by Sarah Ready
My hand clenches the thorny stem of a weed.
“All this will be over. This awful blip. You can put it behind you, darling. Isn’t it wonderful?” Her voice is fading to a buzz.
This is what I wanted. It is. Was. Is.
I wanted Shawn back. I wanted my wedding. I believed he was the key to my surviving.
Suddenly, I’m confused. More confused than I’ve ever been. Because it doesn’t feel true anymore.
I don’t know what to do.
“I don’t…I don’t…I have chemo. And the list I made. I want to finish it.” I’m groping for something, anything.
I wanted Shawn, and for years I loved him. Am I supposed to throw that away?
I think of Jack. His humor. His strength. His laugh. But Jack doesn’t love me.
Shawn does. Right?
I yank the weed from the ground.
My mother sighs. “Oh, lordy, the list? You’re still doing that? It’s crazy, Daniella. It makes no sense. It’s not you.”
I throw the weed to the ground. There’s red on the thorns. I turn my palm over. Blood from the prickers leaks across my hand.
“What if it is me?” I ask.
“It’s not.”
“Of course,” I say reflexively. A tear tracks down my check. I don’t know why I’m crying. I should be happy.
I grab another stem and pull the thorny weed. I toss it aside and wipe my stinging bloody hands on my pants.
“Darling, Shawn loves you.”
“I know, Mother.”
“You were engaged to be married. You were together for years. He made one tiny mistake. Can’t you forgive him? Remember all the family Thanksgivings. The Sunday brunches. Remember when he took you on vacation to his family beach house? You were so happy.”
I toss aside the weeds until the bleeding heart stands alone.
“Daniella. I’m your mother. Your happiness matters to me.”
“Of course,” I say. “Of course.”
“And I know you, darling. You’re my daughter. Shawn will make you happy. If you don’t forgive past mistakes you’ll live a lonesome and barren life. Alone. That I promise.”
My heart squeezes into a tight little ball.
Will I?
Will I?
A voice whispers, yes, you’ll be all alone. If I don’t put back on my mask, my English rose persona, if I don’t go back to that life, I won’t have anyone or anything. I won’t live. Survive.
I shake my head. Another tear runs down my cheek. I wipe at it.
I don’t know what to believe. I haven’t considered Shawn, or his place in my heart, for weeks. I pushed that hurt aside.
I’ve been thinking about someone else…
Jack doesn’t love you, that voice inside whispers.
My stomach churns.
“I’m not the same person, Mother. I’ve changed. I’m not sure Shawn and I fit anymore,” I say. What I really mean is, what if I can’t put the mask back on?
“Don’t be absurd. You’re still my Daniella.”
“Do you remember what I was like before you married Father?”
I think about the girl I was, the rough and tumble girl.
“Darling, what are you on about?” she asks.
“Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“Promise me, when he calls, you’ll hear him out.”
I sink into the grass, lay my head to the earth and stare at the delicate blossoms of the bleeding heart.
“I will,” I say. “I promise.”
“That’s my Daniella. I knew I raised you to be a lady. To err is human, to forgive divine.”
A tear falls to the grass.
“I have to go. I have chemo in an hour.”
“Oh darling, shall I send Karl?”
A bone-deep weariness cloaks me. Suddenly, taking the bus sounds exhausting. “That would be appreciated. Thank you, Mother.”
“Of course, darling. Anything for you.”
I hang up and run my fingers through the grass of the garden. It’s getting long. I’ll tell Jack it needs to be mowed.
32
Jack
* * *
I sit at the kitchen table, Sissy across from me.
She’s been suspended. Again.
“One more time. Explain this to me one more time.” I say.
The principal warned that one more infraction and Sissy would be kicked out. He gave the barest details of the latest “incident.”
Sissy rolls her eyes.
“Bro, seriously. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You realize, one more of these and they’ll permanently expel you. Then, like it or not, you’re going to boarding school.”
“That’s bull,” she says.
“I don’t get it. Are you testing me? Pushing me? What is the point in these suspensions?”
She folds her arms over her chest. Her mouth forms a mulish line.
“I get it, Sis. After my mom died I had to go live with Aunt Flo. It wasn’t easy for me either. I tested her, too.” The tests didn’t turn out well. In fact, I try not to think about the miserable years I spent with Aunt Flo. She blamed me for Mom’s death and she wasn’t shy about sharing it.
“No. Jeez. It has nothing to do with that. Also, Aunt Flo was a witch. Obviously. I could’ve told you that without ever meeting her. Her name. So accurate. But honestly, I’d rather have my period than spend a minute with that woman. I pity your kid self, bro.”
I raise my eyebrows. But I can’t argue. When Sissy’s right, she’s right.
“What then?” I ask.
“It wasn’t right,” she mumbles. She looks down at the kitchen table.
“The principal said you made a scene at prom. One worthy of suspension.”
Red stains her cheeks.
“Yeah. Um…I may have…sort of…used the confetti cannon to shoot a hundred condoms at Bret.”
I choke on my coffee. I cough and wheeze for a minute.
Then, “You did what? Why?”
“Turns out Bret was a douche. He told the whole school I was a slut and that he dumped me because I’m diseased…down there.”
My fists clench, “I will kill Bart.”
“Dude. It’s Bret.”
“I don’t care. Bret is done.”
“Nah. I took care of it, bro. I covered him in an avalanche of Trojans. The extra-small size. I’m a hero at school. I got voted student body president today.” She tilts her head back and there’s a wicked glint in her eye.
I start to laugh and I can’t stop.
“How did you…how did you fit condoms in a confetti canon? Jeez, Sissy.”
She blows on her nails. “I’ve got mad skills.”
I shake my head, then somber.
“Sis. You can’t keep breaking the rules.”
“Yeah. I know,” she says. “It’s hard. All these rules. You realize I used to go to school on a computer in the back of a car, right? Most of my math practice came from running long cons with Dad.”
I sigh. “Yeah. Good old Dad.”
“It was okay,” she says. She shrugs.
But I can see again how vulnerable she feels. That she needs me to be a better brother.
I look down.
“I’m going to do a not-so-subtle topic change to shift the attention off my suspension,” she says.
“What?”
“I like Dany.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. This is not something I’m going to discuss with my sister.
“Don’t mess it up because you have some weird hang-up over your crappy kidhood.”
I think about how Dany and I haven’t spoken about us, and how I can’t seem to form the words of how much I care. How I love her.
“Drop it, Sis. Dany and I are just having fun.”
“Right,” she says. “And the condoms I confetti dropped over prom were really just party balloons.”
I laugh. “Go on. Go study or something. I’ve got work to do. Stay out of trouble.
”
“Sure. Stay out of trouble is my middle name.”
I scrub my hands over my eyes. I feel like I’m in over my head. The more I care, the more I feel certain that something will go wrong.
33
Dany
* * *
I don’t mention the phone call to the girls. Nor the bungee jumping, nor the complications with Jack, or Shawn.
The girls are happy and laughing about the hair cutting party and Cleopatra’s aptitude for dancing.
“Let’s hear another story about David,” says Matilda after they’ve all settled in.
“Bah. Not David,” says Cleopatra.
“Oh, yes. It’s been ages,” agrees Sylvie. She picks up her knitting needles and starts work on the blanket. It has three different-colored rows of flowers now. Purple, red and yellow.
“Hmm, yes…David Crestwood. Where were we?” asks Gerry.
“He was shipwrecked in Russia,” says Matilda. She leans forward with her hands folded in her lap. Eager as a kid in a kitten store. She has on a sweater with a cat talking on a telephone.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra.
Gerry begins, “When I arrived in Leningrad—”
“Bah, if you’ve you were in Leningrad during the Cold War, I’ll finally let that old coot Gregory take me to the dance hall.”
“Ooh, who’s Gregory?” asks Sylvie.
“No interruptions,” says Matilda.
You can tell it hurt her to say it, because clearly she wants to know who Gregory is too.
Gerry continues. “As I was saying, when I disembarked, I immediately began asking the locals if they had any news of a shipwrecked American. I had a small picture of him. For weeks, I searched. I was followed and watched by officials. No one had any news. No one would speak to me.”
“Because you weren’t there and he doesn’t exist,” says Cleo.
Gerry shoots Cleopatra a stern glare. “Finally, when I was moments from giving up, a washer woman found me. She told me that a local crime lord took David prisoner and sold him to work in the diamond mines of Siberia. My hope restored, I hitchhiked a ride with a gypsy caravan traveling eastward.”
“Bah, I can’t take it. Fast forward to where you find him.”
“No interruptions,” says Matilda.
“Dear, you do realize that your story is stretching the bounds of credibility?” asks Sylvie.
Gerry sticks her tongue out and gives Cleopatra and Sylvie a raspberry. Then she smooths her sparkling, hot pink track suit and continues.
“After two months of travel adventures, which I will not relate…” She meaningfully looks at Cleopatra. “I arrived at the diamond mine. I dressed as an eccentric wealthy foreigner and asked for a tour. David was not there.”
“Of course he wasn’t,” mumbles Cleo.
“He’d escaped. All the guards were talking of it. The American who had overpowered them and daringly led a rebellion. They believed he’d made his way to Finland.”
“Did he?” asked Matilda.
“No,” says Gerry. She closes her eyes. Her eyelids are coated in bright blue eye shadow.
“Then where did he go?” Matilda asks.
“China,” says Gerry.
“China,” breathes Matilda. “Steve and I always said we’d go to China.”
Gerry smiles at Matilda.
The nurse comes in. Chemo is finished. I’m free to go.
“See you girls later,” I say.
They say their goodbyes.
Even though I didn’t talk about my troubles, I feel more centered.
I don’t have to make any decisions right away.
I can work on my list and keep on with my life.
Shawn hasn’t called.
I’ll keep to my bargain with Jack.
Finish my list.
Survive.
34
Jack
* * *
I look up as the changing room door opens. We’re doing another item on Dany’s list.
“What do you think?” she asks.
She spins around in a little ballet move. I clear my throat as all the blood leaves my head and goes southward.
“It’s good,” I say. My voice is a low growl. “Good,” I say again.
I’ve been losing sleep over this woman and she doesn’t even realize it. This moment is going to haunt my dreams.
She’s in a fluttery yellow dress. The front is held together by ribbons and the shoulder straps are tied in little bows. She looks like a present. For me. A present for me. I could tug in exactly three places and the dress would fall to the floor. Do women realize that ties and buttons are enticements to fuel men’s imaginations?
“I’m getting it then,” she says. She spins again and the dress poofs out. I catch a glimpse of lace underwear. I groan.
“Pardon?” she asks. She’s wearing a floral head scarf and little hoop earrings. Wedge shoes. Lots of bracelets and color. She looks nothing like the prim and buttoned-up woman I met all those weeks ago.
But I still feel the same draw. No matter what she looks like. I still feel drawn to her.
I close my eyes. I know I’m fighting a losing battle.
What am I going to do when she gets to the end of her list? It’s like a big, glowing clock ticking over my head. A countdown to when I’m going to lose her. Except I don’t even have her.
And I can’t have her.
“What did you say?” she asks.
“I said you should get them all. They all looked good.”
After she’s bought half the store. I carry her shopping bags onto the street.
“Let’s get lunch. I want to go back to Chet’s,” she says.
I flinch reactively. “No way. No more bar fights.”
She laughs. “Kidding.”
I shake my head.
“We could get street food. I’ve always wanted to—”
“Try street food.” I finish for her.
“Am I that predictable?” she asks.
“Predictable?” I think of her surprise announcement outside my truck after bungee jumping. I swallow. “Never,” I say. “You terrify me with how unpredictable you are.”
“That’s good,” she says. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
Then she frowns. Suddenly, I can feel her sadness. It’s a strong current below a deceptively smooth surface. I don’t know how I missed it before. When did this happen? Why?
I curse Shawn. I remember as well as she does that he called her boring. It hurt her. A lot.
“It’s not possible for you to bore me,” I say.
She looks down at her shoes.
“You alright?” I ask. I nudge her with my elbow.
“When I finish my list…”
My throat tightens. That ticking clock threatens.
“When I finish my list, what if I go back to being who I was? I won’t always be running around, being spontaneous. I might go back to being what I was. Back to being…I don’t know.” She shakes her head.
It’s not only sadness. There’s distance there. A chasm opening between us.
My shoulders tense. I want to reach out and shake her, grab her and pull her across the drop. Pull her to me.
Instead, I say, “Let’s go to the kebab stand on the corner of Fifth and Main.”
She looks at me. I feel my face burn under her scrutiny. I dropped it. I dropped the ball.
She tucks away the question. “That sounds amazing.”
“Alright.”
We walk down the street, our shoulders brushing, the back of our hands touching. I want to reach out, pull her around and kiss her. Tell her she never has to finish her list. That she can keep on being the Dany I know. That she doesn’t ever have to be anything she doesn’t want to.
That I love her.
Good lord, I love her.
I’m terrified of it.
Too scared to admit the truth. To myself or to her.
“Why do you like renovating buildings so much?” s
he asks, oblivious to my struggle.
I take a moment to pull myself back together. To wrap up those feelings and hide them down deep.
“Do you want my pat answer, or do you want the truth?” I ask.
She looks over at me and lowers her brows. “Why do you have a pat answer?”
“Because most people don’t want to hear the truth. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not really appropriate for every day.”
Her mouth purses into a little pink peach.
“I get that. But I want the truth. You won’t make me uncomfortable,” she says.
I look down at the cracked gray sidewalk. Funny thing, I’ve never shared my true reasons with anyone.
It’s harder to draw it out than I thought.
She reaches over and gently takes my arm. We start walking, moving forward together. The city moves around us, cars driving by, stores open, restaurants serving lunch. We’re in our own bubble.
“When I was young, I lived with my mom on the west side of Stanton,” I begin slowly.
“Across the tracks?” she asks.
“Yeah. We lived in the Redwood Development.”
“Oh. Ohhh,” she says. Her voice cracks.
I almost stop my story there. She knows what’s coming. Everyone knows what happened at Redwood.
She doesn’t press, she doesn’t say anything more.
After a while I continue. “My mom worked three jobs. I didn’t know my dad yet. I didn’t know about Sissy. My mom. She…” I stop. This is hard to say. “She hated being a mom.”
“No,” says Dany.
“It’s alright. I understand. She didn’t hate me. She hated being a mom. I wasn’t what she wanted. I made life hard.”
“It’s not your fault she had you,” Dany says. She sounds angry in her defense of me. I smile.
“No, I got it. I was a hellion. I didn’t help around the house. I wasn’t good at being part of a family. As long as she had me around, she suffered.”
“Is that what she said?” Dany asked.
I shake my head no. Not until the end. I just knew, like any child knows when their parent doesn’t exactly want them. I’m not cut out for family life. That’s always been clear.
“Anyway. When I was ten, my mom was upset that I wasn’t pulling more weight around the house. She wanted me to stay home and clean up while she slept. Instead, I snuck out to bike around town and smoke the cigarettes I’d shoplifted.”
