by Cat Patrick
“It’s just nice to talk to you,” I say quietly. “This helps.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” Luke says softly, sending chills down my spine. “I was painting.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say, shrugging again. “I was eating onion rings and talking about feelings with my mom anyway.”
“So tell me about the…” Luke abruptly stops talking on the other end of the phone. “Just a second,” he whispers.
I hear Luke’s hand moving over the mouthpiece, and then a woman’s muffled voice. Luke’s reply is louder but equally jumbled.
Soon enough, he’s back.
“Sorry,” he says, returning to the conversation. “That was my mom. She wants me to get off the phone. She said it’s too late to talk.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed, even though I know that my mom would feel the same way. “Okay, I guess we can catch up tomorrow then.”
“Okay,” Luke says.
“Good night, Luke.”
“Sweet dreams, London.”
He disconnects the call.
In the darkness, I stare at my phone for a few minutes, reveling in the warm feeling I got from the short conversation with Luke. I know I need to add details of the call to the note on my nightstand, but I don’t want to move just yet.
When I’ve finally willed myself to turn on the light and spoil my Zen moment, my annoying ringtone sounds again, and my heart leaps.
“Hello?” I say quickly.
“I forgot to tell you that you looked really pretty today,” Luke says in a whisper.
In the darkness, I feel my face flush.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
“You’re welcome.”
For a few seconds, we are quiet. Every muscle in my body is tense, in a good way; it’s excruciatingly intimate. I’m lying in my bed, clutching the phone like a lifeline, hearing nothing but Luke’s measured inhale and exhale and my own quickening heartbeat.
If he were here right now, I’d kiss him. “Well, I guess I should go. My mom might come back,” Luke whispers, breaking the moment.
“Okay,” I answer, unable to say more.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
“Okay, bye, Luke.”
“Bye, London,” he says before hanging up, the sound of my name from his lips sending chills through me again.
I clutch the phone to my chest and exhale sharply, then sit up and snap on the small lamp at my bedside. I update tonight’s note, and, as I’m doing so, my own mom pops her head into my room.
“It’s late,” she says.
“I know, I’m finishing up,” I answer, without looking at her.
“Sleep tight,” Mom says.
“Thanks.”
“I love you, London,” she says.
I sigh deeply and say halfheartedly, “I love you, too.” My eyes are still on my paper.
I resume writing, and sometime before I finish chronicling my call with Luke and turn out the light, my mom silently disappears.
23
Across the aisle from me, Jamie’s floral shoulder bag is packed and ready. There are five minutes left in class, and she’s making no effort to appear like she’s still paying attention.
I wonder whether she’s trying to get detention again.
The thought makes me sick.
Jamie has successfully ignored me all period, a task made easier by the fact that today wasn’t a lab day. No partnering. No practice drills. No joint assignments.
No speaking to each other.
The bell rings, and Jamie stands so quickly, it makes me jump. She turns to face me and plunks something down on my desk.
“Here,” she says, then turns and exits the classroom.
In fifteen seconds, the room is empty. Even Ms. Garcia is in her attached office, prepping for next period.
Slowly, I unfold the small piece of ripped notebook paper. There is no note; no nothing. Just a phone number.
I know what it is, though.
Even mad at me, Jamie came through.
Now it’s up to me to decide whether or not I want to contact my father.
“Do you think I can be fixed?”
My mom looks at me sharply, surprised. We’ve been eating dinner, up until this point, in silence.
“Fixed?” she asks. “I wouldn’t say that you’re broken. You’re special.”
I roll my eyes at her G-rated look on life.
“Whatever, Mom,” I reply curtly.
“What made you think of this?” Mom asks, ignoring my tone.
“Anatomy,” I reply. I take a bite of chicken and then continue. “Ms. Harris talked about storing different memories in different parts of the brain. Easy stuff, like knowing your name or riding a bike or math, goes in one place; experience-type memories go in another.”
“I wouldn’t say math is easy,” Mom jokes. It annoys me.
“It is for me,” I say sharply. “Maybe your math is stored in the harder part. Anyway, that’s not the point.”
“Sorry,” Mom says. “Go on.”
“Obviously that means that only one part of my brain is messed up. Not all of it. So I’m wondering if I can have the messed-up part fixed.”
And then I’ll know what happened in the past, I think, but don’t say. And maybe I’ll stop remembering what’s going to happen in the future, too.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Mom says quietly.
“Why do you think that?” I demand.
“Because one of the experts we’ve seen is a neurologist. Do you know what that is?”
“I’m not dense, Mother.”
“London, I’ve about had enough of your tone. I was just going to say that he had an MRI done on your brain, and nothing looked out of the ordinary. He said that your brain is perfectly healthy. No parts are ‘messed up.’ ”
“Whatever,” I say defensively. “I’m finished.”
I push back from the table, take my plate to the sink, and leave my mom to finish eating alone, which only bugs me every step of the way upstairs.
24
“Okay, I’m ready,” I whisper, even though whispering isn’t necessary. We are totally alone.
Nearly inaudible music plays from Luke’s bedroom stereo, and the late-afternoon sun is on the other side of the house, making the room dim.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Luke asks. The hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Yes,” I answer quickly. Then I add, “I think so.”
“There’s no rush,” he offers. “We can wait.”
“No, it has to be today,” I say, in a bossier tone than I mean.
Luke laughs and picks up his cell phone.
“Okay, here goes,” he says.
He dials the number from the scrap of paper, and I bite the fingernail on my right pointer finger in anticipation. I imagine one ring, then two, then…
Luke’s eyes widen and his posture stiffens. Less than one second later, he relaxes again. He makes a face as he disconnects the call.
“Wrong number,” he says, disappointed.
“Like the voice mail was for someone else?” I ask, needing clarification.
“No, like the number was disconnected. It might have been your dad’s number way back when your parents divorced, but he’s changed it since then.”
As if on cue, muffled squeals erupt from the direction of the kitchen, and Luke and I instinctively move to sit in beanbags. We know—him from experience and me from my notes—that his mother will come in without knocking to see what we’re up to. Innocently crank-calling my estranged father might look questionable if we’re doing it from Luke’s bed.
In fact, anything done while lying on Luke’s bed might be met with a raised eyebrow from Mrs. Henry, and a motherly inquisition is not what I need right now.
Luke clicks on the TV just in time for the interruption, and his mom finds us enjoying a documentary about ice fishing. She invites us to the kitchen for an afternoon snack
, and we oblige because there’s nothing left to do on the dad front for now.
After nachos, we settle into the oversized living room couch to be entertained by two matching almost-three-year-olds. I know I’ve spent time with them before, so I try to hide my utter amazement at the carbon copies before me. How odd it must be to see yourself in someone else.
Luke’s miniature sisters layer on every piece of dress-up clothing their little bodies will hold and act out a play about “monkeys and mommies at the zoo.” We give them a standing ovation, and then explain to them what a standing ovation is.
Next up is a game of skill called “line up the stuffed animals.” Like little ants, the girls move from storage bin to line and back again, carrying armfuls of stuffed bears, elephants, giraffes, and more. Once completed, a Great Wall of “Stuffies” extends from the fireplace to the arched doorway. After consulting each other for all of five seconds, they divide the territories: the left half of the living room, which includes the couch, is for “bigs,” while the right half is strictly for “princesses.”
When Big Luke leaps off the couch and jumps into twin zone, he’s met with screams and giggles and general joyousness that’s contagious. I can’t help but join in for a while, tickling and laughing with either Ella or Madelyn, I can’t be sure.
Soon enough, it’s nearing dinnertime, and Luke’s father arrives wielding a massive box and a warm hello for all of us. Mr. Henry is a handsome man, and I can see Luke in him. For a moment, I let my mind wander, wondering whether Luke will have the same salt-and-pepper hair and lightly weathered face when he’s his father’s age.
Back in reality, the girls are opening the box with their father’s help, and I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at their relationship. I move to the couch and watch the simple moments that kids with fathers in their lives take for granted. One twin’s tiny hand rests on her daddy’s shoulder as he cuts open the top; another doll face lights up like it’s Christmas morning as her father makes his way through packing peanuts and bubble wrap.
At its core, the box holds a handmade wooden rocking horse, painted pink and ready for riding.
But after one ride each, the real appeal is the massive, fortlike shipping box.
“It’s a car!” the twin I think is Ella shouts right into Luke’s face. Her eyes are so bright, how could he not help her inside and vroom her around the carpeted room? The girl that has to be Madelyn wants a ride, and Ella wants another. And now it’s: “My car!” “No, my car!” “No, MINE!”
Clearly adept at solving minibattles, Mr. Henry disappears and then emerges again with a box cutter, some packing tape, and a handful of markers. Ten minutes later, there are two equally wonderful cars, each ready to transport its twin to “the mall,” “Grandma’s,” or “school,” as she wishes.
Ella sits tall and holds tight to the sides, surveying the scenery in her imagination. Madelyn opts to lounge back in the car, making it more like a moving bed, which enables her to stare at the ceiling. As Luke scoots her by my feet, I giggle at her serene expression, and wonder what she could be thinking about while lying there staring up at the sky.
And then something happens. A piece snaps into place.
Luke stops his parade float and turns to face me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Why?”
“You just jumped, like something scared you.”
“Go, GO!” Madelyn commands from inside the box, when she realizes that her chariot has stopped.
“Shhh,” Luke says gently to his sister. “Just a minute.” She does as he says, and Luke eases off the floor. He sits down next to me on the couch and takes my hand.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asks softly. “You look really pale.” He brushes a stray piece of hair out of my face, and I think I catch Mr. Henry grinning at us.
“I feel sick,” I say, louder than I mean to, grabbing the attention of two parents and twin toddlers. Now the whole Henry family is eyeing me, with varying degrees of curiosity and concern.
“Do you want to lie down, London?” Mrs. Henry says, in a way that makes me want to check my reflection. I can’t look that bad.
“No, I’m okay,” I reply. “I think I just need to go home.”
Luke stands, and the twins protest in unison. Mrs. Henry quiets the girls, while Mr. Henry walks us to the door. Outside, I take a deep breath of freezing air, and, though it burns my lungs, it helps. Luke holds open the door of the van for me and kisses my cheek before he closes it.
We spend the ride in silence, Luke glancing at me every so often with concern on his face. When we pull into my driveway, he offers to come in.
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, wanting nothing more than to run inside.
“Is your mom home at least?” he asks, squinting toward the lighted window in the dining room.
“I’m sure she is,” I say, turning and adding, “thanks,” before slamming the door without so much as a kiss. I jog up the porch steps before Luke has the chance to get out of the car. Once inside the house, I go straight up to my bedroom, close the door, and get in bed fully clothed. Pulling the covers up to my neck, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to control my erratic breathing. I let my mind go to the damp cemetery; I let myself feel that I am there, standing in the midst of a sea of black.
I know from my notes that I’ve had some version of this funeral memory for a while. It has been building and growing in the depths of my brain, quietly reminding me that sometime, someone will die.
But until tonight, “someone” is all I knew.
Then Luke’s baby sister lying sweet and serene in a shipping box lit the fuse, and here I am seeing it plain as day: the smaller than usual hole in the ground before me, open wide and already swallowing a tiny coffin fit for the miniperson surely lying inside.
“Someone” is a child.
As if it couldn’t get worse, another thought punches me in the gut and beats me down to the point where I consider I might never get up again.
It’s hazy—a long time from now—but I do remember being pregnant.
What if it’s my child?
Isolated and terrified by what I remember, I pull the covers up tighter under my chin, because it’s all I can think to do.
My mom isn’t here; my dad is long gone. The only person in my life right now is a boy I can’t remember. And someday in my future, I will bury a child.
It is all too much.
25
On the way to Spanish, I check out the Winter Formal posters peppering the hallways; the event is tomorrow night. I know from notes that Luke is taking me, and after spending the last class period with the boy I’ve apparently been dating for nearly four months, I’m fine with that.
Tense, but fine.
In Spanish, we have a substitute teacher, and Jamie partners with Amber Valentine for pronunciation drills, leaving me to fend for myself against an angry senior TA named Andi who clearly had other plans for the period. I’m not sure what the prerequisites are for obtaining a teacher’s assistant gig, but obviously they don’t include being good at the subject you’re assisting with; Andi’s accent is worse than mine.
She’s rolled her eyes at me seventeen times and counting, according to the scratch list on my notepad. My revenge is not telling her about the green food particle wedged between her two front teeth.
After class, I rush to catch up with Jamie.
“Hi,” I say, when she realizes that I’m walking next to her toward the lunch hall.
“Hey,” she says flatly.
“How are you?” I ask, hoping to start mending fences.
“Fine,” she says, in an even flatter tone, if that’s possible. This is not the day for reconciliation.
“Listen, Jamie, I just wanted to thank you,” I offer.
“For what?” she asks, disinterested and avoiding eye contact. I think she just stepped farther away from me.
“For the number. My dad’s,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” Jamie says as she turns in the opposite direction and leaves me standing still in the middle of the busy hallway.
26
Squeaky-clean, and clothed in a red cocktail dress that shows a little more skin than feels natural today, I tap the tune of “Chopsticks” on the antique table.
“You’ll wreck your polish,” my mom cautions from across the kitchen, nodding in the direction of my freshly painted nails. She’s leaning against the counter, watching me as she sips tea from a steaming mug.
I stop tapping but don’t reply.
“Are you nervous about the dance?” Mom asks, making conversation.
I hear the grandfather clock in the living room chime once for the half hour. He’ll be here any minute.
“I guess,” I say, tossing a curl over my shoulder. In truth, it’s not the dance I’m nervous about. It’s my life.
Trying to push away the darker thoughts, I focus on the notes before me, spread across the table like the diary of an amnesiac. I used the afternoon to study up on Luke as best I could, cramming more for this date than I will for the SAT later this year. Even still, I could forget something. That thought makes me uneasy; I read on.
My mom and I both jump at the sound of the doorbell.
“Want me to get it?” Mom asks when I stay frozen in my seat.
“Huh? Oh, no, I’ll go. I mean, I’m dating him, right?”
“Yep, you are,” she says warmly. “And he’s a very nice boy. You look beautiful, London. Have fun tonight.”
I walk toward the kitchen doorway as if my feet are lead and continue down the small hallway leading to the entryway. I turn right, open the door, and there he is.
There… he… is.
Luke.
Tall but not too tall, trim but not buff, perfect hair, glorious eyes, looking comfortable in his simple black suit, even though I know from the notes that he’s more partial to rocker chic.
He’s holding a gigantic canvas with a bow wrapped around it.
