My hair is tied up in a paisley bandanna smeared with buttercream. I redid my cupcakes, and they came out perfect. As good as ever, if not better than ever. The bad batch meant nothing.
I lean over the roofline, expecting to feel the familiar plummet in my belly. The clamminess in my palms. The flutter in my throat. They’re not there, though. There’s just me, relaxed, admiring the red poppies swarming the mailbox post. I’ll pick some for the mason jar on the kitchen table.
A wasp crashes my inner peace party. And then another. Maybe they’re after the sugar residue on my head. I yank the bandanna off and whip it into my room.
But the damn bug still hovers around me. And another. And another. Really?
Scanning the eaves, I locate a papery nest—no bigger than my fist—suspended above my window. If it weren’t packed with little insect bodies, I might see it as lovely and delicate, a dark bedtime story or a strange dream catcher. More yellow and black bodies wriggle out and creep in. “You’ve got to go.” For a second, my voice sounds unfamiliar to me. I shake it off and get to work.
Searching the cobwebby garage shelves, I find a rusted can of hornet killer. Should work on wasps, too, right?
The spray claims to shoot a forty-foot stream of poison. The instructions say not to get too close to the nest when you douse it. Poison blowback and the risk of angry hornets exiting before mass extermination. So rather than go back onto the roof, I plan a land-based assault.
I walk to the side yard beneath my window, aim the nozzle, and press. Nothing.
I shake the can and try again. A weary spit of foam dribbles onto my hand. I run the dispenser under water from the outdoor spigot and try again, but it won’t stream like the picture promises. Finally, just about ready to give up, I try again, and a gush of chemical sneezes out. No way it’s forty feet, though. I’ll have to get closer.
I go back to the garage and drag the ladder over to the house. I’m sweating like it’s my job. As I struggle to hoist the ladder upright against the siding, something furry brushes against my bare leg. I jump. The ladder crashes to the ground.
“Sorry!” I hear from down the street. “He’s friendly.”
Oh.
Oh.
It’s Daniel. With his dog posse, chasing after the escapee. A midsize black-and-white dog, twining itself around my legs. Not a toddler-size wasp.
My legs! When was the last time I shaved? Why didn’t I choose jeans instead of capris? Stupid summer-in-April Texas! But it’s dusky out. Will the hair be noticeable? Oh. My. God. My hair. It must look terrifying. It was smashed under a bandanna all day. Flat and greasy.
I want to crawl up the ladder and hide in the wasps’ nest, but I still haven’t managed to get the ladder pointing upward. So I sit on the grass, crisscross my legs, and pull the dog onto my lap. That’ll hide my neglected legs. With one discreet hand, I try to fluff the top of my flattened hair.
Daniel stands over me. He’s slightly out of breath, though he seems to be trying to hide it. He unwinds the coil of leashes, leaving a red band of skin over his knuckles. The scattered stubble along his jaw makes him seem older today. He was clean-shaven that day a couple of weeks ago when I first met him. I had been leaving for work and saw the U-Haul truck in the driveway three houses down. I spotted a cute guy, my age-ish, lugging boxes out of the truck and into the garage. So I stopped and introduced myself, even though that is so not like me.
“So you live here?” Daniel asks.
“No, I’m just trying to break in. I hear the owners are away.”
He laughs, and I want to grab the sound from the air and wrap it around me.
“You really love dogs, huh?” I say. An old black lab with a gray chin squats and pees on my lawn. She’s one of four on leashes. The dog in my lap makes five.
Daniel points at the escapee and scowls. “Socks, I thought we had an agreement.”
Socks looks up at me and stops panting long enough to whimper. I imagine he’s saying, “Save me, save me!”
“Socks, huh?” I say, sizing up his white legs and paws. “Not the most original name.”
“I know, right? But don’t look at me. He’s not mine.” He clips a leash on Socks, who flips belly-up and rubs his back on the grass christened by the lab.
I scratch Socks’s underside, much to his squirmy delight. “Are any of them yours?”
“Yup.” He stoops to pat a pensive-looking Jack Russell.
“And …” I say, “his name?”
“Nietzsche.”
“Touché.” I laugh. “So, you’re a dog-walker?”
“Yeah, but not a very good one at the moment.” He looks around him at the stalled bunch, expressing their displeasure in barks and whines. “I’m Daniel.”
Oh great. So he doesn’t even remember talking to me. I’m that memorable.
He reaches out his hand, and my heart beats in happy terror. Is he trying to shake my hand or help me up? I decide to assume it’s both and manage to gracefully rise, still holding onto his hand. “Sorry I was preoccupied when you stopped by the other day,” he says.
“No problem. Moving does that to people.”
“Yeah, well. It was nice of you to say hi. I couldn’t remember if I ever got around to actually introducing myself.”
“You did, and I’m Lin—”
“Linnea,” he finishes. “I remember. You don’t hear that name too often. It’s nice.”
I turn into a heap of frosting sliding off a warm cupcake. I let go of his hand since the shaking / helping up must be officially over by now.
“You’re from Michigan, right?” I say.
“Hey, you remembered.” He seems genuinely pleased.
Come up with something better than I hear it’s cold up there. “How are you liking Texas so far?” Marginally better.
“Where I’m from, it’s still cold as hell in April, so I like this.”
“Good deal.”
“Plus y’all are really friendly,” he adds.
A loud motorcycle roars down the street. I let it pass before I speak. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Oh, I think it’s a good thing.”
“And you got the ‘y’all’ down,” I say. “That’ll serve you well here.”
“I’m getting that impression. I studied my Texisms before we moved. The one I don’t think I’ll ever find a use for, though, is—”
A yipe cuts him off. We assess the pack. Socks has grown bored and is nipping at the legs of a poodle-looking mutt that yelps again in protest.
“I should get the gang home,” he says. “Do you need any help?”
“Huh?” That’s me, of course. The queen of natural, compelling convo.
He gestures toward the still-horizontal ladder. “You’re painting, right?”
“Oh, that. No, there’s a wasp nest up there.”
“You have spray?”
I nod.
“It’s best to wait ’til it’s darker,” he says, “’til they’re all back in the nest for the night.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I can help,” he says.
I don’t want to insult him by turning down his offer, but I don’t want to appear damsel-in-distress either. I leave it open to interpretation. “Thanks.”
“I know I seem incompetent.” He looks up at me, grins, and reveals a lone dimple, which now officially makes me unbearably self-conscious about my appearance. “But I’m usually pretty good with them.” Standing straight, he drags his hand through his hair and tugs the leash of a basset hound sacked out on the grass and chewing on blades. He easily hefts the ladder off the ground and leans it against the house. “I’ll run them all home, and then I’ll be back.”
Daniel twirls around, pulling the pack down the street, the exhausted basset slowing the pace. He backward-glances and catches me looking. He lifts a leash-clutching hand in a wave.
Will it look too obvious if I change before he gets back? Wash my hair? Bake him a cake?
Jus
t be yourself, I tell myself, wondering who exactly “myself” is. The one Mom accuses of overcompensating, or the timid one who would never send back a bad meal because she doesn’t want to stress out the server?
Better to go ahead and kill the damn wasps, prove you don’t need a man to get the job done.
I concentrate on climbing up the ladder, and the sound of my feet on the rungs focuses my thoughts, most of which start with Daniel.
Halfway up is close enough. I start my assault. The spray nozzle fires and the stream hits the nest. There’s a wasp hovering around my face as if trying to ID me as the assassin. I use my free hand to wave it away. It stings my cheek.
“Ow! Hey!”
My soles start to slip off the rung. Instinctively, I grip the sides of the ladder with both hands, losing the can of poison.
There’s another wasp on my wrist. I shake my arm, trying to bounce it off.
“Really?” I need to get off this ladder.
As I descend, I feel one under my shirt. Legs and wings. Ew. I grab the hem of my tee and parachute the fabric so the bee will fly out, but it stings me on the stomach anyway.
And then time goes noodley. Vengeful needles with teeth, more bees sting me: legs, arms, neck. I’m feeling woozy now, not sure whether the house is receding or I am. I’m lower down on the ladder but not on solid ground yet. My footing gives out, and I fall back on the grass, the air knocked out of my lungs in a percussive heave.
I press a palm against my chest to steady the smacking inside. I try to get up, but my body’s too heavy to move. Except for the erratic squeak of bats, I’m alone.
My throat closes in on itself. The light filtering into my vision narrows down to the thinnest straw. I’m vibrating with a relentless buzzingbuzzingbuzzing … is it my heart?
Where is my heart?
4
MAXINE
The four of us are at the kitchen table, two pizzas our centerpiece. Race is picking mushrooms off his slice and heaping them onto Shelby’s. “Look at my spoils!” she crows each time. Darkness has gathered outside, and I glance at the window, the old tasseled kitschy spoon-patterned curtains (badly in need of a wash) pulled aside so the glass is a mirror. I see us all flanking the oval table and want to imagine we fill in the missing parts.
The fridge kicks on. The rattle that I thought had gone away is back and louder than ever. It gives me a headache. Not the noise itself, but what it predicts. A big withdrawal out of the savings account with no big deposits in sight. If it weren’t for Mom having a decent enough job before and always putting some aside, I don’t know how we could’ve gotten through the year. Even if I did pull the plug on school, I wouldn’t be able to earn enough to cover childcare for the boys. And I certainly can’t leave them with Mom. This week’s day camp is a gift from Shelby’s parents. Race and Will attended last year and loved it; they’ve been asking about it since Christmas. I hate taking charity, but I’m glad they don’t have to be disappointed.
“It sounds like it’s lifting off,” Race says, pointing to the fridge, “to outer space!”
“Yeah, well, I wish it would send a better one back to take its place,” I say.
“It’s already cold in outer space,” Will says. “Nobody needs fridges there.”
Shelby’s on her feet. “Anyone want anything while I’m up?”
“Gummy worms?” Race tries.
“Fat chance,” I say.
Shelby opens a cupboard, a drawer. She navigates the kitchen comfortably, but something about the way the light hits her (and there’s a bulb out; I’ll have to get to that), or the way her flawless makeup contrasts the cabinets painted a rough teal blue (we left the boys’ messy brushstrokes on the lower half), makes her seem like an actor on a set. Like she’ll go home to her real world eventually. Which, of course, she will. I feel a lump of envy rise in my throat and send dough and cheese in to push it down.
She comes back to the table with more napkins and a fork and knife. “Is it just me, or is the pepperoni particularly greasy tonight?”
“It’s delicious,” Will says, and pats it with careful fingers.
“Harper said eating pizza with a fork is like drinking water with a spoon,” Race says. “She says it’s cheating.”
Shelby’s eyes flit to mine. Without moving a muscle, she’s holding my hand.
I smile at Race, hoping he doesn’t notice the tension glazing the smile. “I think Shelby gets a pass since you’ve cheated by unloading half your toppings onto her plate.”
Will watches Shelby cut up her pizza. He drops another crust into the box and announces: “Somebody brought a knife to school.”
“Cool!” Race says.
“No, not cool,” I say. “Will, when did that happen?”
“On Friday.”
“And why didn’t you tell me about it?”
He looks confused. “I just did.”
“I mean when the bus dropped you off. Remember, I asked how your day was, like I always do? And you said ‘Good,’ like you always do?”
Will shrugs and scrunches up his marinara face. “I didn’t think of it then.”
Tossing my balled-up napkin onto my dish, I stand up and start clearing the table. I drop saucy napkins in the empty box, close the lid on them.
“This is Texas, after all,” Shelby says. “Only a state that allows you to walk around with automatic guns in public places is one where a third-grader would think it’s okay to bring a knife to show and tell.”
“Don’t mess with Texas!” Race shouts, leveling a crust at his brother. Will grabs a self-defense crust from the other box.
“You don’t have permits for those weapons, so they have to go back to being pizza crusts.”
Race giggles. I pinch his cheek.
“The girl who brought the knife was a fifth-grader,” Will says. “And it wasn’t for show and tell. They don’t have that in fifth grade.”
“He was a she,” Shelby says. “Even more depressing.”
I move to the sink, stop the drain, and fill it with soapy water. The dishwasher’s been on the fritz for a while. Even guided by YouTube videos, Ezra couldn’t fix it. “Boys, pick up your rooms and get your PJs out. Baths in ten.”
“Our room’s too heavy for us to pick up,” Will says. Race falls off his chair laughing.
“Ha ha, my little smarty pants.” I hand Will a napkin. “Wipe those fingers, please.”
“Can’t we have a half hour of TV first?” Race pleads.
I peer out of the window above the sink. The neighbors’ speedboat is like a reverse shadow, a boat-shaped hole in the dark. I can’t help but see my own reflection superimposed on it. As if finding freedom is just a matter of owning something that can motor you away.
“Aunt Shelby says you can have fifteen minutes of mush-the-brain time,” Shelby tells the boys. “And only a show with zero chance of knives or guns.”
“Aunt?” Race repeats.
Shelby takes his hand. “That’s right, kiddo. I’ve decided I want to be an aunt. I’m getting older, you know.”
As she leads them to the living room, there’s a thud from above. I tug the curtain on its rod ’til it covers the window, plop a slice of pizza on a plate, and head upstairs. I pass the open door of my dark room, the pale sheets of my unmade bed like a raft on a silent sea. I step over a puddle of loose Legos in front of the closed door of my mother’s room, which hasn’t been slept in for a year (unless you count Mom’s college roommate who came from Vermont for the funeral). Across from that is the boys’ room, their bunk beds against the one emerald-green wall.
And at the end of the hallway, Harper’s room.
I turn the handle and push, but something stops the door from swinging open. Not again.
I press my mouth to the crack in the door. “Mom, can I come in?”
Silence.
“Mom, are you okay? We heard something.”
More silence. Then, an inhale and, tersely: “I dropped a book.”
�
��Can I come in?”
Pause. “Why?”
Because I can’t take your word that it was only a book. Because I can’t be sure you haven’t found a way to hurt yourself. “Because I need to talk to you. Boy trouble,” I lie. It’s so hard pretending I’m still the child in this relationship.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Her voice is deceptively strong. “Come in.”
“You pushed the dresser up against the door again?”
“It does seem to be there. But I didn’t put it there.”
“I really need to talk to you, Mom. No one else understands.” The kindness of lies.
“Hold on a minute.” I hear her slippers ski the wood floor. And then the scrape of the furniture, a trek that will leave gouges.
I open the door, and there she is, my mother and not my mother.
She’s wearing a weird mishmash of Harper’s clothes: earth-tone paisley cardigan over neon-orange tank over pilled black yoga pants. Only the slippers are hers.
But at least she’s clean today. And she’s looking right at me instead of past me. I’ll take what I can get.
“Mom, how about some pizza?”
She shakes her head. I set it on Harper’s desk, next to the soup I delivered hours ago. All Mom eats anymore are protein bars (peanut butter), probably because one was in Harper’s bag the night she died. Mom’s doctor says there are worse things she could be surviving on. And for weeks after Harper’s death, Mom wasn’t eating at all, so this is an improvement.
My sister’s collection of neon-haired troll dolls glower at the untouched food, the neat row of them against the wall belying the wildness of their hair (“Pink, orange, and green, oh my!” Harper used to say when she’d tickle the boys with them). Above them are words calligraphed by Harper onto the plaster wall: I took my power in my hand and went against the world. Emily Dickinson was one of Harper’s heroes, which is ironic when you consider Emily was a shut-in, and Harper considered a night at home a major case of missing out.
“Is Christopher treating you well?” Mom asks.
Huh? Oh yeah: I feigned boy trouble to get in. “Yes, sure he is.”
Borrowed Page 3
