Mom has been trying to work her magic, gently suggesting to Dad that it might be a good idea for me if I saw more of the country and tried new things. She’s not blind to the strain between Dad and me, and I’m thankful for her ability to shift the conversation to neutral territory when we get close to coming to blows, which is basically all the time. When the tuition bill came in March, Dad was particularly difficult about forking over the funds, but Mom persuaded him to write the check rather than risk an uneducated and jobless son who would live in their basement forever. I guess the thought of me staying in his house a second longer than anticipated was enough to light a fire under his checkbook, because the money was sent before the deadline.
Dinner starts off nicely. Well, it starts quietly, which is a nice dinner in my opinion. Mom makes small talk. She comments on my speech, clearly filling in the blanks in the conversation in case my dad feels the urge to join in. We make it through the salads before things get loud.
“Your sister always loved this place,” Mom says, looking around at the quaint decor in the Italian eatery.
We used to come to DiMarco’s once a month when June was alive. The Margherita pizza was her favorite, but she liked just about everything on the menu. She liked everything, everywhere. That was part of her otherworldly charm. It’s been three years since we’ve eaten at this restaurant. Since we’ve been one big happy family.
“We would’ve taken her here for her graduation,” Dad mumbles, his voice low and gravelly. Every time he talks about June, he gets this look in his eye and radiates pride. I’m pretty sure he’s never spoken about me with such vigor.
“Guess I’ll have to do,” I mutter under my breath.
Mom drops her fork and fumbles to catch it before it spills Caesar salad onto the floor. She glances at Dad, whose fair cheeks have already reddened. The veins in his neck are standing at attention. He stares at me, mouth agape. I’m sure he’s preparing what he can say that packs the most emotional punch.
Dad never wastes words. It’s what makes him so great in court, everyone says. I stare back at him, feeling my own cheeks starting to burn with shame. Sure, it was a jerky thing to say, but this is my graduation dinner. I loved my sister, I’ll love her forever. But I’d kill for one moment when I’m not in the shadow of her big sun.
“I guess so,” he says, his voice losing all the husky pride from before. “I guess I’ll have to make do with my sorry-assed son who’s so spoiled and self-involved that he feels the need to make his parents’ life as difficult as possible. I guess I’ll have to make do with my son, who spits on everything his mother and I do for him.” With every syllable, his voice grows in both volume and definition. A few other patrons glance at us, and I wish I could slither under the table, out of sight.
I wish what he said weren’t true. I am running away. They have offered me every opportunity and I’m ungrateful. But it’s only because he refuses to accept that I want to make my own path in life, not simply follow the safe one he’s carved out for me.
“I’m sorry I’m such a bitter disappointment to you,” I say. “I’m sorry I’m not June.”
Dad looks like he might burst or have a heart attack right at the table. I know I shouldn’t mention June like this, but in these moments I can’t help myself. Forgive me, sis. I never meant for this to happen after you left.
“John,” Mom says, placing a hand lightly on Dad’s shoulder. Some of his anger deflates. Even her tiniest embrace is able to soothe him.
He looks me square in the eye, and I resist the urge to look down. “You’re right. You’re not like June. But that’s not what disappoints me,” he says, shaking his head and picking up his fork. “No. What disappoints me is that you aren’t like the Jimmy we raised either.”
The pasta is served, and we share a pizza. Mom makes more small talk, and Dad even laughs along with her. I nod and pretend to listen, but really I’m thinking about what Dad said. Have I changed so much?
For some reason Karen’s face comes to mind, and I think my dad might be right.
7
Jimmy
Age 18
May 1989
June’s always here. I sense her at the dinner table as I talk with my folks about school and baseball. I sense her in the driveway when I’m shooting hoops by myself instead of playing knockout with her. I sense her in the halls at school where she’s forever a senior, forever young and popular and golden.
As the months have turned into years, it’s gotten easier. Those first few weeks after she died, I still woke up early to rush to the bathroom, eager to beat her to it so I wouldn’t be late waiting for her to blow-dry or crimp her hair. An emptiness washes over me as I take in the clear counter space where her makeup brushes used to be scattered. Sometimes I have to stop myself from singing out “Junebug!” and banging on her closed door as I pass it in the hall. She used to keep the door shut for privacy. Now it serves to shield us remaining Knights from catching a glimpse of her purple bedspread. I’m sure Mom will pack it all up someday, but for now it’s still there, untouched, waiting for her to come home to.
I’ve missed her the most in all the big moments. Prom was tough. Mom fussed over poor Wren, treating her like the daughter taken from her too soon. Wren was good spirited about the whole thing. Her own mom never paid much attention to that stuff—manicures and corsages—so Wren basked in the attention. Mom has taught Wren lots of things since June died. How to bake cookies, sew a button, bedazzle a sweater. It’s nice they get along so well. I’m sure it would’ve been just as easy for it to go the opposite way. Thankfully, Wren is a lot like June. Mom finds comfort in the similarities. Dad, not so much. I think it’s hard for him to see Wren with Mom, like his little girl is being replaced. He hides his pain well, but he’ll suddenly leave the room with this lost look in his eye. Those are the times I know he’s picturing June and trying not to cry.
Today is one of those days. One of the big ones. It takes all my strength to get out of bed and face the day. I suspect Mom and Dad feel the same, but they somehow manage some semblance of normalcy. Mom makes blueberry pancakes—my favorite—and crispy bacon for Dad. He’s reading the Post and drinking coffee, black with cinnamon and honey. Later today is my high school graduation. Three years ago today June died. I’ve officially outlived my big sister. I can only hope I’ve done her memory proud.
June was destined for greatness. She was outgoing, beautiful, funny, and athletic. You’d love to hate her, but she made that impossible. Everyone considered her a friend, from the nerds to the tech geeks to the jocks. Somehow she was both teacher’s pet and class clown. Of course she was valedictorian of her class. She never got to give her speech.
Before, I was an okay student. I sailed along with As and Bs, never trying very hard. After the accident I vowed to fill her shoes, make my parents proud. They deserved to watch their child give a speech on graduation day and get a scholarship to college. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve made it. Here I am. Valedictorian, varsity baseball player, scholarship to Boston College—everything June would’ve been had she been here. I should be excited, relieved, satisfied. So why do I feel like something’s missing?
“So I stand here, before my fellow students, faculty, family and friends, ready to embark on the next leg of my journey. It’s more than just an academic journey; it is a voyage towards personal happiness and growth. That’s what my big sister always told me. She would’ve been valedictorian of her class three years ago, but it was never about perfect grades or getting into the best college for June. She was the top of her class because excellence was essential to her happiness. She couldn’t help but shine. Her luster rubbed off on me and everyone her life touched, and I want to thank her, up there in heaven, for helping me through the past few years. I also want to thank my wonderful parents for all their love and support; I couldn’t have done this without you. Also, a special thank you to Wren for being my rock through all of this. I can’t wait for what the future holds for us. So, good l
uck, fellow graduates of 1989. To striving for what makes us happy!”
I finish my speech and look out at the crowd. Dad smiles, and Mom cries while holding his hand. My eyes find Wren in the front row. Her cheeks are flushed pink, but she doesn’t look unhappy. I didn’t warn her that I planned on singling her out in my speech, but how could I have left her out? When I think of my future, I visualize college and law school, all the things expected of me. But mostly I see her.
8
James
Age 40
November 2011
“Goddammit!”
For the second time today, I’ve spilled my coffee, but this time it’s running down the front of my favorite suit and burning through my pants. My balls are on fire. “Fuck, fuck, fu-u-u-u-uck!” It feels good to let it out, even if no one else can hear it. It’s been one of those days.
I reach around the back of my seat, searching blindly for the box of tissues I keep on the floor. Finding the box empty only reinforces my belief that today just isn’t my day. The universe is conspiring against me.
My gym clothes are piled on the seat behind me. Maybe I can at least change my shirt. Glancing in the rearview and stretching my right arm back, I lean to grab the tee, keeping one eye on the road and steering with my knees. The angry horn of oncoming traffic startles me, but I manage to get the shirt and regain control of the wheel just in time. Close one.
As I pat myself dry, my Blackberry buzzes in the cup holder. It can only be Cindy. Her name flashes angrily on the small screen. She’s called a dozen times since I left the office, and I’ve let each call go straight to voice mail. Can’t wait to listen to those tomorrow. Or not. I need to tell her I don’t plan on coming home tonight. It’s tempting not to tell her at all, but it’ll only backfire. Some girls might catch the hint. Cindy will double down, latch on tighter. Easier to make up some excuse now, offer her something in return for her goodwill.
“Hey,” I say, grimacing as I catch the call right before it goes to my mailbox.
“Where the hell are you?” She’s drunk. Her already nasal voice is slurring. I clench my jaw, imagining the very expensive bottle—or bottles—of wine she’s drinking.
“Cindy, I can’t make it home. There’s an emergency at my other house, and I need to deal with it tonight.” It’s not a total lie. I fear I may strangle her if I go to my apartment tonight, and that would certainly constitute an emergency. Westchester is the safest bet for us both.
“Do you have any idea what I gave up to see you tonight?” she asks. “It’s Friday night. I could’ve gone out with my friends, but I wanted to be a good girlfriend and spend time with you.”
Good girlfriend, my ass. You’re waiting for my credit card. “I’m sorry, babe. There’s nothing I can do. Go out with your friends. Go to our place and put it on my tab. My treat.”
Maybe I’m crazy, but I swear I can literally hear the wheels in her empty head turning. Clearly, she’s pissed, but she’s still getting what she ultimately wanted—an expensive night out on my dime. “Fine,” she whines, drawing out the word. “But I really wanted to go out with you,” she adds for good measure.
“I wish I could be there with you,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. Cindy has awoken my headache from earlier. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Have fun tonight.”
For the next three minutes I’m forced to listen to her I love yous and assorted baby talk. I imagine it’s like having a child at home, which is why I never plan to have actual children.
The coffee is now cold, making my balls shrivel. Or maybe it was my chat with Cindy that caused them to shrink. I flick on the seat heater, and instantly the leather begins to warm my ass. George Michael begins to sing through the speaker, and I turn it up.
A pair of high beams race around the turn, coming straight at me, blinding me. For a split instant I close my eyes, and they burn from behind my lids. The radio gets louder; “Careless Whisper” blasts at full volume. This is the song they played at my junior prom. It was my song once upon a time. Our song. I see June, still alive. My family, together. Karen, smiling. Everything that wasn’t.
When I open my eyes, the car has passed. The high beams have faded and it’s just me in my Range Rover, alone on the windy road. I glance to my right, and my heart stops but gets faster at the same time. Before the world goes black, I think I must be in a dream. It must be a dream, because I’m staring at everything I could’ve been. In the passenger seat of my car is a six-foot-one man with longish brown hair and hazel eyes, a man with a dimple in his right cheek and a birthmark below his left eye. Staring back at me is . . . me.
***
I wake with a gasp. I’m not sure what I expect upon opening my eyes, but it’s not this. There was a car crash, of that I’m sure. I’m just not clear if this is a true memory or the memory of a dream. I should be in my car, wrapped around a tree, or wired to an IV pole in a hospital room. I’m neither.
What the fuck just happened? I must’ve lost consciousness. Exactly when this occurred is fuzzy. Maybe I crashed after I spilled my coffee and the rest was all a dream? But even if this is the case, I should be in my car or at the hospital right now. If by some miracle I hit my head and managed to drive myself home after the crash, wouldn’t I be in my house?
Panicking, I look around. This definitely isn’t my place. I have no idea where the hell this place is.
Calm down. What’s the last thing you saw? Taking a deep breath, I focus on what little I remember, but this offers me little comfort. I slap myself with my right hand and pinch my cheek with the other. Nothing. I feel absolutely nothing. Am I still dreaming? I will myself to wake up, since this must be a dream. It’s the only explanation.
I’m alone in a room I’ve ever seen before. Pale-yellow walls, like sunshine through a kitchen window, are covered in framed pictures. There’s a red plaid sofa and a brown leather recliner, both covered in cozy blankets and mismatched pillows. Not my style at all. The focal point of the room is a large fireplace, and all the furniture is arranged around it. The mantel is littered with pictures and knickknacks. I’m drawn to the photos. Like I’m swimming underwater, I float across the room and find myself before the fireplace. I must really have hit my head hard.
The force of my emotions is startling. A small glass bird falls from the shelf, shattering on the floor. I’m mesmerized by the photo in front of me, frozen in place. It’s a simple black-and-white picture placed in the center of the mantel, the position of importance. A wedding photo, the bride and groom staring at each other adoringly. The bride and groom are familiar. I squint, confused. The bride and groom. The bride. Karen Martin, my high school sweetheart. The groom. Me.
“Jimmy, is that you?” a voice calls down the stairs. Her voice. It sings through the small house, filling the yellow room so it’s instantly brighter.
I want to call back to her, but I have no voice. She glides down the stairs and stops at the landing, looking around the living room. She looks the same as the last time I saw her but smaller, if that’s even possible. She was always petite, and years of gymnastics made her strong and firm. But now she looks frail, her pale skin almost translucent, stretched tight over her slight bones. Her collarbone is pronounced beneath her shirt, and a silver locket shines against her throat.
I brace for the inevitable scream, but she looks right past me. Shaking her head, she crosses the room and picks up the broken bird from the floor, inches from my feet. “Prissy! Bad kitty!” she says to the cat curled on the sofa. Blinking, I realize I’m no longer standing in front of the mantel. When did I move? How did I move?
“Wren, everything okay down there?” My voice. But it isn’t coming from my mouth.
Karen smiles, walking toward the sound of my voice. “All set. Prissy just knocked something over,” she calls up the stairs. Footsteps overhead, moving closer. A man skips down the stairs, meeting her at the base and kissing her forehead.
“I’ll clean it up,” he (me?) says. Karen smiles again, and I
notice her lips are dry and chapped, more white than pink. Her once full hair has lost some of its luster. But when he (me?) looks at her, she brightens beneath his gaze. Clearly, he adores her. His love covers her like a warm blanket. The moment is so intimate I look away.
I want to wake up. I want this dream to end. Wake up. Wake up. I beg my brain to release my body from its sleepy grip. Being crushed in my SUV or hooked up to life support would be better than watching this Hallmark movie version of my life.
Panic sets in. I’m suffocating. I inhale, but no air fills my lungs. My hand clutches my chest, covering my heart. I’m certain I must be having a heart attack, but beneath my palm I feel nothing, not a single beat. Light-headedness washes over me, and I know I’m going to fall. I reach my hand out to steady myself; I go down anyway, but I don’t land. The floor slips away and I’m suddenly sitting in a bedroom, painted the same pale yellow.
9
Karen
Age 32
December 2003
Red wine always gives me a headache. Lucky for me, oxycodone takes all the pain away. My lips are fuzzy and I can’t feel my face. I poke my cheek, but my pointer finger disappears into my skin. Watching myself in the mirror, I puff out my cheeks and stab a little harder. Poke-poke-poke. Nothing.
Drunk-dialing is never a good idea. I learned this the hard way back in college. Since then I’ve had a strict no-calling rule when under the influence. I suppose this applies doubly to drunk-and-doped-up dialing. You could refer to this as DDD. No DDDing, kids; the results are always worse than you think.
“Hello?” a woman with a sweet voice answers. She sounds nice. I’ve totally forgotten who I meant to call. Who is this person on the phone?
She repeats herself, not unkindly. So nice that she’s not even annoyed by the caller’s silence.
Sometime, Somewhere Page 4
