I’ve almost made it to the staircase when a lamp comes on in the living room. “I hear you had quite a day, Boop.”
I turn back. Mom is sitting in the armchair, her hair pinned up, still wearing her sequined gown from the banquet. “Whit’s still out,” she says, as if answering a question. “I came home early. Talked to your dad.”
“Oh.”
She extends her palm. “Phone.”
“What?”
“You’re grounded, Zan.” I sigh and walk over to hand it to her. For my mother, this is pretty extreme. She is, after all, a Progressive Parent Who Encourages a Dialogue. But right now I don’t even care. She nods toward the couch across from her. “Sit,” she says, so I do. She arranges her legs in the chair and stares.
I stare back.
“Let’s recap, shall we? You forgot your brother. Yelled at your dad. And then stormed off, at night, without telling anyone where you were or when you’d be coming back. Did I get it all?”
I scrunch my eyes closed. “I know.”
“Care to tell me what’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
She crosses her arms. “You don’t know.”
“I have . . . a lot on my mind.”
“Zan. You’re grounded either way. But if you want to tell me what’s going on, I may consider shortening the sentence.”
I sink back into the couch. After a minute, I say, “It’s Priya.”
“Oh, Boop,” says Mom. “Still?”
I shrug, a reluctant yes. “I’ve been feeling really . . . To be honest, I feel scared.”
She looks at me strangely. “What do you mean?”
I swallow. “Mom, it’s hard to explain, but I think something isn’t right. The way she’s been writing in her posts. And cutting people off like this? Not just me. Did I tell you she broke up with Nick?”
“Nicholas Wallace Reid?” She sounds surprised.
“Yes,” I say. “And remember how much she talked about him?”
“I do. He sounded like a keeper.”
“He is such a keeper, Mom. I actually met him recently and you should have seen him. She totally broke his heart. Over email. And he was so, so sad about it. And, I don’t know, a part of me doesn’t believe it could have been her.”
A wary expression flits across her face. “Zan. What are you talking about?”
Here goes.
“What if it’s not her, Mom? What if the statuses, the emails, the silence—what if none of it is in her control? She posted a selfie of herself the other day that was like four months old! Who does that?”
“Okay, you’re losing me now,” says Mom. “What’s wrong with a picture that’s four months old?”
“Never mind.” Ugh. None of this is coming out right. “It doesn’t add up, okay?”
“Of course it doesn’t. She hurt you. And it makes no sense. But honey? As you get older, more and more you realize people make no sense! Maybe she’ll come back to you, and maybe she won’t. But I think for now, for your sanity, you have to learn to live in the world where she won’t.”
“I don’t believe it.”
She groans, breaking my name into frustrated bits. “Za-ha-hann! We lose people in life, for one reason or another. And sometimes there isn’t a moral, or a takeaway, or a . . . satisfying explanation. Sometimes life just isn’t fucking fair!” Her eyes widen a little, like she’s surprised by her own outburst. “Listen. I truly, truly don’t mean to belittle your pain here, but I’m telling you, you have to start getting over this. I think Priya is going through some heavy stuff. It’s not about you. You have to let her go. At least for now.”
I think of Priya’s house today. The shattered phone. Mom would flip if she knew I broke in like that. After a moment, I let her eyes meet mine. “What if you’re wrong?”
“Honey.” She shakes her head, baffled. “If Priya were in some kind of trouble, I think we would know.”
I try not to let my voice crack, but it does a little. “How?”
“Well, for one thing, Ben would have called us. Or Anushka? Yaz? Hon, I think we’re officially crossing over into paranoia territory here. It’s normal to try and negotiate with your new reality. You lost someone. You’re hurting. You’re searching for some explanation that doesn’t feel like a rejection. But this—”
I take a throw pillow over my head and proceed to shout into it.
“Hey!” says Mom.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I say into the cushion. “I’m not some mental patient.”
I don’t have to see it to know the face she’s making. “Okay, first of all, going to therapy doesn’t make you a mental patient. You know that perfectly well. And second of all, if we’re being completely honest here, if anyone is acting like a mental patient right now, it’s you!” I lift the pillow to let her see my shock. She doesn’t back down. After a moment, she sighs. “I wish you would trust me on this.”
“Trust you? Why don’t you trust me?”
“Fine. You really want to get to the bottom of it?” Mom strains to reach the purse on the coffee table and pulls out her cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
She holds the phone up to her ear. “I’m calling Ben.”
I lunge across the coffee table. “No! Wait.” I try to take it from her.
“I’m not going to make a big deal out of it,” she says, fending me off. “I’m just going to check in.”
“No. Mom! Hang up the phone!”
“Would you rather talk to him?” She holds the phone between us. I can hear it ringing. “It’s you or me.”
For a moment, I freeze.
I take the phone. Breathe, Zan. Breathe. . . . “Alice! Hi.”
I clear my throat and Mom sinks back into her chair, her eyes locked with mine. When I don’t speak, she waves me along. “Uh, hey, Ben. It’s Zan, actually.”
“Oh,” he says. “Hi. Give me a second. I’m gonna step outside.” I hear shuffling in the background. After a minute he says, “Is everything okay?”
“Well.” I swallow, still eyeing Mom. “So, I’m not sure if you know this, but Priya and I sort of . . . aren’t talking anymore.”
“Yeah,” he says, his exhale scratching at my ear. “I’ve been wondering how you might be taking that.”
“I mean, it sucks.”
“I’m sure,” he says gently. “And, well, not to get involved, but I don’t totally get her reasoning with this one.”
“Which is . . . ?”
He breathes out. “That’s what I mean. I don’t entirely know. I think she’s, I don’t know, maybe going through a period where she needs some space.”
“Yeah,” I say, my heart sinking. “Well, I don’t expect you to tell me anything personal. But I guess I was starting to feel worried. You’d tell us if something was wrong, right? I mean. Like . . . she’s okay?”
He hesitates. “She’s fine. It’s . . . complicated. But she’s fine.”
“Okay . . .” I say, my worry spiking. “Wait, no, Ben. What the heck does that mean?”
He laughs lightly. “I just mean she’s . . . going through some stuff. She’s not talking to me much, though, either.”
“Oh.” I’m still not sure what to do with that. I look at Mom. “Hey, one second, okay?” I walk to the kitchen, out of earshot. I know Mom will respect my privacy enough not to follow me, but I keep my voice low anyway. “Did something happen at your house before you guys left? I . . . sort of went by today.”
“What do you mean?”
I think a moment and decide to go with partial honesty. “I was there, so I . . . peeked in the window. I noticed you didn’t bring all your furniture. And it was a mess inside.”
“Ah,” he says. “Well, we had to get the truck back by a certain hour here in Santa Monica. The bulk of our stuff was supposed to end up in storage, but we were so behind, rushing around. We just skipped it.” He laughs. “It was a truly chaotic day.”
“I gotcha,” I sa
y, bobbing my head. “Well. I don’t know. I guess something just felt off.” I perk up, suddenly remembering. “And there was a guy there.”
“At our house?”
“Yeah. Like, sort of lurking around. He said he knew you and Priya, but I’d never seen him.”
“Huh,” says Ben. “What’d he look like?”
“Tan skin. Dark hair and eyes. Glasses. I can’t remember much else.”
“Weird,” he says, clearing his throat. A pause. “Hey, I know it’s not my place, Zan, and I wish I could be more helpful, but I do hope she’ll come around. She’s been . . . changing. Nothing bad. I’m not sure when you two stopped talking, so maybe you already know this, but she’s at a boarding school right now.”
“Oh,” I say. “I, uh. No, I didn’t know that.”
“A spot opened up last minute,” he says. “The environment there is pretty different from Prewitt. It’s possible she’s bending to peer pressure or struggling to adjust. I’m not sure, but I think it could explain some of this.”
“Huh,” I say, nodding slowly. “But you still see her?”
“We Skype sometimes in the mornings before her classes. I’m actually visiting tomorrow. It’s a bit of a drive, but I go when I can.”
“So the school is driving distance?” As it flies from my mouth I realize how obsessive it must sound, but I’m saved by a click.
“Hey, Zan? Hold on one second. I have another call. It’s . . . Well, it’s Priya.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart constricting. “Please don’t tell her I—”
“I won’t,” he says. “Just a sec.”
I wait on the line, my thoughts swirling. I feel like I’ve woken up in the middle of this crazy conversation. This is crazy. I sound crazy.
He comes back. “Sorry about that. She needs me to send over some paperwork for school. I should call her back, but uh. Sorry, what were we saying?”
“Nothing. It’s okay. Thanks for talking to me.”
After a pause he says, “Take care of yourself, Zan, all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.” I drift into the living room, where Mom is clearly straining to listen as she runs a hand along the sequins of her dress. “Bye.”
I take a few breaths as Mom’s X-ray eyes scan through me. I’m sure she can see the way my throat is closing—the way my whole entire body wants to cry. She’s trying not to seem smug. Trying not to say, I told you so.
I return the phone before heading for the stairs. I seriously can’t stand to look at her. “Boop?” she calls after me. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Don’t!” I say, not turning back. My walk turns to a run and soon the door is slamming shut behind me. I lock it, my pulse racing as my chest rises and falls.
I see the standing bag in the corner of my room and run to it. I throw a punch, hard. From the shoulder, with all my weight. Again and again. I punch the shit out of that bag, until I lose myself. Until my knuckles ache. Until I’m breathless and heaving, with tears all down my face.
Nĭ hăo.
Me again. (Who else would it be?)
DONGGGG-GEE-DONG-GEE-CCCCHHHHHH
See above for the soundtrack of my brain. It’s like a looming question mark, and I seriously can’t stop hearing it. I suppose it’s a nice break from Amanda’s tunes, though.
“When You’re Smiling” is competing for space in this tortured mind, though I only sort of know the words. Something something, repeat repeat, “The whole world smiles with you . . .” If we’re sticking with this chipper theme, could I at least put in a request, Mr. DJ? How ’bout a little “Happy” by Pharrell? Actually, no. I was incredibly immune to how overplayed that song got, but Amanda would find a way to destroy it. It’s the mother-flipping jam. (If anyone disagrees, we can fight. This is a hill I will die on.)
Non Sequitur I Feel Compelled to Share:
When I was a kid, any time I started a journal I was always vaguely concerned it would wind up published for posterity. What if there was something really embarrassing in there? Like how I thought “approximately” meant “exactly” for like . . . years? Until Ben finally cracked up and told me? Or how I spent all of third and fourth grade convinced I was bound to convert to Judaism whenever Adam Eidelman and I inevitably married? (He was super nice, and he always shared the matzo from his school lunch.) TO BE CLEAR: if anyone’s wondering, this journal is SO NOT THAT KIND OF THING. I just need to get stuff out. No posterity, please. ☺
Anyway. I’ve had a day. Days.
AHAHAHA that is an understatement.
Ben and I aren’t in what you’d call a *great place* at the moment. It’s been a whole lot of either fights or long stretches of not talking. Even during our less prickly times when he’s come down, I’ve kept the chitchat to a minimum. But we can’t stop talking now. That’ll just make things worse.
I was decent about it today. He came bearing muffins and a new textbook he’d picked up for me. He said he talked to Zan last night, and that she was worried. He tends to overshare these days, I’ve noticed. Weirdly enough, I think he misses me.
“What’d you tell her?” I asked.
“Mentioned boarding school. Alluded to some changes. Think you really hurt that friend of yours.”
I refused to let his words affect me. “C’est possible,” I said, with a little French shrug. I couldn’t help but complain a smidge. Told him I wished the muffin had been blueberry. “Always blueberry.”
“So you’ve mentioned,” he said. I’ll pump the brakes for a bit.
I’m now officially switching from Mandarin to German. I’m lacking my usual determination with the former. It’s too damn hard. German grammar is admittedly bananas, but I think I’ll have more luck. Plus, I already enjoy shouting, “SCHEISSE!” when I’m angry, and I’d love to be able to fold that into a full-on German rant.
I need more expletives in my life.
Besides anger, I’ve also been feeling this, like . . . aching guilt. Toward Mom, mostly. And let me tell you, feeling simultaneously angry and guilty toward a dead person is one of the more exhausting emotions out there.
I keep seeing that photo in the box of her things. That lively smiling group in front of the bar. Mom and Alice looked so young. They looked like liars. I guess we all keep secrets. I did from Zan. I did from Nick.
At the same time, I can’t believe how much I let Mom down.
There was an opening. I could have done something. And I didn’t.
I find myself wishing there was a way to say I’m sorry, and to hear her say it back. I don’t know what the point is in thinking this way. I’m not expecting some Disney Mufasa moment or anything. But I guess I could use, like, a sign? Now I feel ridiculous. (No posterity, okay?!)
Well, Mom, if you’re somehow listening, or sensing, or whatever . . . I’m sorry. I guess you could say I’m still “working things out.” But you and me? As far as I’m concerned, we’re okay, okay?
I keep thinking about how optimistic you were. When things went wrong, more often than not, you managed to laugh! You’d turn the whole ordeal into a story. A story that you loved! I’ve tried to be like that. Though sometimes I just want to say, “This sucks! Can’t we admit this just sucks?” If you were here, maybe you’d be looking for the silver lining in all this—in you leaving me here all alone. But I don’t know. That one might actually stump you.
I will not cry. I WILL NOT CRY.
(Okay, I’m taking a break.)
I’m better now.
*Pharrell voice with background claps* “Happy happy happy happy . . .”
TO DO:
More positive affirmations.
(See anything owned by Amanda for inspiration.)
(Principle #302: When admitting things suck, swear in German as needed.)
Seven
Saturday, September 15
I woke up early this morning and stayed in bed through the muted scuffle of people leaving the breakfast table, packing up, and scattering. Around eleven, I snu
ck downstairs to scour the kitchen for treats. I was disappointed to find that Mom had done the latest round of shopping (it’s Whit who has the sweet tooth). I settled for an apple with peanut butter, which I promptly brought back to bed.
My vision has gone hazy, strained by computer light in the otherwise dark room. I’ve gone into an internet sinkhole. Onion articles and memes, and clips of people falling down. I cried at a video of a three-legged dog conquering a stair step, and again when a baby got her first pair of glasses and saw her mom.
Anyway. Now I’m numb again.
The apple’s whittled-down core is diluted but still tart. I study it a moment before chucking it into the basket across the room with a satisfying swish. My eyes return to the screen and I fill my mouth with an enormous, sticky spoonful straight from the peanut butter jar.
“Well, that’s attractive,” says a little voice. Harr is standing in the doorway with a backpack on one shoulder.
It takes a minute to swallow. “When did you get here?”
“Dad just dropped me off,” he says. “Mom told me to ask if you want lunch.” My little brother appears to be mildly exasperated, like for once he wishes I’d act my own age. It’s a little unsettling, actually. “Well? You want anything?”
I shake my head.
“Okay,” he says, and he shuts the door behind him.
I make a mental note to be a better sister later. Then comes another knock, and the guilt seems to vanish. “Ugh, what now, Harrison?”
But it’s Mom who walks in, looking clean and fresh—a person well into her day.
“I told Harr I’m not hungry,” I mutter. She stops a few feet from my bed to look me over. “What?”
“OkayseriouslyI’vehadenough!” Her reply comes out as a single word. I brace myself for a Big Talk, for the forced excavation of buried thoughts and feelings.
Instead, I feel a cold rush as the comforter vanishes from my bed. “Mom!” I catch the laptop before it flies away. Our eyes lock for a suspended moment before she pulls me, rough, by the top of my arm, up to my feet.
“Get out,” says Mom.
I falter. “What?”
“Out! Out of this house!”
If You're Out There Page 14
