Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

As the full weight of his body leans into mine, I think about Charles waiting at home. About bungee jumping. About that line from Mom’s poem—careless gifts—and how, until today, I never knew what it meant.

  All these thoughts jumble together as he slips his hand under my tee, under the elastic of my bra. I grasp the back pockets of his jeans to pull him closer. Rigid, breathless, he abruptly stops to smooth my hair back with a sweaty palm. Trembling wildly, I shift enough to pull the foil square out of my pocket. He stares, first with incomprehension. Then with disbelief. Part of me knows he may now think the worst of me.

  The rest of me doesn’t care.

  “You sure?” he whispers.

  I nod, so he takes it. I watch a looming black cloud drift closer and closer as Arye rips open the package. I wonder if he’s ever done this before. It seems unlikely. It takes him a long time.

  Then we roll up in the blanket, wind jostling the pine needles and raindrops splattering our hair. The squirrel chirps from the top of the swaying tree. When I fling out an arm, I’m almost sure he thinks I’m waving at him.

  114

  Later, Arye doesn’t say anything lame, like, “Are you okay?” Or, God forbid, “I love you.”

  First of all, I’m fine. Not the same person, but fine. Maybe better than fine.

  Second of all, “I love you” would be a lie and therefore the worst thing to say. Even if it were true, I’m not sure I can say it back.

  The rain never increased past a halfhearted drizzle. Now it’s stopped completely. How strange it is to be sitting here in the dark, with the owls, and the wind, and all the creepy-sounding insects you never hear in the city. He sees me shiver and takes off his shirt to drape it around me, never mind I can feel his goose bumps when our arms rub together.

  I can’t believe how I once hated this guy.

  We fold up the blanket, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he asking himself why? I ask myself the same thing and I have no answer. It’s not like I needed to prove anything. That I’m not what Devon Connolly thinks I am, or that sex isn’t what I saw in Mom and Dad’s room that night.

  No matter. I feel, well, happy. Like a very happy person.

  I let him kiss me once more in the front seat before we head back to the road. His broad hands cradle my face like he never wants to let me go.

  115

  Funny how we don’t speak all the way back to the Heights. But Arye holds my hand tighter than ever, his thumb grazing my knuckles as if memorizing the feel. When we stop in front of his house, his first words hit me without warning. I don’t know how he figured it out when I haven’t figured it out myself. Can he see inside of me?

  “You’re not taking him back with you, are you?”

  I stroke the flannel cuff of his sleeve and pick at the button. The streetlight shines in my face, and I have to duck my head.

  “No,” I say finally. “I’m not taking him back.”

  “God. God.” He digests this information while I move on from the button to play with my seat belt. He touches my face again. “Shawna, maybe—”

  “Don’t! You’ll make me cry.” No, no, no, I—will—not—cry. “Let’s not make it a big deal, okay?”

  He draws back his hand. “Does my mom know?”

  “I guess she will in a minute.”

  “. . . Am I going to see you again?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  He kisses me hard. I kiss him back, harder than hard. I wish I didn’t have to let go, but I can’t stay here forever. I ease away and point meaningfully toward his house. Then I stare back into the vivid streetlight till spots dance around my vision. And wait, not daring to breathe, till he’s out of my car.

  I hear his footsteps fade away on the pavement. I hear the front door shut.

  116

  My family descends on me like bloodthirsty bats on an injured calf: Where-the-hell-have-you-been-we’ve-called-everyone-looked-everywhere-oh-my-God-do-you-have-any-idea-how-worried-we-were-we-thought-you-two-were-kidnapped-and-God-dammit-Shawna-where-the-hell-is-your-brother-where’s-Sam-where-is-he-where-is-SAM-SAM-SA-A-AM?

  “At Fran’s,” I yell over the chaos.

  “FRAN’S?”

  Dad’s bellow nearly causes the two police officers to leap for cover. Aunt Colleen clutches her throat like a silent film star. Julie stares, dumbfounded. Even Uncle Dieter inspects me, momentarily, like I’ve morphed into a demon. Then he sneaks a smile and studiously looks away.

  “Fran’s?” Aunt Colleen echoes, composing herself. The one place, I guess, it never occurred to them to look.

  “Are you out of your goddamned mind?” Dad bellows.

  “Sir,” one cop interjects.

  Dad flaps him aside, but lowers his voice a decibel. “What, exactly, is Sam doing at Fran’s?”

  I shrug in kind of a smart-ass way so no one can see how petrified I am. Dad regards me incredulously, then points to one cop and rattles off Fran’s address. “He belongs to me. I’ll show you the court order if you like. But I’d appreciate if you run over there and bring him back now.”

  “He doesn’t belong to anyone,” I shout before the cop can make a move. “He’s not a dog, Dad.”

  “You. Shut. Your. Mouth!”

  Julie murmurs, “Jack,” but Dad ignores her. Fetching his briefcase from the marble-topped table in the foyer, he slams it on the sofa and rustles through papers.

  I face the two cops. “Please don’t bring him back. He should stay where he is.”

  Dad whips out his holy court order. “That woman has no right to my child. Here is the proof. I’m pressing charges, do you hear me?”

  “John, wait a sec.” Uncle Dieter, the peacemaker, steps in, but Dad brushes him off like yet another pesky insect.

  Well, okay, Dad doesn’t “brush” him; he roars at Uncle Dieter, “Goddamn it, this is none of your business!” This ticks off Aunt Colleen, so she yells at Dad, and then they both starting yelling at poor Uncle Dieter. Meanwhile I’m standing there in Arye’s five-sizes-too-big-for-me shirt with two fully armed cops eyeing me, askance.

  The nicer one of the two scans Dad’s paper. He turns to me. “Why did you take him there?”

  I point to my screaming relatives and almost ask: how would you like to grow up around these raving lunatics?

  I drop my hand, and say instead, “She’s his mom, that’s why. No matter what that paper says.”

  The second cop, the less nice of the two, looms closer. “Legally, she’s not. And she’s in serious trouble now, thanks to you. So are you, it looks like.”

  “Your father’s not”—Good Cop glances at the thundering mob—”violent, is he?”

  If I said yes, what would they do?

  Dad flies over as soon as he notices me talking to the police. “Wait! Did I give you permission to question my daughter?”

  Good Cop answers, somewhat significantly, “Sir, we were asking her if you have a history of violence. You seem to be a bit out of control.”

  “I am never out of control,” Dad states through his teeth. “And you may not speak to my minor daughter unless I’m present.”

  My tongue feels like sandpaper. “What’re you afraid of? That I’ll say something about Mom?”

  Dad’s temple throbs visibly. “The police are here because you ran off with your brother. You skipped school. You left no note. You couldn’t even call your grandmother, who’s been worried sick about you. And when you do show up—what, fourteen hours later?—you tell me you left Sam with that, that woman?”

  “What about your mom?” Good Cop zeros in.

  Dad answers for me, of course. “My ex-wife left us for a lesbian . . . lover.” He stumbles badly over “lover,” but regains control. “And that’s irrelevant, aside from the fact that it’s that friend of hers who just stole my son! My God. They could be anywhere by now.”

  “Tell them the rest,” I insist.

  “What rest?”

  “You know what rest.”

  “Shaw
na. Please. Don’t be stupid.”

  Uncle Dieter explodes, “Stop calling her stupid, you son of a bitch!” and Bad Cop’s hand moves an inch closer to his holster. “I swear to God, Gallagher, you say that one more time and I’m personally going to beat the living shit out of you.”

  Dad glowers, triumphant. “You hear that? My own brother-in-law just threatened me. Christ, what a family.”

  Ignoring her shrill protests, Uncle Dieter steers Aunt Colleen toward the door. He says as he passes me, “You know where I am, Shawna. Any problems tonight, you just give me a call. I’ll drive right back here and bust his head in.”

  “Dietrich!” Aunt Colleen screams.

  Uncle Dieter hustles her out. Dad then informs the officers, “You witnessed that!” Amazingly, he seems shaken by the attack. “What the hell got into that man?”

  Good Cop watches Dad, but speaks directly to me. “You were going to tell us something about your mother?”

  I hug myself. Julie watches wordlessly. No way can I say it with her in the room. “Ask my dad what happened.”

  “Excuse us.” Dad catches my elbow and steers me into the kitchen. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

  “You have no right to keep Schmule,” I plead. “Please, please, Dad. He hates it here. He’s homesick. He’s depressed. He’ll die if you bring him back.”

  “Of course he’s homesick! And you aren’t helping matters by constantly dragging him back to Fran’s. He’s barely had a chance to settle in!”

  “You don’t care about him! All you care about is getting your own way, getting back at Mom. You’re, like, this total control freak, Dad!”

  “Getting back? Your mother’s dead. Nothing I do now makes any difference.”

  “I know she’s dead. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want to hurt her.” My throat constricts. If I cry, he wins. “You made her have a Catholic funeral!”

  “She was Catholic!”

  “She didn’t want to be. You did that to her on purpose. And you knew it’d hurt Fran. You’re not happy unless you’re making everyone miserable, the same way you did Mom.”

  “I did not make your mother miserable.”

  “No. You just raped her.”

  Infinite silence. Then Dad says, close to my ear, “I did no—such—thing. Is that woman feeding you this bullshit?”

  “I saw you. I know what you did that night.”

  I watch my father’s shoulders sag. When he reaches for me and I jerk away, he seems hurt by the gesture. “Shawna, honey, you were seven when she left. Whatever you think you saw, you obviously misinterpreted.”

  “I didn’t misinterpret. I heard what you said to her. Do you want me to repeat it?”

  “What I want,” he says softly, a guarded glance toward the kitchen door, “is for you to stop talking about this. Nothing. Happened.” In the split second that follows, I almost, almost begin to doubt my own memory—but then he clinches it with, “And if it did, how can you prove it? You were a child, Shawna.”

  Yes. I thought of that. Mom isn’t here to tell her story. Fran knows, but she heard it secondhand. Who’ll listen to me? Dad’s right. I was seven. I can barely remember the name of my teacher that year.

  I cocoon myself in Arye’s soft shirt. “Even if no one believes me, you know how bad it’ll look? What your patients will think? They’ll never let you near them again.”

  Dad’s astounded eyes rivet mine. “You’d do that? My own daughter?”

  “I’m not doing it! You did it to yourself when . . . when . . .” Ragged sobs escape—maybe I’ll lose this one after all—and I rub my face, remembering his terrible words. “When you hurt Mom that night.”

  “Shawna,” he begins, helpless, disbelieving.

  “I’ll tell people. I will! And I’ll tell them you hit Schmule. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen.” I step closer and note his surprise. “Schmule belongs with Fran. He was never your son! And it’s so wrong to try to make him that now.”

  “Shawna,” he says again, but I’m powerless to shut up.

  “I know how bad you wanted a boy. And I’m sorry it wasn’t me, and I’m so sorry I’m not perfect. But you’re right, I don’t want Schmule here anymore. And I swear to God if you make him come back, I’ll tell everyone the truth—about everything, Dad. And then I, I’ll just leave.”

  “Leave? And go where? You’re going to Kenyon this fall!”

  “Maybe I won’t! Maybe I’ll go to MassArt and be an artist, like Mom.”

  “The hell you will. I’m not paying your tuition to any damn art school. You’re going to med school.”

  “Fuck med school! I’m not you. I’m not you!”

  Dad ignores my choice of words. He stares hard at something in my face I know he’s never before seen. Then, quietly, he says, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  To him, him, him. Everything’s always about him.

  “Have I been such a terrible father? Have I ever laid a hand on you, even one time?”

  Fresh tears spurt from my eyes. “No, but I wish you had. Because some of the things you say to me are a thousand times worse.”

  Good Cop coughs apologetically in the doorway. “Uh, sir?” Dad forces his attention to the officer while I bawl noisily into my hands. “About the boy? What would you like us to do?”

  “Go,” Dad says, almost inaudibly. “I’ll handle it. Everything’s fine.”

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  117

  Julie leaves right after the cops, with questions in her eyes neither of us try to answer. I microwave, in slow motion, two mugs of water for tea. Dad’s not crazy about tea, but he’ll drink it if I make it. Personally, I’m not in the mood for anything at all. But it gives me something to do while I collect my thoughts.

  He watches me add two packs of Splenda to his tea. “Shawna.” I’m right beside him, yet I have to strain to hear his words. “I’m not the person I was back then.”

  Yes, you are. Only you use words now. Not your hands.

  He sips his tea, cupping the mug close to his chin. “I begged her to come back. I went for counseling. I did that whole anger management thing. I did everything I could, because you wouldn’t stop crying for her. But by then it was too late. Fran poisoned her mind. Thanks to her, your mom would never give me another chance.”

  Awed, I think: he honestly believes that. He’ll never see Fran as anything other than the person who stole his wife, his property, the one person, besides me, who belonged solely to him.

  Funny how this realization doesn’t surprise me. Dad, I know, will always be Dad. Yet I find this reassuring, in a twisted way.

  “Sam was born eight months later,” he says tiredly.

  My ragged intake of air sears my chest. “I know. But you can’t take him away like he’s a piece of furniture.” Dad raises his head. I rush on before he can blow up, or I lose the last of my nerve. “You can’t make him love you. Just like you couldn’t make Mom.”

  He plunks his mug down hard. And when he replies, it’s the last thing I expect.

  “I know,” he says hoarsely. “Goddamn it. I know.”

  118

  The next day, Julie hands me a paper bag. “It’s not a gift. But it’s something you might want.”

  I pull out the wrinkled photo of Mom and Fran. There’s a gouge on Mom’s chest, and it reeks of coffee grounds. Otherwise, it’s intact.

  “Don’t tell your father,” she adds unnecessarily.

  More secrets, I think. But I promise anyway.

  Then I stuff the picture into an envelope, address it to Fran, and drop it in a mailbox.

  119

  Arabic Guy’s real name is Nabil. I roll it across my tongue: Nah-beel, Nah-beel.

  I study his “Life as a Collage” at Miss Pfeiffer’s art show. Real photos, not drawings, of a life a thousand ways different from mine. A dark-skinned family swathed in layers. Camels and goats. A bustling marketplace. Burned-out buildings and abandoned artillery.
/>   Beside me, he asks in a soft, semi-British accent, “If you do not already have an escort for the prom, I would be most pleased if you would accompany me.”

  Hello! Prom is, like, two days away? We’ve barely exchanged five words all semester.

  Evil Shawna thinks: Why are you asking me now? Did everyone else turn you down?

  Pathetic Shawna thinks: Oh, no! Dad’ll strip-search the poor guy, alert Homeland Security, and cordon off every suburb east of the Cuyahoga River.

  Perfect Shawna says: “Thanks. I’d love to go.”

  My collage comes in second. I’m fine with that.

  120

  The morning after my graduation party, LeeLee twists sideways to view her butt in my mirror. “Be honest. Do you think these shorts make my culo look, like, excessively big?”

  “Yes.” Well, she did ask me to be honest.

  Her reflection flips its tongue out at me. Then she wedges her culo down on my bed between my two overloaded suitcases. “I still can’t believe you blew off MassArt. Even after your grandmother offered to pay?”

  “Oh, please. You know it’s always been Kenyon. I’m not changing my mind now. Besides, it’s not like I can’t take art classes there, too.”

  “Yah, whatever.” She picks up my Welcome to Scotland folder and thumbs the pages. “So how long are you and your grandma gonna be gone?”

  “Till the week before school starts.”

  I feel a ping of excitement. My graduation gift—touring the British Isles with Nonny for three weeks—is perfectly doable now that Dad hired around-the-clock nurses to care for Poppy. Nonny was mad as hell at first, because no nurse in the world can be good enough for Poppy. She got over that as soon as she discovered she can now sleep, undisturbed, all night long, and come and go as she pleases.

  “What time does your plane leave tonight?” I ask LeeLee.

  “Seven thirty.” She squeezes herself and squeals, “Ooh, I can’t believe I’ll be living in frickin’ New York City! And rooming with Tovah? Omigod, she’s so-o excited. It’s all she talks about.”