Plunge

by Brittany McIntyre

  “What do you expect?” I responded, folding my arms like a toddler. “You have us eating at the table. Something is going on.”

  Mom sighed and leaned back in her chair, her fingers twisting her paper napkin into sharp points. She nodded slowly before she started talking and I could see she was trying to get her thoughts together. For some reason that made the nervousness worse, like if she had to spend that much time trying to put a positive spin on whatever she was going to tell us, it couldn’t possibly be anything good.

  “I’ve decided to start dating,” she said, stiffening her back so that her posture was perfectly straight and her head was held queen level high. She raised her eyes from her lap and looked at me pointedly before giving Ari a similar glance. “I’m getting older and I don’t want to spend my golden years alone.”

  A snort escaped from Ari’s tiny freckled nose. “Golden years?” she asked. “What are you going to be, a golden girl?”

  Mom blushed and I giggled. Thank God Ari seems so nonchalant, I thought to myself. Over the years, when I had imagined Mom starting to date, the only negative I had ever pictured was Ari’s reaction. She had never known what it was like to have a man around; it had always just been the three of us. I thought for sure she’d feel threatened by the idea, but here she was, nose crinkled and eyes as bright as always, making jokes about The Golden Girls.

  To buy myself some time while I thought up what to say, I jammed a huge bite of spaghetti into my mouth and chewed very slowly. I wasn’t exactly sure how to approach the conversation. I was theoretically happy about Mom dating as it had started to become pretty depressing to witness how her Saturday nights were spent, but who knows what kind of guy she’d bring home. Would she even be bringing these guys home or would she the type of single mom dater to keep the men completely separate from us kids until they were walking down the aisle? I swallowed.

  “When you say you are going to start dating,” I began, treading carefully into these strange waters, “do you mean you are like . . . open for dating business, or have you found a specific guy that you plan on seeing?”

  A coy smile spread across Mom’s face and an unfamiliar redness once again rose up into the bloom of her cheeks. She looked so young that I smiled at how shy she was about all this love stuff. It hit me that it’s been so long for her, it probably didn't feel that different than it felt for me. It’s like me and my mom were both new to navigating the world of romance. I didn't know if that was funny or mortifying.

  “There is someone at work that I have been eyeballing,” she said and for a second I thought I was going to die at her use of the word “eyeballing.” Determined to be mature about the whole thing, I instead took a small sip of my water and nodded my encouragement I glance dover at Ari who was listening with wide eyes as she continued to glob ranch onto her tomatoes.

  “What’s he like?” I asked.

  She pursed her lips and took a pause as she thought about the best way to describe her potential beau. During dinner, I learned that his name was Michael, he was forty-two, he liked really sweet coffee drinks and had been bringing Mom one at least once a week for several months, and he had a son who was in second grade. When I leaned in and asked what he looked like, wiggling my eyes a little, mom surprised me by laughing.

  “He’s a little bit bald and kind of short,” she said with a shrug. “Do you know, I barely think about it? Whenever I think about him, I just think about how he always tells dad jokes when he brings me files and how many times a day he makes me smile at really stupid stuff.”

  I covered her hand with my own and felt my eyes well up with tears. Seriously, I am like a seventy-year-old with my emotions sometimes. Commercials have been known to make me cry, especially dog commercials. “He sounds awesome, Mom,” I said.

  That night, I was so happy for Mom that I cleared the table without being asked and loaded the dishwasher without so much as a sigh.

  When I finally trudged up the stairs, Ari was waiting for me on my bed. She was shoeless this time and her socks had kittens and tacos on them. Who comes up with this stuff? What do kittens have to do with tacos?

  “Scoot over,” I said as I gently nudged Ari’s skinny ribs with my pointy elbow. I settled into next to her and as we both silently stared at the plaster ceiling, the minutes slipped away. I was starting to get impatient. “What’s up, Kid?”

  Ari sighed a deep sigh and I knew this was going to be about Mom. I knew her smiling silence at the dinner table was too good to be true. When she didn’t answer right away, I nudged her again and I knew whatever was on her mind was serious because instead of squaking at me to cut it out, she just rubbed the sore spot on her torso without another word about it.

  “Do you think Mom’s going to get remarried?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  I didn’t want to lie to her, but I was afraid admitting that I had no idea what to think might make things worse. The truth was I was happy for Mom because she’d been alone too long, but that hadn’t stopped her news from jarring me a bit. She’d never even mentioned dating before, but then again, I hadn’t ever asked her about it, either. I guess her single status had been the status quo for so long that I’d taken it for granted and now it was hard to even envision her making that kind of commitment.

  “I don’t remember Dad,” Ari whispered.

  I sat up on my elbows and looked down at her. Her eyes were scrunched closed like this confession was hard on her, so I knew I had to tread lightly.

  “Ari, he calls sometimes. You talked to him a few months ago. What do you mean you don’t remember him?”

  She opened her eyes and looked at me and while she wasn’t crying, she was forcing her eyelids to open wide and I got the sense that she was struggling to hold the tears back. “Yeah, but I haven’t seen him. I don’t remember how he smells or whether he wears suits to work. I don’t know if he has a beard. I don’t remember him,” she said, and my heart broke for her.

  I rolled onto my side and pulled her close, cuddling her like I used to when we were both younger. She snorted against my shirt and I felt dampness, so I knew she’d lost the battle against the tears. There was nothing I could say to explain things to her in a way that would make sense; I had no idea why Dad left. One day he was this good dad and the next, he was gone. Literally gone: Dad moved out in the middle of the night and called Mom three days later to explain. I never found out what he told her in that call, but it must have been pretty intense because the door to her bedroom was not only closed, but locked, which was pretty much the opposite of Mom’s standard open door policy. They had talked for over an hour, and when Mom finally came out to tend a sobbing Ari, her face was puffy from crying.

  It sucked when he left. When I say he was a good dad before he vanished, I don’t just mean that he was an okay guy who was around, I mean he was the kind of dad that the other kids kind of envied me for having. Like when I was sick once and was being bratty because I couldn’t do anything and I wanted to go outside, he made me all these weird little puppets out of clothespins. I still don’t even know where he got the clothespin; it’s not like we hung our laundry out to dry. We had a dryer. He found them somewhere, though, because he had drawn faces on the circular tops with sharpie and tied ribbon around the parts that were supposed to be their bodies. They weren’t pretty or anything. This was way before Pinterest and he wouldn’t have used it, anyway. They were just these ugly, smiling sticks, but he took the time to pop up with them and he acted out stories with me for hours. He was that kind of dad. He was that kind of dad for me, but had been no kind of dad to Ari.

  I looked down at her and realized she’d cried herself to sleep in my bed and I got so angry I wanted to hunt Dad down and demand answers. How does that even happen? How can you be Mr. Incredible for years for one kid, kiss your wife’s pregnant belly and get all excited for the next, and then just literally run away from home like a kid having a tantrum?

  With a final glance down at Ari, I decided I wasn’t going
to move her to her own bed that night. She’d already cried herself to sleep once and I wasn’t going to make her relive that by waking her up so I could sleep better. I readied myself for a long, sleepless night of her space heater warmth keeping me awake, but almost as soon as I nuzzled up beside my sister, I was out.

  Six am seemed earlier than usual as I drove down the still dark streets to Lennox’s house. She’d been insistent that we get an early start if we were driving the three hours to the zoo, even though I thought leaving at eight would still give us a pretty full zoo adventure. Lennox could be stubborn I was learning, and this was one of those times when she dug her heels in, so I just went with it. Two more hours sleep would have lessened my squinting a little bit, but really didn’t make that much of a difference.

  When I pulled up to her classic, red brick two story home, I texted to let her know I’d arrived and turned on the radio to wake me up some while I waited. I used my phone to turn on some top forties pop stuff and found myself zoning out as I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel.

  Lennox sauntered out of the house with a lollipop between her lips and for just a beat, I thought she was puffing a cigarette. I won’t lie, as she carefully slid her hood over her bangs with that stick between her lips, even if she had beem smoking, I’d have been torn between giving her a lecture or swooning. There was something very fifties movie star about the vibe she was putting off, and I was picking up whatever she was laying down. As she settled into the car seat, I reminded her to buckle her seatbelt and she rolled her eyes but followed my command with a sarcastic thumbs up.

  At about 6:15, we pulled on to Rt. 60 going west and coffee was all that was propelling us forward. The pop had gone from uplifting to headache inducing and all I wanted to do was take a nap curled up in the driver’s seat. With all the fake-it-till-you-make-it vibes I could muster, I glued on a huge smile that didn’t extend to my eyes.

  “Let’s play a car game!” I yelled in a tone that was meant to sound enthusiastic but came off unhinged.

  I thought Lennox might have been about to doze off because she visibly jumped and clanked her head against the window. “A car game?” she echoed through a wide mouthed yawn, rubbing the side of her skull. “Like what?”

  I sorted through my internal filing cabinet to come up with something age appropriate since I was pretty sure “I spy” and “Going on a Picnic” were a little young for a high school road trip. The only thing I could really come up with that could be adapted for a car trip would be Truth or Dare and I wasn’t really sure I wanted to open myself up to all the possibilities that came along with truth telling. Not with Lennox. Either my mouth didn’t have the same inhibitions, or I just wasn't awake enough to stop myself because the suggestion came pouring out before I could hold it in.

  Lennox eyeballed me with some skepticism, but then shrugged one shoulder in answer. “I guess we could do that. You up first?”

  “Sure,” I nodded in affirmation. “Truth or Dare?”

  After a pause, she responded with dare.

  Impressive, I thought thinking about all the times I had hopped on truth at neighborhood sleepovers. I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. I wanted to set the tone so that the game would be fun and silly, but nothing that would cross that line into going-viral-on-YouTube territory.

  It came to me. Classic, embarrassing, simple: “I dare you to post a SnapChat story of yourself singing along to ‘You Need to Calm Down,’” I challenged. “With moves.”

  For a second, I thought she would refuse. I really should’ve known better. Lennox might come off as cooler-than-thou 90% of the time, but she was no chicken. With full on “Vogue” era Madonna hand gestures, Lennox belted Taylor’s pride anthem in perfect rhythm.

  And so it went—Lennox dared me to do the hand gesture to ask a truck driver to honk their horn at a passing car, which I did; I countered with daring her to put lipstick on with her boobs ala The Breakfast Club. During one lull in my ability to come up with dares, I had what I saw as the perfect idea: I’d dare Lennox to drive. We weren’t that far from our destination, the mood was light, everything was chill. It seemed win/win: I would have a dare for her, and she could confront her fears.

  But, as soon as I pulled off the road, I had doubts. It had seemed like such an obvious idea when we were driving along, singing Taylor Swift and doing embarrassing car swaying. Harmless, even. Now that I had to find the words to convey my thoughts, they had fled. In fairness, it was probably good that they’d fled because a tiny voice in my head was muttering at me: don’t you dare. Hannah Grace Justice, you mind your own business.

  I guess my inner struggle went on too long because Lennox finally turned to me. “What is it?” she asked, and I could tell she was fighting the battle between worry and frustration.

  “Keys?” I said and then narrowed my eyes. Keys? Could I even string words together? Seriously, what was wrong with me?

  “Keys?” she responded. She pointed at the ignition and I could see worry win the battle, only suddenly, it was worry for my sanity.

  Feeling the heat rise from my toes to my hairline, I blushed as I tried to continue in a far less embarrassing way. I chuckled, trying to make the slip seem insignificant when I really wanted to jump off a cliff. Again. “Sorry,” I said with a slight shake of the head. “What I was attempting to say was that I think you should drive. Like, as your dare. Drive.”

  As soon as I made the suggestion, worry clouded her eyes. It was like the joy left, like the light just went out. She was stone faced Lennox again, the girl whose mind was always just a bit hidden.

  “I don’t drive,” she answered flatly, folding her arms across her chest.

  I pulled the keys from the ignition. Even as I was doing it, that same voice said Hannah Grace, knock it off. You are not her mother and you are pushing her away. Again, I didn’t listen when again I probably should have. It was obvious she wasn’t receptive, and it really wasn’t my business if Lennox ever drove or if she became dependent on the Cabell County bus for all her needs forever. She was going to make up her mind. It didn’t matter, though; it was like I was possessed. After all she had done to help move me forward, to help this girl who was essentially a stranger tick off items on her pre-bucket list, I wanted so much to help her . . . even if the help wasn’t exactly wanted. I dangled the keys two inches in front of her face and let them sway like a hypnotist in a bad movie.

  “You don’t, but you could,” I responded. In a sing song voice, I just carried on. “You know you want to.”

  She snatched the keys from out of my outstretched hand and locked her eyes on mine. The blankness was gone and there was fire in its place. My heart stopped. I was sure I had gone too far, sure I was about to really hear about what I could do with my damn keys. Then I noticed the beads of sweat dancing across her pale forehead and it dawned on me: she wasn’t pissed, she was scared.

  “I get what you are trying to do,” she began in a steady voice, “and I actually appreciate it, but not today.”

  There was something in the way she said “not today” that felt so sincere, like she meant it when she suggested she would try one day. We were still connected via key and neither of us made a move to change that; her fist stayed locked around the actual keys, while two of my fingers were encircled by the ring. A look passed between us then and it was like I had known Lennox my whole life and we no longer needed words to communicate. She was genuine and she was serious with every word she was uttering. There was something else I saw in her eyes in that moment and I had to fight my impulses to keep from kissing the small, bow shaped pout of her lips. She had made it clear that she wasn’t receptive and even if I felt like she was lying to herself, I had to respect her words.

  With a heavy sigh, I pulled the keys away and focused my eyes on the road ahead. Restarting the car and the radio, I smiled, but it felt wistful. There was a loss for me in that moment, a loss of something I knew I wanted, but couldn’t quite name. I knew only that
it would be so easy for me to fall in love. Too easy. As I merged back onto the highway, I turned my head briefly to my companion.

  “How about some Rihanna?”

  At the Village Coffee Shop, the first place within zoo grounds to get something hot and caffeinated, there was enough of a crowd that standing room was tight and I could smell the spicy shampoo Lennox must use. Her arm was pressed against mine and I found myself inching a little closer wishing I could put an arm around her or take her hand. My forehead was starting to sweat from the combination of my warm December sweater, scarf, the crowded line, and the heat that was on full blast. The heat intensified after a sudden reprieve as an opening of the front door brought both a temporary breeze and an ever-growing crowd.

  Two boys were tittering behind us and at first I didn’t think anything of it, but then I heard one of them mutter “Lennox.” My eyes darted over to her face and I knew that she heard it, too, because the muscles around her mouth were tight and her eyes were shut. Without another thought to boundaries or what she would think, I reached out and looped my arm through hers. When she looked at me, I smiled tightly and I could tell she got the message: this is a support touch, not an “I’m still into you” touch.

  We got through the line and I quickly ordered us two lattes. As we exited the little hut, I pulled Lennox quickly to the right. “Want to go get on the train?” I asked.

  “They won’t let us have our coffee on the train, but we can head that way and wait until we finish,” she replied. She was acting as though nothing had happened, but her tight, slightly higher than normal voice betrayed her secret.

  “You want to tell me what that was about?” I asked. Before she could answer a male voice from behind us yelled out, “Yo, Lenny. Wait up.”

  This time it was Lennox who grabbed me. She tried to both outpace them and ignore them, but the heavy footfall of boots against brick told us they weren’t giving up. I could see her tension in her movements. Lennox who was about as stoic as a person could be had fear etched into her face so clearly that she could have been an etch a sketch. It was in the way she furrowed her eyebrows, in the tight muscles I saw working her jaw. She didn’t say anything to me about it, though, just kept a grip on my arm and kept moving ahead. As we passed the Mexican wolves, they caught up and a skinny guy in a beanie and puffer coat grabbed Lennox by the forearm.