by Brent Runyon
Finally, the doctor comes back in and tells me that it's not broken, it's just a really bad sprain. I've got to keep the weight off of it for three weeks, so I get crutches and a brace to keep my ankle from moving.
Shit.
We're driving home with my foot in the boot. We picked up a prescription for pain medicine at the drugstore, and I took some. At least now the throbbing in my ankle has gone away, but the inside of my head feels like it's been lined with cotton balls and I can't really hear. Actually, I can hear everything they're saying on NPR, but I can't figure out what they're talking about anymore.
I still hear the words, but it's like they have to get translated back from English into English for me to understand them. I don't have the energy to do that right now.
I look out the window at the landscape rushing by. I like looking at one spot in the distance, like that tree in the middle of that field, and then watching how the rest of the landscape moves in relation to it. The things up close move so much faster than the things in the distance. Now I'm feeling carsick. I close my eyes.
Mom turns down our driveway and I open my eyes. It's still pretty early. I wonder if anyone is up yet. We park under the old pine and Mom helps me out of the car. I crutch over to the picnic table and sit down. My foot is throbbing, so I put it up on the bench.
No one seems to be up yet, except the Richardsons' car is gone, so they're probably at church. Mom went inside to do some stuff. I'm happy to just sit here and look at the lake. I'm glad everyone is still sleeping. I'm sick of everybody.
Steve and I are playing cards at the picnic table and watching Mr. Richardson mow his lawn just like he does every Sunday. God, I feel like I've watched him do this a million times. I guess I used to feel like it was funny to watch him walking up and down his lawn in these precise lines, with his shirt off and his enormous, hairy man boobs jiggling and swinging like pendulums along the way. I used to think it was kind of interesting to compare his back hair to his chest hair. I thought it was amazing how much he looks like one of those silverback gorillas. I never noticed how he wants everything in his life to be perfect and how he spends all his time mowing his lawn and weeding his yard and working but never seems to enjoy any of it.
He hasn't seen the cross yet, but I can see it from here. It came out pretty well. The grass all died overnight and turned this nasty brown color. It looks like a cross, except the top is a little sloppy where Steve rushed it. I can't believe Mr. Richardson hasn't seen it yet. He will in about thirty-seven seconds.
He sees it. He turns off the lawn mower and walks over to the patch of dead grass shaped like a cross in his lawn. On the TV show, the guy started screaming and yelling, and it was hilarious because he was on TV, but that's not what Mr. Richardson is doing.
Mr. Richardson is standing, looking at the cross. His body is still. The only thing that's moving is the hair on his back.
He just stands there for a long time and then he turns around, walks to his garage, and comes back with a shovel. He wedges the shovel into the grass and starts digging it up.
Wow, no screaming or yelling. No emotion at all. I guess either he's not mad or he's holding it all inside. That's disappointing. I wanted to see him freak out.
Steve and I look at each other. I raise my eyebrows and he shrugs.
I get up from the picnic table. I say, “I'm going to take a shower.” The soccer ball is in my way, so I hit it with my crutch in the direction of the Richardsons' cottage. I watch it roll right to the property line, where the beautiful, perfect lawn meets the crappy lawn, and crutch all the way back into the cottage.
Steve follows me in and we sit down on the green vinyl couch and look out the window. Mr. Richardson has stopped digging up the grass cross and walked over to the soccer ball. He gives it a little kick, just to get it off of his lawn.
Steve and I were going to go up to the waterfall, but I can't make it with my ankle how it is. So we're just sitting at the picnic table shooting the shit and hoping that Sophie walks by in her bikini.
Kay and Roger and Claire pull up in their Volvo. I guess they wanted to hang out one last time before we have to go back home. The adults all go down to the water and Claire sits down at the picnic table with us. She's wearing a wide-brimmed hat like an old lady.
She says, “How's your ankle?”
“It's feeling better.” Why does she even bother asking? She knows we hate each other.
Steve says, “Hi, I'm Steve.”
“I'm Claire.”
“Hey, it's really nice to meet you, Claire.” He reaches out and shakes her hand. What's up with that? Did I forget to tell him that Claire and I hate each other?
Steve has a way of acting all sweet and nice around girls, but somehow they still know that he wants to hook up with them. Whenever I act nice around girls, they always think I want to be their brother or their best friend.
Steve says, “So how long have you known this joker?” pointing at me.
“Way too long.” Claire laughs and Steve laughs too. They're doing that thing where the only thing they have in common is they both know me, so the only thing they can do is make fun of me.
Steve says, “So tell me something about our mutual friend here.” He points to me again. Stop pointing at me, Steve.
“You want to hear a story about Luke?”
“Yes I do.”
I'm not going to just sit here and let them embarrass me. I say, “Claire, tell about the time you told on me for crossing the street in front of your house. Or the time you told on me for saying ‘Shut up' in your yard. Tell about that.”
Claire shrugs it off. “Well, one time, I had to spend the afternoon over at Luke's house because my parents were doing I don't know what, taking our dog to the vet or something. Luke and I lived only a few houses away from each other, but I hated going over to his house because, well, you know.”
Steve says, “It kind of smells weird, right?”
“You noticed that too!”
I say, “That's not my fault. That's the curry chicken my mom always makes.”
“So anyway, I went over to his house, and he was in his bedroom, and you have to remember we were like six at the time …”
“Yeah, go on.” Is he really into this story or is he just flirting with her?
“He had taken everything in his room—like everything, the toys, all the clothes out of the drawers, books—and he'd thrown it all on the floor. I came in and he was standing on top of his bed, with this really crazy look on his face and just a pair of underwear on, and he yelled, ‘Careful! It's a flood!'”
Steve is laughing, but I don't understand. What's so funny about that? A lot of kids make their rooms into disaster areas.
“And he made me stand on the bed with him and pretend we were in a flood. And when his mom found us in there, she got mad at me for not telling her what was going on.”
Steve punches me in the shoulder and says, “Dude, you were such a little asshole.”
“Yeah.” I punch him back. I don't know why I thought it would be fun having him here.
We're going home tomorrow and I'm glad. I've never felt like this before, but I'm just kind of sick of the whole scene this year. I'm sick of my parents and their friends and Steve and the Richardsons and the minister and the Vizquels. They're all so stupid. I don't even know if I want to come back next year.
I sit down in the chair next to the old brown phone and put my foot up on one of the kitchen chairs. I don't know how I'm going to get in shape for soccer practice with my ankle like this. Hopefully, the brace will help and I'll be able to get my feet under me again. Soccer practice starts in about a week. I hope I can at least get on the JV team, and maybe even varsity if I'm lucky.
Steve and I are sitting in the car waiting for Mom and Dad to say good-bye to the lake. I wish they would hurry up so we can get on the road. I can't wait to get back home and watch some TV and play some video games.
Steve is sitting in the front seat for no
w, playing with the radio. My leg is up, but it still hurts. I want to get out of here. I say, “Honk the horn.”
Steve looks back at me to see if I'm joking. I'm not, so he does, and Mom and Dad both turn around and give us the evil eye. I guess that ruined their little romantic moment by the lake. I don't care. I want to get the fuck out of here.
They're walking back to the car, but they both look pissed. Steve gets out and gets in the back with me. No one says anything as they get in the car, but it's the kind of not saying something that means we're not talking.
Dad forces out, “Good-bye, lake,” as he throws the car into reverse and pulls fast out of the parking area. The car bumps a little. We must have run over something. Dad gets out and pulls the flattened soccer ball from under the tire.
“Goddamnit, Luke.”
16
Ever since I got my learner's permit, I've been realizing what a bad driver Dad is. Mom's sitting in the back because her legs are so much shorter than mine now, and I've got my headphones on, listening to Rage Against the Machine, to take my mind off it, but it's not working. The way Dad is driving is really pissing me off. The way he puts his foot on the gas and pumps it a little, just to get his speed up to fifty-five, and then takes his foot off the gas as soon as he gets there. Then when the car drops down to like forty-eight, he gives it just enough gas to make the needle kiss fifty-five again. If he really wants to be stuck at fifty-five, why doesn't he just put on the fucking cruise control? I mean seriously, I'm getting carsick.
We take the turn down toward the lake, and I get that feeling in my stomach I used to get when I was little, or maybe I'm just hungover. The lake is still here.
We drive past all the old landmarks. They tore down that old barn that was sinking into the earth, and it looks like they're building a house where it used to be. They repainted the Wirth mansion, but they used this really ugly light green paint on the trim. It looks terrible. The house shaped like a tepee used to have a nice yard, but now it's overgrown and disgusting. The dairy farm that got turned into a winery is looking all fancy and new. They turned the old tractor barn into a little restaurant.
Everything changes, I guess. That's not really a surprise, but I still don't like it. We pull into the driveway, and the old, dying pine scrapes the roof of the car. The Vizquels are still here. The minister's red-cross van is parked in front of his cottage, and Mr. Richardson is out working on his lawn.
Maybe nothing changes. Maybe everything seems to change but actually never does. I turn off the Rage and say, “Mom, do you know where my bathing suit is?”
“It's in the black suitcase under the white T-shirts.”
I knew that, but I kind of wanted to hear her say it anyway.
I miss Jennifer already. I want to call her, but I don't want to talk to her in front of Mom and Dad. God, I miss everything about her.
I'm not sure why I'm even here. I mean, I'm not a kid anymore. I don't really like fishing or jumping off the docks. I just wish Jennifer could have come with us. I don't see what the big deal is. Her parents were fine with it. It's only Mom who thinks it would be inappropriate for Jennifer and me to sleep together.
I told her we would sleep in a tent in the front yard, but that didn't make a difference. I mean, what would be the problem?
This isn't the eighteenth century. People sleep together before they get married. Mom and Dad slept together before they got married. So why can't Jennifer and I sleep together before we get married?
Anyway, I just wish she were here. We could go out in the canoe and make out. We could go skinny-dipping and sleep on the dock. We could buy our own food and cook it. We could take the car out and make out.
We walk down to the beach, past the woodpile and a giant pile of rocks, some as big as bowling balls. There's the beginnings of a stone wall along the Richardsons' property line. I guess Mr. Richardson has finally had enough of those dogs. Dad says, “A wall.” And leaves it at that.
I'm still wearing shoes. There's a layer of plastic between me and the earth. I don't like it. I strip off my shoes and socks and tiptoe across the rocks to the edge of the lake. The water is like a mirror, but it's reflecting all the wrong stuff.
Mom and Dad are standing behind me. It's our first night back and the only thing they're talking about is the minister and how they can't believe that he still has the Confederate flag up. I can hear the dogs barking inside his house.
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm almost happy to see that the minister still has his flag up. It's just kind of funny to see how everybody reacts to it. My parents are so liberal and are all about free speech and the First Amendment, but only when it doesn't involve a Confederate flag.
The Richardsons are out on their dock, and Mom walks over to talk to them about it. She is really letting this whole thing get to her.
I walk over and say hi to the Richardsons too. They barely acknowledge me. All they want to talk about is the minister. I guess the breaking news is that he has a woman who sleeps there sometimes and they're not married. Scandalous. And apparently, she has a little daughter from some other relationship. God, I wish Jennifer were here.
Live and let live, that's what Jennifer would say. One of the things I really love about Jennifer is that she always has a good perspective on life. A positive attitude. She always says if you go through life with a negative attitude, things are going to be so much harder than they would be if you just looked on the bright side.
I walk down to the beach and check my cell phone to see if there's any messages from her, but I'm getting almost no service up here. That fucking sucks. Now I wish I hadn't come up this year at all. I could have stayed at Steve's. This is going to be the worst two weeks of my life.
I'm going out on the Richardsons' dock to get some sun. They're letting us use it so we can get a little farther away from the minister and the dogs. The boards on the dock are hot, so I lay my towel over them and lie down on my stomach. I'm so glad to be away from everyone. I just want to lie in the sun and think about Jennifer.
Last winter, Jennifer and I were lying up in her bed together, not even doing anything sexual, just keeping each other warm, and she had this old Lava lamp that she'd gotten for Christmas, and she turned it on and we just lay there staring at it and holding each other.
We kept asking each other what we were thinking about, staring at the red globs floating in the yellow fluid, and Jennifer was always thinking about something different, either poetry or a book that she was reading. I told her I was thinking about music or trying to define the word “art.” But I never told her what I was really thinking about.
I was thinking about those famous photographs of a baby in the womb and how the red globs in the Lava lamp looked just like that baby developing. And then I thought about how much I wanted to have a baby with Jennifer.
I know we're not old enough yet, but later, when we get married after college, we're going to have a baby together and raise it to be really open-minded and to have all sorts of passions for music and art and cinema.
Anyway, that's what I used to think about before we had the pregnancy scare in the spring and I stopped thinking about that.
She's at theater camp right now. I'm going to write her a letter, just so she knows I'm thinking about her. I get up off the dock and walk right through the Richardsons' yard. I walk into the cottage and tear a few pieces of paper off the pad next to the telephone.
I look up at the painting that's above the green couch. I don't know why, but I've never really looked at it before. It's an oil painting of waves breaking over rocks. Where did we get that? Has it been here the whole time?
Whatever, I'm just going to write what I feel.
Dear Jennifer,
How are you? I miss you. I hope you know that. I think about you all the time (not like that). Well, actually, like that.
So I'm just up here without you. I still hope you can come up here next summer so I can show you all the pieces of my childhood that I'v
e talked so much about. I want you to know me better than anyone. You already do, but you know what I mean. Completely.
It's only seventeen days until I see you again. That's 408 hours—24,480 minutes. I figured that out myself, without a calendar, so I deserve a little credit. Don't you think?
I actually meant to write “calculator,” but my words are escaping me. I need you to be here with me to remind me when I use the wrong word or phrase or something in the wrong way. I love it when you correct my grammar.
Anyway, that's all for now. I'll write you again soon. Hope you're having fun at theater camp. Don't make out with any hot guys—or girls, for that matter. You're the only one for me. I love you. Completely.
Love,
Luke
That's awesome. That's an awesome letter. I know she's going to love it. I hope Mom has stamps. I'm going to put it in the mailbox.
Mike and Eliza are down for the weekend and their daughter, Emma, is wobbling around on the lawn like a spinning top. I try not to have too much to do with Mike and Eliza because they're kind of crazy. I remember that time I was hanging out over there and Eliza got all weird.
I'm not sure what to make of that, but I just remember it was kind of a weird situation. It reminds me of the Seamus Heaney poem that Jennifer loves, about how he's a writer, and his dad and granddad were diggers, but he can't dig like they used to, so he just digs with his pen.
I like that poem, but I can't remember what it has to do with Mike and Eliza. Nothing probably. I just miss Jennifer.
Got a letter in the mail from Jennifer. I'm so excited. God, it even smells like her.
Sweet Luke,
Wanted to write and explain why I haven't—written, that is. So busy. So so so busy. But it's amazing here. The instructors are brilliant. YOU would love it. You should have come. Ah well.
Mom and Dad came and visited and asked about you, which is embarrassing because that means they actually do love you more than me. Not joking.
