My mom, nice?
“Come with me to get some food?” she asks. “I’m starving.”
“Sure,” I say, following her to the food line. It’s like I’ve gone back in time to freshman year, and this is the first day, and this is how things should have gone.
We stop at the salad bar and before we load our plates, Grace looks at me, suddenly serious. “This is nice,” she says. “Talking to you.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I feel . . .” she starts to say, then stops. “It’s just . . . It’s been too long.”
“Yeah,” I say, the hardness I’d felt for Grace melting away inside, like whatever happened between us, all those years ago, doesn’t matter anymore.
Once we get our food, I sit back down at the table with Grace, careful to avoid looking at Chita and the girls. I mean, is it so bad that I want to re-establish an old friendship? It doesn’t mean I’m abandoning them. I just think back to something Mom said, on the plane coming home from New York, when Earl and Sam were dozing off in the row in front of us. “When we get back home, we’ll make a fresh start. A new beginning.”
Mom made it sound so easy. But maybe she had a point. Because that’s what I’m doing now, I think. Making a new beginning for myself.
===
When the bell rings for the last period of the day, I walk out to the soccer field, dressed in my normal clothes. I’m going to chat with Coach, to see if she thinks I can work out with the team. My ankle feels better, and it might be nice to just be outside, so I can clear my head and not think about Sam or anything. On my way, Donal jogs up to me. He’s already in his cleats.
“Hey, Beth,” he says, slowing down to match my pace.
“Hey.” I feel my face flush a little and look away. The last time I was this close to him, we were kissing.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he says. His accent has faded over the years, but it’s still there, so glad sounds like glod, and back like bock. “I was worried about you. I left you some messages.”
“Yeah, things have been sort of crazy.”
“I bet. I mean, your brother, Sam. Your brother! That’s so incredible. I just wanted to . . . To tell you I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’d never talked to Donal about Sam, but he must have known about it—everyone did at some point. Then they filed it away and it didn’t matter. I was just Beth to them. But not anymore. Now everyone is so concerned. Everyone wants hugs. It’s like they all want me to break down so they can comfort me.
“We missed you at lunch today.”
“I was there.”
“Yeah, I saw you. With Grace and those girls.”
“So?” I stop walking. “What about it?”
He stops and holds up his hands. “Nothing.”
I start walking again.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, so sick of having to tell everyone that. We’re almost at the field. I can tell he wants to ask me something else but is holding back.
“So, that day at my house?” he says, sounding hesitant, looking off toward the field. He swallows, his Adam’s apple poking out sharply.
“The day I found out about Sam?” I say. I was a different person then. A different Beth.
“I . . . Uh. Never mind,” he says.
At the field, Donal gives me a quick wave bye and jogs off to join the guys’ team. When she sees me, Coach Bailey hugs me, and so do the others, and it’s just like when I arrived at school, all these emotional demands that I don’t want to deal with. We should be stretching, cutting up, talking shit, like we always do before practice. I was thinking it would be nice to be back out there, but now I realize things will be weird here, too. That it’s going to be weird everywhere, maybe.
Coach says, “How’s that ankle?”
“Doctor says I need more rest,” I tell her, shaking it for effect.
“Okay,” she says, patting me on the back, and I flinch and she gives me a funny face, like I’ve hurt her feelings. “Well, okay, we won’t rush things.”
Chita looks over and holds out her hands, like she’s asking, What gives?
I look away and take my seat in the bleachers and take out my phone. I already see a text from Grace: “Glad UR Back. XXOO.”
===
When I get home from school, Mom’s making cookies. She hasn’t done this in ages. “How was school?” she asks, smiling like she’s Mom of the Year. I’m not used to her being home till well after five, but she’s taken a leave of absence at work—to be there for Sam “during the transition.”
“Fine,” I say.
Let me state the obvious: Home is different now that Sam is back. Sure, I guess it’s a happier place. Or Mom is happier, and so is Earl. But that initial euphoria has worn off. Now it’s like Sam is an awkward guest that we’re all being overly polite to. So far he’s quiet, and doesn’t say much unless prompted. He has that slight, cautious smile on his face a lot, and sometimes a spaced-out look, like maybe he’s lost in his own unknowable memories. Something must be wrong with me, because I feel uneasy around him. A normal person would want to spend every second with him, to make up for lost time. Wouldn’t they?
“I bet it was good to see all your friends,” Mom says.
“Yeah,” I say. I’m too tired to tell her about all the attention I got, or about Grace, or about all the presents that are hidden in my backpack, weighing me down.
Mom says, “I took Sam to see his counselor today. The man that Dr. Rao recommended. Dr. Saylor.” Sam’s seeing this doctor so someone can assess his psychological condition and monitor his progress. I don’t know how much this doctor tells Mom and Earl—or how much Sam tells the doctor. As a family, the policy is that we’re still not asking him about those three years. It’s up to Sam to tell us when or if he’s ready, Mom says. And, according to Mom, he’s not ready yet. And that’s fine by me.
He’s also getting a tutor, to see how far behind he is in school.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s on the back patio, drawing. He draws now, did you know that?”
I shake my head. Yet another fact that makes him seem like a stranger.
“You should see his stuff. He’s very good. Go out and say hello.”
“I’ve got a lot of homework to catch up on,” I say.
“Beth,” Mom says. She stops spooning the dough onto the pan and looks at me. She’s not frowning or anything, but I know it’s an admonishment. “Can you go say hello? I know he’d like that. And it would mean a lot to me.”
“Okay,” I say.
Outside on the back patio, Sam’s sitting at the rickety iron table, his sketch pad resting in front of him. He’s holding a pencil in his hand, nibbling on the eraser. He looks up at me when I walk over.
“What are you drawing?” I sit down on one of the cold iron chairs.
“I’m just thinking.”
I look out toward the corner of the yard. We had a swing set there once, but Earl ripped it up a few years ago and planted a few shrubs. I used to push Sam in it, when he was a little kid. “Higher,” he’d say, “higher.”
“Mom says you’re on the soccer team,” he says.
“Yeah. I’m on the team. Midfielder.”
“That’s so cool,” he says. He stares off, twirls his pencil. I look over at his sketch pad, and it’s blank. He sees me taking a look. “Yeah, I haven’t figured out what to draw yet. But I can show you some of my other drawings. If you want?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ll be right back.”
I watch him head into the house, then look at the blank sketch pad resting on the table. Sam used to hate sitting still. He never even really liked crayons as a kid, except to write stuff on his bedroom wall. He didn’t seem to have an artistic bone in his body.
/> Now he’s back, carrying this older-looking sketch pad with a worn red cover. I can see that loose-leaf pages are stuffed into it when he sets it down. He starts flipping through the pages, but I can’t see anything.
“I left a lot of my drawings there.”
There.
“But here’s one I did, sort of scenic.”
He hands it over. It’s this pencil drawing of some mountains seen from a distance. It’s really good—detailed and precise. He hands over some others. Still lifes, I guess you call them, of random stuff, like a cup of coffee, a tape dispenser, a bowl of fruit. There’s a great one of a cat hunched up on what looks like a picnic table, another of a courtyard with a bicycle on the ground. I’m kind of shocked at how good it all is. I mean, I’m no art critic, but I know I couldn’t do anything like this.
“These are great, Sam. Really.”
He shakes his head. “They’re so-so.”
“No, they’re good.” I want to ask how he learned to do this, but I don’t.
He pulls out another. He studies it, hesitates.
“Can I see?”
“It’s terrible.”
“I doubt it. Let me?”
He turns the picture around and right away I see that it’s a self-portrait, in what looks like colored pencil, of when he was a little younger. It’s not bad, just a little weird. Like the eyes and nose and ears are slightly bigger than they should be, the coloring a little too bright. But it’s unmistakably Sam.
“I love it,” I say, even though I don’t. It’s kind of creepy.
“You can have it.”
I take it.
“I tried to draw pictures of what I thought you’d look like. I did, like, hundreds of bad, stupid drawings, but I left—I mean I threw most of them away. They sucked. They didn’t look a thing like you.”
Something in my chest starts to ache, thinking of him trying to draw me, in that place. And then my mind goes where I don’t want it to: Abuse. Torture. All the things he went through that I can’t—won’t—imagine. I swallow and say, “It’s okay. You can draw me anytime.”
He picks up his fresh sketch pad and perches it on his knee, propped so I can’t see. He starts moving the pencil around, darting his eyes up to me, back to the pad, back and forth. He goes on for a few minutes. On the outside, he looks so normal. No scars that I can see, his hands smooth and strong, his face clear of blemishes. No trace that anything happened to him. I feel my throat tightening.
“I really need to get to my homework,” I finally say, hoping I don’t sound funny.
He rests his pencil. “Oh, okay.”
“I’ve just got so much to do, being out of school for so long.” Once I say it, I feel stupid—Sam has been out of school for way longer than me.
“It’s okay. I understand.” I stand and start walking back to the house. “Don’t forget this,” he says.
I turn back and he’s holding up the self-portrait. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”
Back in my room, I set the picture on my desk. Younger Sam looks up at me. What had he already been through when he drew this, in that awful place? No. Don’t think about that stuff. We’re not talking about all of that. I open the bottom drawer of my desk, where I keep old school papers and stuff. I take all of that out, put the picture on the bottom of the drawer, and then pile everything back in, and shut it.
===
Every morning, I park by the athletic fields, away from the main lot where most of the seniors and juniors park. And every morning, Chita and Darla and Ainsley wait for me at my locker, undeterred.
“How are you today?” one of them will ask. Or, “You doing okay? How’s Sam?”
And always, I say, “I’m fine.” And, “He’s okay,” as if I know. But what I want to say is, “Can we go back to a few weeks ago? Let’s talk about normal things. Please don’t make me think about my brother.” They all look at me like I might crack apart. When we separate before homeroom, they all hug me. We never used to do that.
At lunch every day that week, I sit with Grace and those girls—not with the soccer gang. It’s not what I intended to do, but each day Grace is waiting for me and takes me to the table like I’m in need of an escort. After that first day, no one really brings up Sam or New York. It’s almost like I’m part of their group. I know I’m not. But at least they don’t treat me like a fragile flower, like someone they want to heal with hugs.
On Thursday, Grace mentions a Halloween party out at someone’s lake house. “It’s anti-costume theme. No dressing up allowed. Can you come?”
A party, with these girls and their crowd—football players and meatheads—doesn’t sound like my scene. Grace sees the hesitation in my face. “Please?” she says.
I’m too caught off guard to think of an excuse. “Okay,” I say.
“It will be a blast. I promise.”
When I go to my locker at the end of the day, Chita is there.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks. Her voice sounds raw. She’s leaning against another person’s locker, like she’s exhausted.
I open my locker and unload some books. I feel so tired, right then. Tired of the concern. Tired of the attention. “Doing what?” I finally say, but I know what.
“You always hated those bitches.”
I cringe at that word. “They’re not . . . bitches,” I say. “They’re actually nice. And Grace and I go way back, actually. Did you know that? She was my best friend in middle school.”
Chita squints at me like I’ve said something crazy. “But you’ve hardly spoken to her for three years,” she says. “Or she’s hardly spoken to you.”
I look into my locker and fiddle with a few things, kind of hoping Chita will just walk away.
“Beth,” she says.
I finally turn to her. “What?” It sounds sharper than I mean it to.
“Something’s wrong,” she says. “Does it have to do with Sam being—”
“Can you just stop?” I ask. I slam my locker shut.
“Wow,” she mutters, and then walks away.
And I know I should yell at her to stop and come back.
I should, but I don’t.
===
At dinner that night, Mom asks, “How’s Chita? How are the girls?”
Shame floods through me, and I get that tired feeling again, like my arms and legs weigh a ton. I look up and force a smile. “They’re fine,” I say, and she doesn’t push me.
Sam’s sitting there, methodically eating his food, looking from Mom to Earl as they talk. Before he got back, we usually sat on the couch for dinner, in front of the TV, my plate on the coffee table, not talking.
“Can I go to a party tomorrow night?” I ask.
“A Halloween party?” Mom asks. “With the girls?”
“No. With Grace.”
“Grace Cutler?” Mom asks, sounding surprised.
“Yeah. We’re hanging out again.”
“That’s great,” Mom says, not sounding like she means it.
“Where is this party?” Earl asks.
“Somewhere across the river. One of her friend’s houses. It’s small, not many people. No costumes, thank God. Grace will pick me up.”
“As long as you’re home by eleven.”
“Okay.”
A few minutes pass as everyone keeps eating.
“We met Sam’s tutor today,” Mom says, breaking the silence. “Her name’s Lane. A nice young woman. She used to teach at Hillcrest but left to be a mom. But now that her kids are in school, she’s gone into tutoring.”
“Did you like her?” Earl asks Sam.
“Yeah, she was nice. She was pretty.”
Earl laughs and Mom smiles. I guess they think this is cute. Or maybe they’re relieved that Sam thinks a woman is pretty, just like a normal teenage boy.
&nbs
p; “Listen, I wanted to talk to you both about something,” Mom says, changing the subject. Her tone is serious. “I’ve been speaking—” She pauses and looks over at Earl, and he nods, like he’s giving her permission. “I’ve been speaking with Hank—with your father. He wants to come see you.”
“Sam,” I say without thinking. “He wants to see Sam.”
“He wants to see you, too,” Mom says.
I just look down at my plate and eat some more even though now I’m not hungry.
“We thought maybe your father could come down for a day or two over Thanksgiving weekend, next month.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “Whatever.” I grab my plate and bring it to the kitchen. Normally Mom would yell and tell me to excuse myself first, but not tonight.
I go to my room and shut the door. I grab my phone. I type a text to Chita—Sorry about earlier—but I don’t send it. I delete it and then lay on my bed and just stare at the ceiling. When a text chimes, I grab my phone and see it’s from Donal: How are you?
I set it down. I don’t reply. Even though I want to tell him that I feel terrible. Confused. I start crying, just a little, and the tears leak out and I cup my hand over my mouth and I hope that Mom doesn’t knock because I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I’m supposed to be happy now, aren’t I? So why have I turned into such a mess?
===
Grace picks me up Friday at eight. Aimee and Margo are in the car, too. “Cute house,” Margo says from the passenger seat. Both Aimee and Margo live in big houses in Forest Lake, so I know “cute” means small.
“I hate it,” I say, which makes Aimee laugh. She has this kind of annoying laugh, like a whiny hiccup. “We might move,” I say, which is a lie. “We got some money from doing the TV interview.”
No one seems impressed by that, and I feel my face color. Relax, I think.
“What’s the address of this party again?” Grace asks, typing into her GPS.
“It’s out on Lake Tuscaloosa,” Margo says.
“I know,” Grace says. “I need the address.”
Aimee calls it out, her eyes never leaving her phone.
“Whose house is this?” I ask.
We Now Return to Regular Life Page 11
