And that's when I realized I had one phone call left to make.
“Hello?” Eli answered on the second ring.
“Hey … it's Sammie.”
“Hi! Did you just get home?”
“Yeah …a few minutes ago.”
We were quiet for a second. I gripped the phone tightly in my hand. Okay, Sammie, now or never.
“Eli?”
“Yeah?”
“I was thinking … about the Bear Mountain trip …”
“Yeah?”
“I'd like to come.”
“You'd like to come?”
“Yes.”
Eli launched into a description of trails and swimming holes, adding how they've got an extra sleeping bag and there will definitely be space for three in the tent. It must have been five minutes before he finally came up for air.
“Sammie?” he asked, right before we hung up.
“Yeah?”
“I'm glad you're coming.”
“Me too.”
After I got off the phone, I suddenly felt tired, more tired than I've ever felt in my life. I stumbled toward Mom's bed. My arms, my legs, even my eyelids seemed like they were full of cement.
The next thing I knew, Mom was pulling off my sandals and sliding my legs under the sheets.
“No,” I mumbled, “I'll move to the futon.”
“It's only seven-thirty,” Mom whispered, switching off the small lamp next to the bed, “you can stay right here.”
I opened my eyes. The room was pretty dark, but then I realized that the shades were drawn. Right before I closed my eyes again, Mom leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. For the first time in months, I didn't try to stop her.
They always say there's a calm before the storm. In my case, the calm came after. The days following my outburst were uneventful, almost serene. Neither Mom nor I said another word about it, but in a way the air had been cleared. After months of tiptoeing around each other as if we were in a minefield, it was a relief to have finally set off the explosion.
And life after the bomb produced such surprises as:
Mom talking her way into an early-morning appointment at the vet's, where they gave Moxie a cortisone shot that reduced her irritation by sundown.
The super appearing in our apartment with a measuring tape, promising Mom he'd return soon to install the air conditioner.
Friday afternoon, when Uncle Steve called.
I'd been sitting on the futon leafing through Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul, which Mom had picked up at the bookstore a few weeks ago. It actually wasn't so horrible, especially this Maya Angelou poem in the beginning called “Phenomenal Woman.” There's this one part where she writes: It's the reach of my hips … the stride of my step. And then she goes on to describe the things that make her a real woman.
For some reason, it reminds me of Mom. The way she's comfortable in her body, curves and big breasts and all. I wonder if I'll be like that someday too. I hope so.
Mom was nodding and ummhmming. What I gathered from her half of the conversation was that Uncle Steve was inviting us out to Long Island for Labor Day, to swim in their pool. I began flapping the book in the air, trying to let her know that there was no way I would spend the weekend with the Original Asshole. And that's when Mom said something about how we'd love to, but unfortunately we had other plans.
“What other plans?” I asked as soon as she hung up.
“I don't know.”
Mom shrugged. “I just made it up.” “What about your Lincolnian code of ethics?”
Mom laughed. “Even Abe would blur the truth if he met Uncle Steve.”
She crossed the room and sat next to me on the futon.
“I was thinking,” she said, “maybe we could drive up to Ithaca over Labor Day weekend. I'd like to pick up my oil paints from the house … and if you want we can bring back your bike.”
“Mariposa?”
“As long as you promise to only ride it in the park.”
I was so shocked that I dropped Chicken Soup on the floor. I couldn't believe Mom had changed her mind about Mariposa.
Mom must have sensed my surprise because she quickly added, “I take that as a yes.”
I nodded, my mind racing ahead to whether or not I'd let Kitty know I was in Ithaca.
What has surprised me more than anything, though, is the fact that Dad still hasn't called, not since I left that message on his machine. It's not like I expected him to collapse at my feet, begging for forgiveness, but at the very least, I'd imagined a phone call, just to make sure things are okay.
Not that I even have an answer to that. Because they are and they aren't. For instance, in the past few days, I haven't been having a difficult time breathing. And my throat hasn't been tightening every seven seconds, even when I think about how Phoebe hasn't shown up at the dog run all week.
As I got into bed on Friday night, I wished I had a fairy godmother who could sagely advise me about Phoebe. Suddenly I remembered this time when Phoebe and I were talking about religion.
Have you ever noticed that God spelled backward is dog? she'd asked me, grinning mischievously.
I pressed my face into my pillow. I miss her so much it hurts.
Please, Fairy Dogmother, tell me how to make things better with Phoebe. Because at this point, whatever needs to be done, I'll do it.
I woke up at seven-fifteen on Saturday morning, an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off. I wasn't due at Eli's until ten, so I pulled the sheet over my head and attempted to drift back to sleep. But after lying there for ten minutes with enough adrenaline to run a marathon, I hopped up and tiptoed into the bathroom.
I stood under the shower for a long time, letting the hot spray massage my neck. As much as I'm excited about going to Bear Mountain, I'm also pretty nervous. Like when I remind myself that I barely know Eli or Shay and have never even met Max and Ellen. Or when I remember how Eli said there would be “space for three” in the tent. Which obviously translates to Max and Ellen sharing one tent and Eli, Shay and me sharing the other. Which makes my stomach flip over, seeing that I've never spent the night next to a guy, let alone two at once. I hope I don't snore or kick or talk in my sleep.
The sooner I get there, I reassured myself, the sooner I'll stop worrying.
But all that accomplished was to make the next hour inch by so slowly, you would've thought someone had poured a bucket of tar over the hands of the clock.
7:35 A.M.: Pull on jean shorts. Cut tags off new mocha-colored tank top.
7:41 A.M.: Unload backpack to make sure I remembered everything. I did. Repack.
7:59 A.M.: Study reflection in mirror. Decide new mocha-colored tank top is too revealing around chest. Change into T-shirt.
8:04 A.M.: Bring Moxie downstairs for quick pee.
8:21 A.M.: Notice that toenail polish is half chipped off. Borrow Mom's nail polish remover and get rid of rest.
8:29 A.M.: Pick up book. Reread same paragraph three times and still have no idea what it says.
8:34 A.M.: Study reflection in mirror. Sigh. Change back into new mocha-colored tank top.
8:35 A.M.: Realize that if I don't instantly evacuate apartment, I might truly go bonkers.
Other than a scattering of cigarette butts, there were no signs of life on the roof.
Much better up here, I thought, swallowing a mouthful of cool air, much more peaceful.
Just then the door to the stairwell creaked. I glanced over my shoulder, only to spot J.D., a Yankees cap on his head, a baseball mitt in his hand. My knees nearly buckled out from under me. This was just like in my fantasy. We'd run into each other on the roof one day, start talking, really hit it off. …
“Hey there,” he said, flashing a sexy smile.
My pulse started racing. I wondered if I was entering the Danger Zone, which is what my old gym teacher called it when someone's heart rate exceeds 240, putting them at risk of cardiac arrest. Now that would be a mess. I tried to picture J.D. h
unched over me, administering CPR.
At least you'd get to do mouth-to-mouth, I could imagine Phoebe saying.
Yeah, but I'd be unconscious, I'd tell her, so it wouldn't really count.
“Sara, right?”
He asked me that the last time I saw him! “No … it's Sammie.” “Right,” J.D. said.
According to my fantasy, by this point we were supposed to be getting below the surface, each listening to what the other had to say, adult to adult.
“I just came up to check the weather.” J.D. punched his fist into his mitt. “I'd better motor if I'm going to get to my game on time.”
Motor? Who says motor anymore? While we're at it, who ever said motor?
J.D. started across the roof. Right before he stepped into the stairwell, he turned and said, “Catch you later, Sara.”
As the door slammed shut, I looked out into Central Park. This is the third time he's gotten my name wrong.
J.D. plays baseball, so he knows the rules.
Three strikes and you're out.
Even if you have angular cheekbones and lips that make me want to suck on them all night.
Bad news,” Eli said, locking the front door behind us. “Shay just called … he can't come.” “Why not?” I set my backpack in the hallway. The apartment was quiet. Shira and Becca must have already left for the day.
“He had an asthma attack last night that landed him in the emergency room.”
“Oh, no … is he okay?”
“Yeah. This sort of thing happens a few times a year. But his doctor thinks he should stay in town, just in case.”
“That's too bad.”
“I know. He said to tell you hello.”
We stood there for a second looking at each other.
Eli's poison ivy was mostly cleared up, just a few dry patches on his neck and arms. I liked the way he'd pulled his hair back into a ponytail. It showed off his long eyelashes and olive-colored tan. I tried to think of something to say, but my mind was drawing a blank.
“My mom bought some food for us to bring along,” Eli said. “Do you want to help me pack it?”
“Sure.”
Once we were in the kitchen, I watched Eli dig through the refrigerator. As he loaded a half dozen bagels, four nectarines and some cheddar cheese into a plastic bag, he explained that Max and Ellen were driving in from New Jersey and would ring the buzzer when they arrived. I glanced at the corkboard next to the phone, where I'd once seen that message from Jenna. This time it was empty, except for the colored pushpins that someone had arranged to form a smiley face.
“Do you want one?” Eli was holding up two peaches. I nodded.
“They're really drippy.”
As Eli handed me a paper towel, we caught each other's eyes again.
“I like your shirt,” he said.
I reached my hand up to my tank top.
“It really brings out the brown in your eyes.” Eli spun toward the sink and began filling a bottle with water.
It was only when the buzzer rang a minute or two later that I realized I was still touching the front of my shirt.
I must have done a double take when Max jumped out of the minivan parked on the street, because he grinned as he slid our bags into the back.
“Uncanny, isn't it?” he asked. “I can't believe it. You look exactly alike.”
And I wasn't exaggerating. Eli and Max could have easily passed for brothers, practically twins if they were the same age. They had identical blue eyes and curly, dark hair, except Max wore wire-frame glasses and his eyebrows met in the middle, above his nose.
“Don't mind me for not helping.” Ellen skipped down the steps of Eli's building and hopped into the passenger seat, sticking her bare feet out the window. “I'm feeling lazy today.”
“You should mind her.” Max slid the back of the minivan shut. “Ellen's copping attitude again.”
“Copping attitude?” Ellen pulled her feet in as Max started the engine. “I'll cop you.”
I glanced at Ellen, with her long, black hair twisted into a messy bun. She was very unique-looking, maybe part Asian or Hawaiian.
As Ellen poked her foot into Max's ribs, he yanked at her toes, reciting “This Little Piggy.” Ellen squirmed away, shrieking that she was ticklish. I smiled as we took a right turn. I could already tell I was going to like Max and Ellen.
“You should've seen the traffic coming into the Lincoln Tunnel.” Max adjusted his rearview mirror. “It was a mass exodus from New Jersey.”
“Is that where you're from?” I asked.
“For now at least,” Max said. “Ellen and I are sharing an apartment in New Brunswick, finishing up at Rutgers.”
“And living in sin,” Ellen chimed in as we started over the George Washington Bridge.
We couldn't have been on the Palisades Parkway for fifteen minutes when Ellen announced that she had to pee.
“El,” Max whined, “you just went at Aunt Shira's.” “What does that have to do with anything? When you gotta go you gotta go.”
“Ellen has a bladder the size of a pecan,” Max explained to Eli and me.
“About the same size as Max's brain,” Ellen retorted.
But after a few minutes, Max switched on his signal and turned into a rest area. The car hadn't come to a complete stop when Ellen leaped out the door and peeled toward the bathroom.
We made it to Bear Mountain in a little over an hour, even though Ellen insisted we stop once more along the way. Just before we pulled out of the second gas station, Max turned in his seat so he was facing Eli and me.
“I'm hereby appointing you the Fluid Police,” he said. “If either of you catches Ellen near anything wet, I give you permission to clamp your hand over her mouth.”
“Dream on, Maximilian, dream on,” Ellen chided as she popped the cap on a bottle of iced tea and took a long swig.
“Got that?” Max shifted the car out of park and pulled back onto the Palisades.
We all voted to go directly to the mountain rather than setting up our tents at the campground, which was only a short drive away.
“Play now, work later,” Max sang as he grabbed Ellen's hand and started across the crowded parking lot.
At first, the trails were congested, but as the ascent steepened, we passed fewer and fewer people. The hiking was beautiful: clear paths, craggy rocks and lush trees that offered shade from the glaring noontime sun. After an hour or so, we reached a clearing over a cliff, with a spectacular view of the Hudson River in the distance.
“Good place to break, El?” Max asked, pulling up his T-shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. I noticed a line of hair running from his belly button down into his shorts.
“Fine by me,” Ellen said.
Max passed around a bottle of water as Eli swung his backpack off his shoulders, pulling out a Swiss Army knife and the bag of food. After we'd all grabbed a bagel, Eli sliced off a chunk of cheese, handed it to me and then cut one for himself.
“Are we staying at the same campground as last year?” Eli asked, handing the knife to Max.
“Yeah … Beaver Pond or Beaver Creek, or something.” Max tossed a wedge of cheese into his mouth. “I hope you brought your swimsuits because there's a lake on the grounds.”
Ellen had been quietly munching a cinnamon-raisin bagel, but as soon as Max said swimsuit, her head jerked up. “I'm convinced that women's swimsuits were invented by a misogynist.”
“El,” Max asked, “what are you talking about?”
“Think about it. While guys hit the beach in shorts, women are expected to wear these skintight numbers. When they're not giving you a constant wedgie, they're showing off every bit of cellulite you didn't even know you had. And with all that, you're supposed to parade around in front of people, acting comfortable?”
“Uh-oh,” Max said, “I'm afraid Ellen's getting on one of her feminist kicks.”
Ellen began to sneeze, little quick ones, three or four in a row.
“Wh
enever Ellen gets worked up, she begins to sneeze,” Max explained to Eli and me.
“Of course I'm worked up. You say feminist as if it's a dirty word. All feminism means is that women are entitled to the same rights as men … so with that definition”—Ellen sneezed two more times—“anyone with half a pecan-brain is a feminist.”
“I'm a feminist.” Eli rubbed the knife blade on his shorts before snapping it closed.
“Me too,” I said, “definitely.” “Your generation”— Ellen cast a glance over at Max, who was devouring a nectarine—“is much more enlightened than mine.”
We were all quiet.
“What did I miss?” Max shook his head. “Why is everyone staring at me?”
Ellen leaned over and kissed Max's cheek. “Don't worry, Maximilian, I'll convert you yet.”
“What did I miss?” Max asked again as he tossed his nectarine pit over the cliff.
I recently heard this line in a John Lennon song that really hit home. It went something like Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. The way I see it, he was saying that we spend so much time fretting about the future that we forget to enjoy the present. I know I'm guilty of doing that. It just seems like there's always so much to worry about.
But today was different. Maybe it was being out in the country, breathing clean air, getting dirty. Or maybe it was spending time with Max and Ellen, which was like watching a live comedy routine. Or maybe it was being around Eli.
Whatever it was, it was turning out to be one of those days where I wasn't even thinking, I was just living. I couldn't believe how smoothly everything was going. That is, until we got to this roadside diner, where we'd stopped off to grab dinner on our way to the campground.
We were sitting in a booth Max and Ellen on one side, Eli and me on the other. Max had ordered a hamburger and potato salad. Ellen, Eli and I were getting grilled cheese with french fries on the side. The waitress had just brought our drinks when Ellen whipped the paper off her straw and looked from Eli to me and back to Eli again.
Love and Other Four-Letter Words Page 13
