by Liza Palmer
“Today was my favorite day,” I say, unable to look at him. I walk away before I have a chance to regret being so sentimental.
“Joan—” Thornton calls, just before I walk inside the house. I turn around and see him one last time. He’s still standing next to his car, his silhouette dark in the beam of the headlights. “Mine, too.”
Heartbroken and smiling, I turn the key, push the door open, and step inside the quiet of my parents’ house.
“He seems nice,” Billy whispers, sitting at the dining room table with a fussy Poppy draped over his shoulder.
“Oh my god, you scared me,” I say. A jolt of fear unleashes all of the tamped-down emotions of the last couple of days. Billy misses none of this.
“And where were you?” Billy asks, smoothing Poppy’s hair. She fusses, so Billy has to stand up, shift her into her favorite football hold for when her tummy is bothering her—which is getting harder as she gets bigger—and proceed to pace around the kitchen.
“We were on a stakeout,” I say, getting myself a glass of water. Hoping it will cool and drown the emotion.
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“You’re younger than me, doofus,” I say, filling another glass with tap water. I turn around and lean against the sink, noticing that Mom has tacked yet another neatly cut out article about registering at the local community college to the fridge. This time, however, she’s added a stickie with my name and an arrow next to it. I walk over to the fridge and pull both the article and the stickie off with a sigh. I fold it in half and hold it as gently as I can in my hands. When I get back to my room, I’ll put it with the others.
“You need to talk to her. She’s just going to keep doing it,” Billy says, now on the other side of the kitchen.
“I’ve tried. She … she won’t listen and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s been so supportive. I feel like a—” A quick glance at Poppy and my mind flips past all the bad words until finally settling on: “Jerk.”
“I mean, is it such a bad idea?” Billy has the good sense, at least, to be across the room when he says this. I set down my glass, pissed that I can’t slam it down, because of course I don’t want to wake the baby.
“No, it is not a bad idea,” I say, starting out as diplomatically as I can.
“Okay, then—”
“It’s just not for me,” I say.
“Why not? I mean, don’t you want a little—” Billy looks at Poppy. Shrugs. Then walks over to the table and writes down “fuck you space” on a pad of Dixon Gardens paper.
“What’s—” I point to the words on the pad of paper.
“First off, that’s not my line. You and I both know I couldn’t come up with something like that. This woman said it to her friend while they were walking around the nursery the other day. But I think it’s—” Billy stops, shifts Poppy to the other arm. “So you’re not always begging journalism for every dime. It’s the whole all-your-eggs-in-one-basket thing, right?”
“How come you get to have all your eggs in one basket?” I ask, motioning to the nursery around us.
“I like my basket. I’m going to be the boss of my basket someday,” he says, his voice straining to whisper.
“Oh, yeah. The basket that’s full of weed?”
“What weed?”
“Oh my god, you are such a bad liar. The weed you and Dad are growing out in the greenhouse,” I say, relieved to be onto another subject.
“Wait, that wasn’t a joke? You actually think that’s a thing?”
“Uh, yeah. Because it is a thing.”
Billy laughs. Shakes his head. Walks over to me.
“It’s a coral plant. It just looks like weed.”
“What?”
“The plants inside the greenhouse are coral plants. Coral plants. Beautiful bright flowers, grow super tall, they’re hard to kill … oh, and by the way, they’re not weed.” He looks down at me. “You’re wrong.” He locks eyes with me. “Admit you’re wrong.”
“I admit nothing except that you are spinning an elaborate yarn to keep me from finding out what’s really going on back there,” I say.
“You can never just admit you’re wrong,” he says.
“I can too.”
“Okay, then say it.”
Billy waits as I stand against the counter, trapped. He knows he’s got me and I find myself getting angrier and angrier, with him and not myself, for being so stubborn. It’s his fault that he’s making me say it. Why can’t he just know that I was wrong and move on, what kind of asshole needs me to say the actual words? But, then … what kind of asshole won’t admit when she’s wrong? Probably the same asshole who was mortified at not knowing how to work the Bloom coffee machine on her first try.
What is it that I think will happen if I admit that I don’t know something? When did learning become such a point of shame for me? I imagine that timeline parallels when this whole slump started.
“Fine. I was wrong.” My voice is clipped, light, and wildly insincere.
“Wow, how heartfelt and genuine,” he says in a robotic voice.
“And? I like my basket. A lot,” I say, trying to change the subject back to what we were talking about before Weedgate. But I hate that I can hear the doubt in my voice. And that all Billy has to do is raise an eyebrow.
“If you love your basket a lot, then—” Billy shakes his head. “If you really do love writing, why do you need Tavia or The LA Times or The New Yorker to tell you that you’re a real writer?” I just sigh and Billy shakes his head. “Humor me.”
“I know I’m supposed to say that it doesn’t matter, but it does. It’s the whole if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest thing,” I say. My voice is fast and hard. I’ve had this conversation with myself, my family, my friends, and then back again. And each time it’s their argument that’s sound and technically right and I’m just hardheadedly moving on right toward the looming cliff. Lalalalalala, I’m not listening! This is going to work out! I’m not miserable, you are! Just waiting for that one big break, but it’s not that I neeeeeed external validation, I’d be fine just writing my life away and dancing like no one is watching!
“But the tree does make a sound. You get that your example—” I walk over to the pad of paper and write “shut up” on it. I point to it.
“No, you—” Billy points to it.
“No, you!” I point to the pad of paper.
“This is the one thing. This story is going to bring me back,” I say, pulling out a chair and plopping down. My voice is raw. My brain is on overdrive as it tries to convince every cell in my body not to get used to what happened today with Thornton and feeling like a real journalist again and getting the evidence and being right and trusting myself. And as these thoughts come back to me, my chest tightens and hardens.
In that green flag–waving caravan, in Thornton’s Volvo, outside of the server farm, and inside that hotel room was the first time I felt like I truly belonged. I actually had flickers of loving myself.
How do I say that to Billy? How do I communicate that feeling to anyone when I can’t make sense of it myself?
“No one story…” Billy stops. He raises his hand and gestures out there. “No one thing is going to save you.” Billy tries to sit down at the table with me, but Poppy immediately fusses and he hoists himself back up. He is quiet and I can tell he’s thinking. I look up at him. He brings his hand down over his heart. “You are your one thing.”
“You overhear that in the nursery too?” My voice breaks in its forced levity. Billy smiles and stifles a bark of laughter.
“Nah, every once in a while I come up with something good,” he says.
“Yeah.” I lean forward and put my elbows on the table, letting my hands cover my face. “What if I don’t believe you?” I look up at him. “What if the tree really doesn’t make a sound if no one is around to hear it?”
“I know you’re trying to be dramatic, but you can’t use that example because the t
ree clearly makes a sound.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
Billy walks over to the table, slides the pad of paper over, and writes down, “You’re batshit.”
“No, you are,” I say. Billy laughs and we grow quiet. I fold and refold the article and the stickie that Mom left on the fridge. “I’ll talk to Mom tomorrow morning before everyone gets here.”
“Just tell her the truth,” he says. Poppy is finally and officially asleep. He walks past me toward the hallway. “You do know what the truth is, don’t you?” He bumps me as he passes. “Go to bed, Jojo.” I hear the door to Poppy’s room open and close. And the quiet of the old house settles in around me. I open up Mom’s article.
“I’m my one thing,” I repeat in a choked whisper. I fold the article back up, shake my head, follow Billy quietly down the hall, and go into my bedroom.
I change into my pajamas, noticing my skin is oddly soft—thanks to the shockingly good bar of soap provided by the Alpine Inn. I switch off the light, crawl into bed, and plug in my phone. I debate texting Lynn, Hugo, and Reuben about today, but then decide against it. I can fill them in when we move Lynn out later this week. This is more of a face-to-face kind of thing. Plus, maybe I’ll know by then what today even was.
I turn over on my side and pull my hair from under my neck where it’s starting to tangle. I flip over onto my back. I think about what Billy said.
You are your one thing.
If I’m my one thing, maybe today happened not because of the story or the caravan or the Volvo or the hotel room, but because, for the first time in my life, I loved myself enough to believe that I belonged there. But, if I am my one thing, I should love myself even without the story and the caravan, Thornton’s Volvo, or the Alpine Inn. And maybe that’s why I didn’t want today to end, because, like some magical enchantment that turns a pumpkin into a carriage, I finally felt what it was like to love myself, if only for as long as I lived a life I could be proud of.
20
Midnight
After a fitful night’s sleep, I shamble down the hallway to the sounds of Mom clanging around the kitchen looking for her grandmother’s iron skillet to use for the day’s cooking. She is always the first up and today’s no different. I fold and refold the article and the stickie she left on the fridge last night and realize that I’m getting more and more nervous and guilty with every step.
“Morning, you little dear,” she says, without looking to see which little dear it is. She’s squatting in front of the lower corner cabinet and reaching into the way back for the skillet. It’s the same skillet she uses nearly every day but inexplicably keeps just out of reach.
“Morning,” I say, my voice a choked rasp. I walk over to the coffee machine and pour myself a generous helping. I open the top of the machine, dump the coffee grounds in the compost bin, and get the next batch ready for the coming onslaught.
“There are banana muffins for your friends and fresh fruit in the fridge,” Mom says, finally pulling the skillet from the depths of the cabinet. She stands and sets it down on the stovetop.
“They’ll love it. I doubt any of them have had a home-cooked anything in months,” I say. “How can I help?”
“You can hull the strawberries,” she says, pointing to the sink where a pile of fresh strawberries awaits in a colander. She looks back at me just long enough to see the folded article in my hands. I set it and my coffee down on the counter, look over at her as she starts in on the Cowboy Breakfast—a dish she usually reserves for Christmas morning.
“I saw the article and stickie you left on the fridge. Thank you,” I say, hulling my first bright red strawberry.
“And?” Mom cracks and whisks the eggs.
“I know you’re worried about me.” Taking a quick peek over at her, I can see that her lips are pursed and her eyes focused. She swipes at her brow with her shoulder. She gives me the smallest nod in agreement. “I’m worried about me too.”
“It’s just a couple of classes and maybe, who knows, you might find something you want to do that makes you happy,” she says. I hull strawberry after strawberry. Mom and I can’t look at each other.
“Mom, you make me happy. Dad makes me happy. Billy, Anne, and Poppy make me happy.” Mom bends down to check the pilot light on the stovetop. A quick shake of the old iron skillet.
“I know, honey, but I want you to make you happy, and writing—”
“Writing makes me feel real,” I say. I take a deep breath. “And sometimes real makes me feel happy and sometimes real makes me miserable. And I know that lately, it’s been a lot more miserable, but—”
“Honey, I don’t want you to stop writing, I just want you to have something that’s yours outside of writing,” she says. I smile as I realize that this was Mom’s way of saying that I needed what Billy called “fuck you space.”
“I don’t know if there is a me outside of writing, and I know that sounds dramatic, but I don’t—” Mom turns away from the skillet to face me. I’ve never said any of this to her. To anyone. “I wish I wanted the life you wanted for me. I do. I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I don’t.”
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Mom says, sweeping me into her arms. “No, that’s … that’s not what this is about.” She pulls away from me and makes me look at her. “This face.” Mom holds my face in her hands. “I love this face.” She dips my head down and kisses my forehead.
“I know I’ve disappointed you and I’m trying to put it right. This story … I think this story will make you proud of me.” Mom pulls me in for a hug. “I just want you to be proud of me.”
“Oh, my little girl. You make me proud every day.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“You have a mighty low bar for pride, then,” I say, sniffling and laughing through the streams of tears. Mom pulls away from me and once again makes me look at her.
“No more articles about community college,” she says. I nod. Try to smile. “But can you do something for me?”
“Anything,” I say.
“There’s a wonderful life in the gray area between happiness and misery, honey. Please use some of that wonderful, relentless curiosity of yours and try to find it.” She gives me a squeeze, just before she returns to her now bubbling skillet.
“To learn something new,” I say.
“Yes. To learn something new.”
“I could definitely benefit from a computer class or two,” I say.
“You could also benefit from a class where there is no function at all, pumpkin, except to have a little fun.”
“I’m not good at fun,” I say, picking up another strawberry.
“Oh, I know,” she says, giving the skillet a shake. “But you weren’t always like that.” Poppy squeals as she runs down the hallway completely naked. “You used to be like that.” Mom looks from me to the joyous Poppy. Why can’t I remember what it felt like to be so free?
An exhausted Billy follows behind her with a combination of diaper and clothes. Mom switches the skillet to the back burner, lowers the flame, and picks up her naked granddaughter. Billy walks into the kitchen just as Mom feeds Poppy a newly hulled strawberry. He eyes the folded article and my red-rimmed eyes.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Billy says, with an efficient nod. And that’s that.
He walks over to Mom and collects his daughter, who laughs and giggles with delight. “There are people coming over, Pop. I have to make you presentable.” Poppy arches her body back and reaches out for me. I, of course, take her. Mom takes the Cowboy Breakfast off the stovetop and puts it into the oven.
“Is your daddy being super demanding and trying to put clothes on you?” I ask, in a gasping voice of wonder.
“Okay, well—when your little boyfriend arrives you’ll thank me for not having him be greeted by a naked toddler,” Billy says. I stare daggers at him.
“Boyfriend?” Mom asks. Easy. Breezy. Nothing big.
<
br /> “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, trying to sound as carefree as I can while figuring out if I can kill Billy with this strawberry huller before everyone else gets here.
“Silly me, I thought someone who dropped you off just after midnight could be referred to as a boyfriend.” Billy pours himself a cup of coffee. “But what do I know?”
“Not a lot,” I say, my voice still airy and light. He leans down to the table, slides the pad of paper over with last night’s “shut up” still scrawled across it, and points. “Very nice. Very nice.”
“You’re on the cusp of a very—” Billy sighs, sips his coffee. “Very important morning with some people that I’ll wager you wouldn’t want to know certain things about your past.”
“I swear if you—” Poppy looks from me to Billy. “If you aren’t just the cutest little brother in the whole wide world.”
“Aw, thanks so much. Yeah, I need this to be a moment of clarity for you, young Joan.” Another long sip. “Be nice to me or the high school yearbooks are coming out.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say.
“I wonder if handsome Thornton Yu knows that you went through an even more awkward phase than the one you’re enduring now,” Billy says, smiling. “Was it sophomore or junior year that you had that fun ‘pixie cut’ that you decided would be way better if it were dyed a bright fuchsia?”
“Senior year,” I say, having flashbacks.
“Ah, that’s right.” Billy sets his coffee down on the counter, sweeps up Poppy in his arms, and continues back down the hallway. “Indeed, what a fun morning this portends to be.”
“Billy, be nice to your sister,” Dad says, passing him in the hall.
“I will be the perfect gentleman,” I hear Billy yell from Poppy’s bedroom. Dad shakes his head and laughs as he gives Mom a kiss and asks how he can help.
* * *
The high school yearbooks are strewn across the dining room table and now Billy’s showing Thornton the fun candid of me that perfectly captures my oversized flannel phase. Just next to the yearbooks are Elise’s laptop, Thornton’s laptop, and several sheets of paper with my shorthand scrawls across them. We’ve compiled everything we have and I’ve spent the last hour organizing the sources and footnotes so I can ready the story to be properly vetted. Mom, Dad, and Anne are playing with Poppy in the nursery while we do up the dishes after an incredibly successful breakfast meeting.
