Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  “Then maybe it’s just that I need help. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to manage this.” Mostly, I don’t know what to do with the information I have now about Meg, but I can’t confess that. “The worst has already happened. People know Meg left. We can’t keep pretending she’s just traveling for a year. I think if Aunt Vee talked to her, she’d come back.”

  Mom slides the hem of her shirt through her fingers. “And then what? She doesn’t want to be here. She’s made it clear she doesn't want to talk to us.”

  “I guess that’s something you’ll have to work on when you see her. But maybe you don’t have to figure out that part now. Just call Aunt Vee, and tell her the truth.”

  We regard each other in the mirror.

  “You miss her,” I say. “Like, really miss her.”

  It’s stating the obvious, but we Lavenders aren’t all that great at acknowledging the truth until it’s right in our face.

  “I know I do. I just didn’t expect . . . I wasn’t prepared for . . . ” She ducks her head, never finishing the thought.

  “She took up a lot of your time,” I say. “But did you even like it? Not just her swim and track meets and college-admissions stuff, but everything else you do, like cooking and holidays and making sure we always have toilet paper. Because it’s really stressful and not all that fun trying to be you.”

  She cracks a smile. “Yes, Lemon, I like all of it. I always wanted a family and everything that comes with it. It’s hard, but it’s rewarding.” The smile fades. “It’s even harder when the life you’re used to changes.”

  “It’s never going to be like it was. But maybe it can be better than it is now.”

  We sit in silence, and after a minute, Mom sinks down next to me and runs her hand through my hair. Usually, I feel like she’s brainstorming ways to improve me, but she says, “How have I not realized how smart and brave my daughter is?” She guides my head to her shoulder, and we stay like that for a little while, lost in our own thoughts, until she reminds me it’s late and I have school in the morning.

  Before leaving, she studies me and says, “Lemon . . . whatever happens with Meg, I think I need to get to know you better. I’m sorry I don’t.”

  She closes the door and for the first time in a while, it feels like I have a mom.

  thirty-three

  TWO DAYS LATER, AUNT Vee is at our kitchen table. From the stern expression on her face, I can tell she knows everything. Before I can go to her, she has me in a bone-crushing hug.

  “I missed you, Lemon Drop,” she says into my hair.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She pulls back to look at me. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  I glance at Mom, who nervously twirls the tail of her ponytail. “Is Dad upset?”

  She hesitates. “He’s okay, honey. I told him we needed to do something, and he agreed.”

  Aunt Vee lets go of my shoulders. Mom looks at me, I look at Aunt Vee, and she looks at Mom. The refrigerator hums. I don’t know what else to say, so I grab my bag and tell them I have homework to do, but leave my books untouched. Now that the lid is off the secret, I’m not sure what to do with myself. I end up sitting on my bed and digging gum out of the sole of my sneaker with a pen cap.

  A half hour later, Aunt Vee knocks on my door. I let her in, and she rolls my desk chair around to sit facing me.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t know,” she begins. “I should’ve at least suspected something was wrong at Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I reply. “We were really good at covering it up.”

  “I’m glad you convinced your mom to call me.”

  I toss the gooey pen cap into the trash can and drop my sneaker to the floor. “What are you going to do?”

  She sighs. “When your dad gets home, we’re going to look at the credit-card statement and see the last place she bought something. Then I’m going to use my zillions of frequent-flyer miles until I find her. I already have some friends on standby to help.”

  “What if she doesn't want to come back?”

  “I think if I talk to her, she’ll be more receptive. I just have to track her down first.”

  I nod. I can see Meg talking to Aunt Vee. If one of my parents showed up, she’d run the other way. But then I remember Meg said she lost her credit card; they’ll never find her if that’s their tracking device.

  Aunt Vee leans her elbows on her knees and suspends my thoughts. “Lemon, do you have any idea why she left in the first place? Did something happen, anything you know about? Convincing her to come back might be challenging, so it would help if I had something to go on.”

  I talked to Meg; she promised to call a second time. But if I tell, she’ll probably never speak to me again. I weigh each choice.

  I can smell Aunt Vee’s juniper lotion when she abandons the chair and sits next to me on the bed. “It just makes sense that she might reach out, and if she did, it would be to you.”

  I’m way past hating secrets—especially being the one knowing them. I lean into her, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to unburden myself.

  “She called,” I admit. “It was last week, but I swear it was the first and only time. She called because she wanted money. Something happened with the credit card. She wouldn’t tell me where she is, but I said I could get her cash. She’s supposed to call again and give me an address.”

  Aunt Vee’s voice tightens. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. After school.”

  She stands to pace the length of my bedroom. “That’s good, that’s great. You did really good, Lemon.” She squeezes my shoulder.

  Despite her reassurance, I remain uneasy. “Are you going to tell my parents I talked to her and didn’t let them know?”

  She falls back into the chair. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I can’t keep anything from them either. They’ve been through so much . . . and I think we’ve all realized that keeping secrets doesn't help.” She rolls herself closer. “But we should see if she calls first. If she does, and you get an address, it’ll take care of itself. If she doesn't call, though . . . we have to let them know she reached out.”

  “Okay,” I say, agreeing to the plan.

  Vee watches me—always seeing a little more than everyone else. “I feel like there’s more you want to say.”

  “It’s just—do you think things will ever be normal again?”

  “Maybe not normal, but over time, adjustments happen. And one day, you wake up and it is normal. A new normal.”

  I braid the section of hair falling over my ear. “What if you wake up and the new normal isn’t good? Like, it’s a bad type of normal? With flames and a pit.”

  She tips up my chin so I can’t avoid her. “Your mom told me about some of the other stuff that’s been going on. The fight at school and the video. That’s a pretty heavy load to carry, especially with Meg.”

  I shrug, peeling my braid apart and starting over. “I just feel like I’ll never figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “How to be someone.”

  She laughs. “Lemon, you’re sixteen years old. You aren’t supposed to know how to be yet.” When I make a face, she adds, “Tell me what this is really about, because you don’t usually have an existential crisis at your age without a reason.”

  I fall against the bed so my legs dangle off. If I’m going to reveal these thoughts, then I can’t look at her. It makes it easier when I describe how I got to this point, how falling for Graham led to my problems with Chelsea, then Madeline, but it was exacerbated by Dad and his crazy expectations to be perfect and my weird need to be invisible. Aunt Vee doesn’t comment except to add an “oh” or an “okay” here and there.

  When I’m done and feeling emptied out, I sit back up. Aunt Vee has crossed her legs and pitched an elbow on my desk, almost like I imagine a therapist would sit. I peek at her from lowered eyes.

  She exhales and straightens. “Lemon, that
is some kind of drama you’ve been living.” She can’t stop herself from smiling, and when I don’t join her, she grabs my knee and shakes me. “Come on! This is some fabulous, dramatic shit.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “I mean stuff. Never mind . . . you’re old enough to swear.”

  “This is so not how I expected you to be.”

  “I’m not making fun of you. I just wish I had this much going on when I was your age! A secret romance? Fights in the gym? A bathroom standoff? But I guess I’m old and you’re not, so my perspective is different. The point is that I’m really proud of you. You tried to handle it as best you could, every step of the way. That’s impressive, Lemon.”

  “Handle it? I’m not handling it, which is why I’m talking to you.”

  Laughter clings to the corners of her mouth, but her eyes soften. “What’s the worst thing about everything that’s happened? If you could change one part, what would it be?”

  I hitch the balls of my feet on the bed frame and hug my knees. “I’m tired of people believing lies about me. Everyone thinks I’m a certain way, and I’m not.”

  “Opinions aren’t truth, though. They’re just ideas someone has. Imagine if you believed every opinion from every person you ever met. You’d be totally confused because everyone thinks something different. One would say you should have blue hair, and another would say it should be pink, and another would say it should be blond.”

  “It’s hard to live with all those opinions and not let them bother me, especially when they’re louder than I am.”

  “You can’t be all things to all people. You can only be yourself. The ones who like that person will be there, and the others won’t. Which is fine, because do you want to waste time on them? You can’t twist yourself up to please those people.”

  “You sound like Isabel.” If two people I trust are saying the same thing, then maybe there’s truth to it. Still . . . it seems somewhat lacking in instructions. “But how? How do I be myself? Is there a manual I don’t know about?”

  “I wish. You’ll just have to figure it out the old-fashioned way—trying and failing.”

  “Not helpful.”

  “It’s not hard science, Lem. Being yourself is about doing stuff you like. You could start with trying something that sounds fun. Painting or learning another language. Or joining something at school, like the newspaper—do they even have that anymore? Either way, pay attention to the things that make you feel something. For some people, it’s music or dancing or art, but it doesn’t have to be that for you. Maybe it’s Star Wars cosplay or competitive laser tag or . . . I don’t know . . . llama grooming.” She tugs on the braid I’ve left in my hair. “The rest of it sort of happens naturally. You meet people with the same interests, and maybe you start to find new stuff through them that you like. Over time, some of the worries about who you are fall away, because you’re just busy being . . . you.”

  “The mystery unfolding,” I mumble. “You said that to me once. That I was a mystery waiting to unfold.”

  “Wow . . . how very Zen of me. So, what do you think? Are you ready to actually do it?”

  “I think so.” And when I say it out loud, I know it’s true.

  THE NEXT DAY, AUNT Vee and I sit in the kitchen and wait for Meg to call. Mom is outside, measuring and making notes for the pond, which she’s pretty excited about. As the time approaches, Vee checks out the window to make sure Mom is busy. I can tell she’s nervous, because she won’t stand still.

  “I think we both need tea,” she decides after another agonizing minute. This is after she rearranged our spice rack and filled the napkin holder. Maybe stress-organizing runs in the family.

  She put the kettle on the stove and watches it. Neither of us lists all the reasons Meg won’t call. All we have is hope that she will.

  When the kettle howls, both of us jump. Just as Aunt Vee pours boiling water into the first mug, the phone rings. She whips around, spilling water across the counter. I answer, and when Meg’s voice responds, I nod to Aunt Vee. She puts her ear close to the receiver to hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Lemon, do you have it?” Meg asks.

  “Yeah, I have it.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Okay, write this down.”

  I carefully transcribe the address in large, clear letters and read it back to her. My heart thumps like madness as she confirms the location.

  Aunt Vee silently taps her finger on the script we prepared.

  “Just don’t go anywhere,” I say, “because it’s going to take a week at least to mail it from here.”

  “I know,” she replies. “Once you send it, rip up the address. I’m warning you, Lemon, don’t tell anyone where I am. Just send the money.”

  I hesitate, and Aunt Vee rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder. She scribbles a message to me on the edge of the paper. I read it, then ask, “Meg, are you okay? Just let me know you’re alright.”

  “God, stop asking me that. I’m fine. Never better.”

  “I’m just worried, because you need money.”

  In the background, a dog barks.

  “I’m with some friends. You don’t have to worry. I swear.”

  She makes me promise I’ll send the money right away, and then it’s over.

  After I hang up, I hand the paper with Meg’s address to Aunt Vee, who hugs me tight. “You’re fabulous,” she says.

  When Dad gets home, she sits him and Mom on the couch and spills the beans. Dad puts his forehead into his hands. Mom doesn’t say more than a strained thank you. Aunt Vee books a flight to Amsterdam, and by the next day, she’s on her way to get Meg.

  thirty-four

  ON SATURDAY NIGHT, I open my bedroom door to Dad’s tentative knock.

  “You busy?” he asks after a beat.

  I’m still grounded, without car or phone, so his question is comical. “No,” I reply.

  He enters, absently moving to the middle of my room. Since Aunt Vee told him about Meg’s call, he hasn’t said much, so I can’t decipher his mood. Warily, I sit in my desk chair, waiting for an epic scolding.

  “Looks different in here,” he remarks, picking up a random ceramic bowl from my dresser. He looks at it, then places it back down. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about everything that happened yesterday. Your aunt said you did really well on the phone with Meg.”

  I spin my chair an inch to the left, then to the right. “I’m glad she called.”

  “It was definitely unexpected, but good news for a change.” He returns to the threshold, standing half inside my room. I think he’s going to leave, but he says, “I’m still upset with everything, but I appreciate that you handled the situation like you did.” His words hang in the air between us. “Well, that was it. I’ll let you get back to . . . whatever.”

  Strangely, I’m not ready for him to go. Maybe it’s because he’s offered a rare compliment and I’m greedy for something more. Confirmation that he doesn’t hate me and I’m not the shame of the Lavender family.

  “I think it’ll be good . . . for Meg to be home. For all of us. For her too.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” he replies.

  “Do you think she’ll be mad at me? For telling you where she is?”

  He takes off his glasses and slings them through the opening of his shirt. “I think . . . she’ll realize you only did it because you care.”

  I shrug. “I guess I’m just afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “That we’ll never be able to get past it.”

  He pauses to rub the back of his neck. “That won’t happen, Lemon. Maybe it’ll take time, but we’ll figure it out. We’re all a little . . . smarter . . . now.”

  In reality, I don’t think either of us really knows what it’ll be like when Meg is home. Will she only run away again? Will we ever find common ground?

  For a second time, Dad tries to leave, but I say, “Do you remember when we first moved here, Meg and I pla
yed in that washing machine box?”

  He leans against the doorframe and emits a raspy laugh—I’d forgotten what it sounds like.

  “I do,” he replies. “It was a rare moment for the two of you to spend any time together.” His eyes drift, seeing into the past. “What made you remember that?”

  “I don’t know, I was just thinking about it recently. I guess Meg and I were really different, even then?”

  “Meg was always more like your mother. I love your mother, but she has a difficult time adjusting to change. And so does Meg, which is why I worry about them so much.”

  “You don’t worry about me?” I ask, then instantly regret it.

  He looks away, out of my room and down the hall. “I’m not real good at this, Lemon.”

  “Good at what?”

  “Talking. About these things. Trying to say what I mean.”

  “It’s just me, Dad. I’m not the FBI or anything.”

  He puffs his cheeks and blows all the air out. “Since Meg left, I’ve leaned on you because I thought you could handle it. I admit I forget you’re a kid a lot of the time. Especially this year. You’ve always been so . . . so . . . quiet and unfazed by anything. I guess I misjudged it for something it wasn’t.”

  “I am a kid, though. I’m not always going to do the right thing. Not now. Probably not ever.”

  “I know, Lemon, but when you’re my age, it can be hard to remember what it was like being a teenager. We didn’t have video blogs and cell phones and all that. The world is so much more complicated. It makes it difficult to relate to what you’re dealing with.”

  I can’t really imagine my father at sixteen. I’ve seen pictures of him in a football uniform kneeling on Westmoore’s field, a helmet under his arm. Some prom photos in front of a cherry blossom tree. Even so, I don’t have a sense of him as a real person at that age. Maybe he had girlfriend drama and fights with his friends, but he just doesn’t talk about it because it doesn’t matter anymore.

  “Are you still mad at me?” I ask.

  “Lemon,” he sighs. “Seeing that video was . . . one of the worst feelings I’ve ever had. I believe you didn’t intentionally cause it, though. And all the other videos . . . I don’t know. I don’t like that all this was happening to you and I didn’t know about it.” He grimaces, like it’s painful for him to admit. “Maybe we should’ve talked more.”