE?
I have nothing to wear, I text back.
You can wear my red dress, she texts back. PLEASE?
Oh. Her red dress is hot.
Meet me by the upstairs girls room, I text, and when I get there she’s waiting, practically dancing with excitement, and all of a sudden I cannot believe how much I’ve missed this, how easy and how good it feels to slip right back into BFF mode the way we used to be.
“Oh my God, Rowan, please say yes,” she burbles, seizing me by the arm. “You don’t have to worry about anything, you can wear my red gown and—”
“I don’t have any shoes—”
“You can wear mine.”
“My feet are bigger than yours. I’m a nine.”
“Shit,” she mutters, chewing her bottom lip, and then brightens. “My mother’s a nine. She’ll have something hot we can borrow. Rowan, please say yes.”
“Which one is Shane?” I ask.
“Oh, he’s really nice,” she says quickly. “You’d know him if you saw him: He plays soccer—”
“Big nose, hair in his eyes?” I finish to her enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, okay, but what’s with the emergency date? Does he even know you’re doing this?”
“Of course he knows,” she says, laughing. “He’s been going out with that girl Becca but she just had to have her tonsils out like, yesterday and—”
“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Becca with the ginormous boobs who got suspended for kicking in that girl’s windshield?”
“Yeah, but that was last year and it was her cousin messing with her boyfriend. Put it out of your mind, Row. Her throat’s a mess and she knows he’s stuck with the tickets and the tux and the limo and all—”
“And you know this how?” I say, cocking an eyebrow.
“God, why are you always so suspicious? Don’t you want to go?” She gazes up at me, pleading. “Please? You don’t have to sleep with him; it would just be a friend thing. A good deed. Please? Then we could all sit together and have a blast.”
Hmm, go to the senior prom in a killer dress with my best friend and a cute guy I hardly know instead of sitting in the house all night with my parents. Wow, what a dilemma. “Okay,” I say, and am rewarded with a shriek of delight, a violent hug and the sight of her whirling and darting off as the first late bell rings, presumably to text Brett to text Shane and tell him that he is going to the prom with a complete stranger.
Right.
Now all I have to do is call my parents, ask if I can go, corner Eva and ask if I can get off work a little early Saturday afternoon, figure out what to do with my hair, somehow get to Nadia’s for the dress and the phantom shoes, find jewelry . . .
And tell Eli.
| | |
I call my mother at the library between third and fourth period.
“You’re supposed to be grounded,” she says in a low, distracted voice when she comes to the phone. “And we don’t even know this boy.”
“Mom, c’mon, I’ve been home for like, weeks and I’ve been good, too,” I say, pacing the hallway outside the history room. “You know I have. And this is the senior prom. Not very many sophomores get asked to go. It’s kind of a big deal. And Shane’s really nice.” I think. “He plays soccer.” So what? “Please?”
“You don’t have anything to wear,” she says, and then off to the side, “I need your library card, please.” And to me, “Rowan, this is a really bad time. Let me—”
“Mom, please just say yes so I can tell them,” I interrupt in a rush. “Time is running out. He bought the tickets and everything and he needs an answer because if not he’s gonna be out like, five hundred dollars.” Actually, I have no idea what it costs. Maybe I should have said a thousand. “And it’s not gonna cost me anything, Mom. Please?”
“Thank you and have a nice day,” she says, and then to me, “We don’t even know this boy and—”
“Why are you so stuck on that? You wouldn’t know anybody who asked me to go until tomorrow, anyway. And besides, he already has a girlfriend with her tonsils out and we’re only going as friends,” I say, giving it everything I’ve got. “Please? It’s just this one time. I’ve never been to a prom . . .”
“You’re not staying out all night,” she says, and that’s when I know I’ve got her. “I’m serious, Rowan. You’re only sixteen and—”
“Oh, thank you!” I crow, and spotting Nadia coming down the hall, I give her a triumphant wave. “And no, I know, we won’t. Thank you, Mom. Let me go so I can tell him. Yay!” I hear her laughing, rueful good-bye and, hanging up, grab Nadia, who’s clutching my arm. “I can go!”
And as she’s shrieking Shane and Brett saunter up and it’s funny that it’s so easy for me to say hi to Shane and talk and laugh with him. Maybe it’s because I know we don’t like each other that way—an image of Eli flashes through my mind—and so it takes all the pressure off and I can relax.
“Glad you can go,” Shane says, and suddenly his nose looks fine in his long, thin face and when he shakes his hair back I notice his eyes are hazel. “You were in my gym class last year, right?”
“Volleyball,” I say mournfully, and when he laughs I do, too, because something about the sound of it cracks me up.
Yes, I think, this is going to be a blast.
| | |
Eli is already sitting on the grass in our spot out front when I get there, which surprises me because I pretty much jogged the whole way.
“I’m impressed,” I say breathlessly, sitting down beside him and eyeing the feast spread out before us. “Grape juice, too. I like that.”
“Glad you approve,” he says with a grin, and hands me a bag of Cheetos. “I was going for kind of a wine-and-cheese thing, so . . .”
“Oh, you’re a funny guy,” I say, laughing even though I’m starting to feel guilty about the prom, which is stupid, I know, because it’s not like Eli and I are going out or anything. Hell, for all I know he still has a girlfriend back in Texas waiting for him.
That thought makes me queasy.
“A toast,” he says, handing me a cold bottle of juice and waiting until I twist open the top. “To, uh, new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” I say, smiling and clinking my bottle to his. I take a sip of the cool, sweet juice, rip open the bag of Cheetos, and pop one in my mouth. “Excellent. You can treat me to vending-machine lunches anytime.” And then, because I really can’t take the suspense anymore, I say ever so craftily, “Unless, of course, your girlfriend back in Texas would have a problem with it.”
“Who?” he says with a frown, tearing open his Cheetos. “I don’t have a girlfriend in Texas. Where’d you get that?”
“No clue,” I say, inwardly rejoicing. “Could have been anywhere. People gossip so bad here. So uh, you don’t?”
“No, nobody serious since Crystal but that was a while ago. We were together for maybe six months when my father died and she dumped me a month later because—get this—I never wanted to do anything and I wasn’t any fun anymore.” He snorts and gives me a wry, sideways look. “Nice, huh?”
“That must have hurt.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. There was a lot more important stuff going on back then than her bailing.” He chooses a crunchy orange puff and pops it into his mouth. “I mean when you lose your dad, everything else seems pretty insignificant.” He studies the bag, sets it aside and takes a long swig of grape juice. “So anyhow . . .”
Right. I take a deep breath and say, “So are you going to the senior prom?”
“Who, me? With who?” he says, giving me an amused look. “I don’t know anybody out here.”
Hunh. “You know me,” I say, giving him a mock-offended look.
“Yeah, now,” he says with a teasing nudge. “Too bad I didn’t know you while they were still selling tickets. They’ve been sold out for like, a month. I already checked.”
Well, it’s now or never. “I
’m going.”
He blinks in surprise. “To the senior prom?” he says after a long moment, and it might be my imagination but I swear he just shifted away from me a little.
“Yeah, with my friend Nadia, her boyfriend and his friend, because his girlfriend just had her tonsils out and can’t go and he already bought the tickets, so . . .” I shrug, smiling like it’s no big deal. “I just thought that if you were going then maybe I’d see you there and we could dance or something.” Dance? Where did that come from?
“And this guy’s girlfriend is okay with him taking another girl to the prom?” he says, leaning back and cocking a skeptical eyebrow. “Come on . . . Has she ever seen you?”
I stare at him, puzzled. “What? I don’t know, why?”
“I bet she hasn’t,” he says in a satisfied voice, nodding like he’s got it all figured out. “I’m telling you, if she saw how hot you are, she’d kick his ass for even suggesting it. That boy wouldn’t make it three feet out the door on prom night.”
His tone is teasing but the warmth in his dark gaze is real and a delicious, shimmering ribbon of happiness unfurls inside of me. “Well, thank you but . . .” I stop and shake my head, at a loss. Am I blushing? I think so. I glance down at my Cheetos, then back up to find him still watching me. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says softly, mouth curving in a small smile. “So where’s this thing happening, anyway?”
“Um, at the Hilton right in town,” I say, resisting the urge to fan the heat from my cheeks. “I haven’t told Nadia and them yet but I have to be home by like, midnight. No all-nighters for me.” I shrug. “My parents are a little overprotective. Especially my father.”
“Yeah, well, who could blame him,” Eli says, raising the bag of Cheetos up to his mouth and tipping the rest in. “Oh shit,” he says in a muffled voice, eyeing the cascade of orange crumbs tumbling down the front of his shirt in dismay.
“Nice,” I say with a snort of laughter, and, reaching over, brush my hand once, twice, three times lightly across the contours of his chest, meaning to sweep the crumbs away but instead sending them all right down into his lap. “Okay . . . hmm. This is gonna be a problem.” I glance up into his face, catch the silent laughter in his eyes and crack up. “Brat. Do it yourself.”
