Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I just wish I could make everything right again. Cast a spell, wave a wand. Whatever it takes.

  I want my mom back. I want the old LeeLee back.

  I want Dad to love me and the Goodmans not to hate me.

  I want Schmule to know who I really am. That I’m not the terrible person I feel like now.

  69

  Mrs. Velez opens the side door without a glimmer of surprise. “Ellaestá arriba,” she chirps as if I’ve never been away. I smile back, plod familiarly through the house, step over the kids sprawled in front of the TV, and stagger upstairs.

  LeeLee’s tackling homework. She shuts the book and stares at me, askance. “Where’ve you been? Didn’t you get my messages? I was freaking out! I even called your dad.”

  Arms dead weight at my sides, I simply start crying again.

  “What happened?” LeeLee jumps up. “Shawna, is somebody dead?”

  “No-o,” I moan.

  She fans her face. “Omigod. You’re drunk.”

  “Yes. I am. And it’s your stuff, too.”

  “Well, damn. Did you save any for me?” When I can’t smile at this, she slings her hair back, drags me to the bed, and forces me to sit. “What’s the matter?”

  “Sch-Schmule’s definitely my brother. Dad found out. They tested his DNA and now Dad’s taking Fran to court.”

  “God.” She reflects a moment. “Well, you always said you wished you weren’t an only child.”

  “I know, I know. But not like this. Plus I saw Arye today. He says Schmule’s been traumatized, that he hates us, and if he comes to live with us . . .”

  “Can you talk your dad out of it?”

  “Yeah, right. You should hear him: I got a son, I got a son, I got a— ”

  “Aw, man.” LeeLee pulls me close. “Look, Shawna. Your dad’s, well, just your dad. It’s not like he doesn’t love you. He just . . .” She trails off, obviously unwilling to say anything too unkind. But she knows my dad well.

  “Your family’s perfect,” I say into her neck.

  “You’re so full of it. No family’s perfect. I could tell you stuff that’d make your toenails curl up, chica.”

  “Your parents don’t talk to you like you’re an idiot.”

  “Yes, they do. They just do it in Spanish.”

  “I understand Spanish, LeeLee. And no, they don’t.”

  “Whatever. Forget it.” She hugs me tighter. I hug her back, the room spinning in a way that makes me sorry I drank all that sangria. “Anyway, you sure did a number on Connolly. Wow, you of all people.”

  “I think I’m possessed. I never hit anyone in my life.”

  “I saw what he did. He deserved that.”

  “I can’t take him anymore. I’m sick of his lies. Oh, just wait, LeeLee. Wait till he finds out about you, that you really are—” I shut my mouth.

  “You can say it, ya know,” she says gently.

  Remembering, I blubber, “You sound like my mom.”

  “I’m not ashamed of it. It’s who I am now, okay? I mean, yeah, it’s hard. I haven’t even told my folks, but—” She draws away so she can see me better. “It’s harder to hide it. Besides, why should I have to?”

  I’m crying too hard to answer. I have no answer to this anyway.

  She hugs me again. “Look, picture it the other way around. Say it was, like, this totally huge stigma to like guys, okay? Say it was against the law, even. What would you do? Pretend? Or would you just say screw it and not care if people knew?”

  I sniff hard, trying to keep my drippy nose out of her hair. “Oh, don’t ask me that. It’s a really dumb question.”

  “People live their whole frickin’ lives pretending to be something they’re not. I’m not gonna do it, chica. I like myself, okay? I just want to be me.”

  Blown away by her honesty, I lean back to stare into her blazing brown eyes. Is it so hard to pretend not to be gay? To act like everyone else, and hope no one picks up on it? How long did Mom pretend, before Fran came along?

  I wish I could ask her. I wish I could ask her a thousand things.

  Maybe figuring I’m about to argue, LeeLee holds me tighter. I relax in her arms. And then . . . something happens.

  First I think of Tovah, and how she and LeeLee fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Then I remember all the nights LeeLee and I’ve spent together. Cozied up in the same bed, holding hands, whispering. How we’d give each other back rubs and foot massages. How we’d undress in front of each other all the time without once imagining it might be weird, or wrong.

  I never thought of her that way. Did she ever think of me?

  You never did it with a guy, either, she’d said. How do you know you’ll like it?

  And I never did it with a girl. But, if I did, I think I’d want it to be LeeLee.

  Blanking out in a crazy-weird way, I move forward and cover her mouth with mine. Strands of her hair float through my fingers, softer than baby powder. For the briefest of seconds LeeLee parts her lips, her warm tongue flickering against mine—

  Then she shoves me away. “Jesus Christ. What—are—you—doing?”

  I shut my eyes to block out her incredulous expression. “I want to know what it’s like,” I whisper. “I mean, why not me? Why does it have to be Tovah?”

  “Because”—scarlet, but with cool, quaking fingers, LeeLee drags my hands out of her hair—”I love Tovah.”

  “But not me.” I yank away to hide my streaming eyes. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  “Shawna, it’s not right. You and me, we’re like sisters. It’d be . . . I dunno. Like incest or something. This so can’t happen.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I say numbly. “It was a stupid thing to do.” For once, “stupid” isn’t a strong enough word. “Well. I love you, LeeLee.”

  LeeLee rubs away her own tears. “Me too. I love you to death.”

  70

  February, a thunderbolt of activity.

  Dad goes to work. I go to school. He never mentions the fact that I cussed him out over the phone. Either he’s tucked the incident away for future reference, or face it, I scared him. I scared myself, that’s for sure.

  Dad’s lawyer fights with Fran’s lawyer. Social Services inspects our home, a violent affront to my father. They interview Dad, who maintains composure. They interview me, and seem pleased by my polite, correct answers. Dad beams his approval: I am such a good daughter.

  LeeLee and I speak casually in the halls at school. Although I’m sure she’s forgiven me, my humiliation clings to me like a sticky web.

  Miss Pfeiffer’s project keeps me occupied, thank goodness. Day after day, I’ll select certain photos, toss others aside, and then sketch, sketch, sketch, till my hand-drawn picture evolves into a near-perfect replica of the original. Lately it’s hard to choose one photo over another. I’ll stare blankly at the familiar faces, each one silently begging: pick me, pick me! When I take a break, I cover my worktable with a sheet. Something tells me, if Dad peeks, he won’t like what he sees.

  Within two short weeks, workers transform our guest room into what Dad now calls “Sam’s room”: designer bedding, red wallpaper, a plasma TV, stereo, Xbox, PlayStation 3, Nintendo Wii, and a computer with a monitor nearly as big as the TV.

  Julie, who seems to be popping in almost every day, joins me in the doorway of that room. “Wow. Isn’t this a bit . . .”

  “Overkill?”

  “Exactly.” When I glance at her glittery red dress and the fur jacket—from Dad?—slung over her arm, she explains, “Your dad and I are going out to dinner. Would you like to come along?”

  “No, thanks.” What I’d like is to get through an evening without hearing Sam, Sam, Sam.

  “I was hoping we could, uh, talk.” When I don’t respond, Julie draws something out from under her arm. “Did you see this yet?”

  She points to a page in the current issue of Cleveland Moves, the magazine she edits. I skim the words
with growing alarm. The article names no names, but you’d have to live in a different solar system not to figure it out. Prominent Cleveland area obstetrician and infertility expert. Renowned photographer, cocreator of popular picture book series.

  The article ends with: “Now a child may be torn away from the woman who nurtured him all his life, and flung into a family of strangers who have publicly denigrated the only ‘mother’ he has left—the same woman who is not only mourning the loss of her partner, but who has lost her home, her share of a business, and her most recent job as a substitute teacher in a local Catholic school. Now, sadly, she may lose her child as well.”

  I swallow hard. “Did you write this?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Fran lost her job?” Arye predicted that weeks ago.

  Julie touches my shoulder. “How do you feel about all this? Honestly?”

  “I don’t know how I feel. Except I’m sick of talking about it.”

  A minor lie. I do know how I feel—like someone sliced me in half with a sword. Part of me is so happy to have a brother. Happy that Dad’s been mysteriously transformed into someone who calls me “honey” instead of “stupid” and who whistles around the house. Someone who not only gave me back my allowance but doubled it as well.

  Selfishly, yes, that part of me is happy.

  The other half wants to stop it all from happening.

  71

  The phone rings after Dad and Julie leave for their date. “Shawna?”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this voice on the phone. I ask, just to be sure, “Who is this?”

  “Susan.” She must’ve dialed wrong. “I, um, heard about your brother. My mom saw your dad at a benefit last week, and he told her all about it.” Probably the rest of the world, too. “So you had a brother all these years? And you never knew? Omigod. Isn’t that bizarre?”

  No. What’s bizarre is that I’m speaking to Susan Connolly on the phone.

  “Are you writing an article for the school paper?” I ask coolly. “Or are you going to announce it over the PA? Am I on a three-way by any chance? Paige! You there? Hel-loooo?”

  “Knock it off,” Susan begs. “I’m not even speaking to her anymore. Can you stop acting like a stuck-up bitch just this once?”

  “I’m a stuck-up bitch?” I loosen my grip on the phone to keep from crushing the signal. Then it dawns on me what she said. I ask, morbidly curious, “Why aren’t you speaking to Paige?”

  Susan releases a diva-worthy sigh. “She hooked up with Jake. He dumped me. For her”

  So Paige dumped Devon for Jake. Then Jake dumped Susan for Paige. Maybe there’s justice in this world after all. “That’s nice. But what do you really want?”

  Another sigh. I picture her resting her chin, studying her nails, considering each careful word. “I was just wondering how you were doing with all this.”

  “I’m fine with it,” I say breezily. “‘Bye, Susan.”

  “Remember how we used to let people think we were sisters? How you hated not having a real brother or sister? And how we’d dress alike, and—”

  “Why’d you call me again? I forgot.”

  “Because we used to be friends,” Susan says forcefully. “And now we’re almost out of high school, and we never talk to each other, we never hang out anymore—”

  “We hung out at the Snow Ball. Or did you forget?”

  “And we had fun, didn’t we? I mean, until. . .”

  She falters, and I finished the sentence. “Until your brother tried to get in my pants.”

  “Sorry about that. But I thought you liked him.”

  “Well, I hope you guys had a good laugh over that. What’d you do? Place bets?”

  “No! It was nothing like that. I mean, Devon liked you, and I knew you liked him, so . . . well, we thought we’d leave you guys alone for a while.”

  The last thing I want to discuss is the Snow Ball. And the longer she talks, the angrier I get. “Right, Susan. And you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Sue’s right, you’re a lez.’ That’s a direct quote. So that’s how much your brother liked me, okay? And this lesbian business, by the way, is really getting stale. Can’t you cretins come up with something new?”

  “That was years ago. Eighth or ninth grade! I never called you that since. Maybe Paige did, and Devon. But not me. Never!”

  I twist the phone cord, refusing to say anything that might make her feel better.

  Susan sighs again. “Look, I admit it—I sucked as a friend. I treated you like crap because I wanted to hang out with Paige.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know! Who remembers? I guess I wanted to be popular, and Paige didn’t like you. She still doesn’t like you. You intimidate the hell out of her.”

  I snort. “Intimidate her how?”

  “Uh, because you have a brain?” Susan giggles nervously. “Anyway, it’s all so, so stupid. But we’re older now. I’ve grown up a lot. Haven’t you?”

  I refuse to answer. But I don’t hang up.

  Susan hesitates. “I’m sorry I said those things about your mom. I told you back then I was sorry. I meant it. I mean it now, too.”

  I play with the phone cord again, unsure of what to say.

  “We’re graduating soon,” she says quietly. “So maybe it’s time we, ya know, bury the axe?”

  “Hatchet,” I correct her.

  “Whatever.”

  I don’t trust her. I can’t tell if she’s sincere, or merely sucking up so she can glean more information about Schmule for the gossip mill. Plus she’d just lost her number one stooge, which means Susan, possibly, might have fewer friends than me.

  When I don’t reply, she says sadly, “Well, think about it. Okay?”

  I’m already thinking, and yes, it’s true—I can’t remember Susan calling me any names. True, she hasn’t exactly been “nice” to me. But the worst abuse always came from Paige.

  I remember when she asked me to hang out with them at the mall Halloween night, and Paige’s negative, icy reaction.

  Paige, at my locker, asking me if I’m gay. Susan, trying to intervene.

  How Susan jumped in alarm when I ran out of her room, away from Devon. How I refused to consider the idea she might be sincerely concerned.

  “You there?” she asks tentatively.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “Well, anyway. Good luck with your brother, okay?”

  “Thanks,” I say, surprising myself.

  “‘Bye.”

  “‘Bye.”

  If I’m not in shock, I don’t know what you would call it.

  72

  Oh-my-God: Julie slept over.

  I didn’t hear them come in from their dinner date last night. I do, however, find her in the kitchen wrestling with an egg poacher. One of Dad’s white undershirts dangles mid-thigh.

  “Oops,” I observe.

  “Shawna! You’re up early.”

  “No-o, it’s, like, nine o’clock?” I watch her blush, curling plump pink toes into the cool tiles. “Where’s my dad?”

  “He must have gone to the office. I didn’t see him this morning.”

  I don’t know why I’m so blown away. I’m not naive enough to believe my dad never does the dirty deed. I don’t know where he does it, but I know it’s never in this house. Unless he hustles them out in the dead of night.

  Julie scratches a bare thigh. “Are you okay with this? Because if you’re not . . .”

  “No, it’s no biggie.” I grab Charles’s leash off the hook. “See you later. I have to go help my grandmother.”

  Today isn’t one of my Poppy days. I usually stop by once or twice a week after school so Nonny can shop, or play bingo with her cronies. But who wants to hang around and entertain an ex-nanny? Especially an ex-nanny who had sex with my dad last night.

  I escape with Charles, take him on a short hike through the park, and arrive at my grandparents’, sweaty and exhausted. Over a cup of Irish tea and a box of shortbrea
d cookies, Nonny asks the same thing Julie asked yesterday: how do I feel about bringing my “wee brother” into the family?

  When I shrug noncommittally, she brushes back my bangs. “Try not to squint, dearie. You’ll get wrinkles, aye?” She sighs, then picks up a crisp linen towel to dry a couple of dishes. Nonny can’t simply talk; she has to be moving. “Mother of God, I just pray this won’t turn out like those terrrrrr-ible cases on TV. The cameras, the news people . . .”

  I stifle a groan by stuffing two cookies into my mouth.

  “Well, ‘twill be interesting, for sure. How nice to have a wee one around for a change. Your father’s delighted! Why, even your grandda’s pleased.”

  How can she tell? I glance around. “Isn’t Poppy up yet?”

  Nonny flashes a look toward his room, which used to be the dining room. “I haven’t been able to get him in his chair yet this mornin’. I’m afraid he’s becoming a wee bit much to manage. Can ye give me a hand, Shawnie?”

  Poppy looks clean enough, already bathed and shaved. The dining room, however, reeks of stale urine—and worse. Trying not to inhale, I lift his bony shoulders as Nonny swings his legs over the side of the bed. Somehow, between the two of us, we drag him into the wheelchair. Face masklike, he still watches my moves with eerily alert eyes. I park him in front of the History Channel, peck his cheek, then race back to the kitchen and collapse.

  “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I burst out. “I know, I promised you, but—”

  Nonny wipes her sweaty neck with the dishtowel, yuck. “Try doin’ it twenty-four hours a day, dearie. Oh, I know what your father says. Hire a nurse! Put him in a home! Well, that auld laddie and I’ve been married over sixty years, and—”

  “It’s not just Poppy. I don’t think I can do it at all.”

  “Do what, Shawnie?”

  Unable to believe I’m saying this to another human being, I confess, “Take care of sick people. All day, every day. Nonny, when I saw my mom in the hospital? I almost threw up.”