Borrowed

by Lucia DiStefano

  My own guffaw surprises me. “Did you make that up?”

  “I swear I didn’t.” It’s his turn to cross his heart. “Found it in a book.”

  “Peculiar Putdowns? Distinctive Disses?”

  He smirks. “Lonestar Lingo.” When I make a really? face, he says, “Really. I’ll bring it over sometime. It’s the size of a trussed-up hog, so it’ll take some doin’.”

  “Impressive real-life application!” I say, mock teacher style.

  “My neighbor gave it to me before I moved. She said language is the window to the culture.”

  I picture his neighbor misting the pages with her signature perfume, maybe planting a few lipstick silhouettes in random margins for him to discover later, showing up at his door bearing the book in a bikini and the skimpiest of wraps. Okay, so if he left Michigan in March, maybe that outfit wouldn’t be doable. I revise my image to parka and cute knitted cap, but she’s still gorgeous and vibrant in winter wear, and of course they’ll do the long-distance thing until she follows him here to attend UT. I sigh.

  “For the last few years,” Daniel says, “ever since her husband died, I’d been doing her yardwork and getting groceries for her and stuff. She can’t drive. Cataracts. I even demolished a few hornets’ nests, too.”

  “Ah.” I’m sheepishly relieved, until I’m back to second guessing. Is that what this attention is? He can’t help being a good neighbor?

  There’s an extra beat of silence before Daniel picks up the bowl again. “Where were we?” His voice is gentle, soft. As soft as his eyes—if I had to pick a color for them, I’d choose gray suede.

  His gaze climbs higher up my thigh searching for welts.

  “I can take it from here.” I reach for the bowl.

  His face falls. “Oh. Okay.”

  “I just want to … you know, carry my own weight.”

  He relaxes, hands me the bowl. “Then you shouldn’t fight bees without your trusty EpiPen on you.”

  “Ah. That’s what that was,” I say, more to myself.

  He nods. “My little brother has a serious nut allergy, so we have ’em all over the house.”

  “I’m not allergic.” I glop some paste on my arm and press it down so it doesn’t slip off and onto the sofa cushion under me.

  “I hate to break it to you, but you are.”

  I decorate myself with another dollop of white goo, this time onto an angry montage of stings at the crook of my elbow. I’m sure I’ll never look at baking soda in the same way again. “But I’ve been stung before. Wouldn’t I know if I had an allergy?”

  He paste-dabs a welt on my calf. “You’ve never had a reaction?”

  “Beyond ‘ow, that hurts,’ nope.” I reach into the bowl, and our fingers touch. There’s that smile again. It makes me feel as gluey as the poultice.

  He says, “How are you feeling now?”

  “Embarrassed.”

  “Good, that doesn’t require medical intervention. And physically?”

  “Mortified,” I say.

  “You hungry?”

  “Nah,” I lie. I’m ravenous, actually. But him taking care of me like this is making me feel antsy. You’d think I’d be used to people watching out for me by now, but it’s different when it’s your mom. Or people paid to keep you alive.

  He stands up. “Well, do you mind if I get something, then?”

  “Of course not! I can name every sweet thing under this roof, but if you’re looking for savory you’ll have to rummage.”

  “You like pizza?”

  “Yep. Dessert and otherwise. No topping off limits. Well, maybe except for the poor, maligned anchovy.” And yet, even as I say that, it feels like a lie. I’m flooded with the sharp memory of the soft salty fish on my tongue, of liking it, of tasting it against a backdrop of sauce and cheese.

  “I’ll get an East Side pie. And I’ll stop at Ace on the way to get more spray and finish off that nest.”

  “Hey, is this your way of keeping an eye on me?”

  “Don’t give me too much credit. Just hungry, is all.”

  But as he looks away I catch something in his eyes, or maybe it’s technically around his eyes, that says he’s happy I noticed.

  Once the door latches shut behind him, I swing my feet to the floor and start to stand up, but a rush of dizziness and light-headedness makes me fall back against the cushions.

  The skin on my arms feels less inflamed under the baking soda paste. But the skin around my heart is stretched with ache. I rock back to my feet and stand before the mirror in the hallway. The one mom calls her “how’s my hair before the UPS driver sees me” mirror.

  Tentatively, I lift my shirt, afraid of what I’ll see. There’s a constellation of welts splashed across my torso, a particularly thick cluster of inflammation in the heart area, as if the bees were going right for the newest, healthiest part. The skin pulses with heat and pain.

  I drag two fingers through the poultice, scoop up a comfort’s worth, and gently pack it over my heart. Groaning with relief, I close my eyes as the mixture draws the burn out and leaves coolness in its place.

  I hear something. My eyes snap open.

  Oh, God. Daniel is standing there. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have knocked.”

  I grab the dish towel and fling it across my chest like I’m putting out a fire. Thank the queen of bees I’m at least wearing a bra, though I wish it were the nice black Maidenform with scalloped edges instead of the cotton-candy pink Barely There that’s little more than a bra-shaped T-shirt. Only after I stupidly complete the dish towel conceal do I realize I can simply lower my shirt.

  Daniel, gentleman that he seems to be, has turned around by this point, so his back is to me. “I forgot to get your drink order,” he says. Sheepishly, unless I’m imagining that part.

  “Uh, Sprite?” I ask. Literally asking. Should I request something stronger? Where are your wise(r) friends when you need them?

  I force an unconvincing laugh to show him (or maybe me) that it’s all good. “You can turn around now.” My shirt is lowered over the dish towel, which is covering the poultice site. I’ve become a sad sandwich.

  “I couldn’t help but see …” he starts.

  That I’m so averagely endowed?

  When I don’t fill in the blank, he finally says, “Your scar.”

  Oh, that old thing? That’s just something I threw on when everything else was in the wash.

  “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious,” he says. And then he tugs the collar of his T-shirt down, way down, and reveals his own body’s record of trauma. Tree-branch scars across the sky of his chest.

  “My God,” I say, “what happened?” And then I regret asking, because he didn’t demand the etiology of my scar, after all. My face gets hot. “Sorry. You don’t have to say.”

  “I got mauled by a dog. Years ago.”

  “But … but you’re a dog walker.”

  “Animal exerciser, actually.” He smiles.

  I want to frost my next cake with that smile.

  “I wouldn’t be able to go near a dog if one of them did that to me.”

  “I was a little kid. I wanted to hand feed this beagle that was already eating, so I reached into his bowl to grab some kibble … well, the rest is graphic.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re probably thinking, ‘How does one get mauled by a beagle?’ So can we pretend it was a Rotty, or at least a Mastiff?”

  I laugh. “A pack of feral Rotties. With a wolf thrown in.”

  There’s that buttercream smile again. He walks across the room, erasing the distance between us.

  “How old were you?” I ask.

  “Five.”

  “That must’ve been terrifying.”

  He sits on the ottoman beside me. It feels like he’s closer than he was before, now that we’ve shown our scars.

  “I had a heart transplant,” I blurt, immediately regretting it.

  I watch his gray suede eyes
. I’m on the lookout for repulsion. Horror. Or what would be the worst of all: pity. I don’t pick up any of that. Quite the contrary. If I spot anything other than the same guy who was poulticing me a few minutes ago, it’s admiration.

  “Life has tested you,” he says.

  “I never thought of it that way.” I reach under my shirt and slide the dish towel out. Hopefully discreetly.

  “Linnea.” He takes my hand. “Don’t freak out.” His fingers are slender but strong, even warmer than when they were on my leg. “Are you freaked out?”

  “Nope.” I’m liquid.

  “I know we haven’t known each other all that long,” he says, “but experts say that saving someone’s life is a bonding experience. Like it really, really accelerates the getting-to-know-you process.”

  “Hmm. Experts.” There’s a warm humming in my chest. I like it.

  “Hey, you don’t currently have a boyfriend, do you?”

  “Nope.” I hope he doesn’t ask for my romance résumé. As in the never-had part.

  “Good. Because if you did, I’d tell you that you should dump his ass.”

  “Why’s that?” I never would’ve believed that a flawless diamond of a moment could follow a moment of partial-frontal-nudity mortification, but here it is, dazzling my vision.

  “A good boyfriend never would’ve let wasps build a nest on your house.”

  “Ah. Yes. There’s so much pressure on boyfriends these days.”

  “Do you think we could see each other again?” he says. “Like, plan it?”

  “You mean not just when you stumble upon my lifeless, swollen body?”

  He grins. “Exactly.”

  “Making plans without the wasps’ permission,” I say. “Seems kinda daring.”

  “I think we’re up for it. We’re Texans, after all. There’s no tellin’ what we’re fixin’ to do.”

  I can’t hold back the smile that probably—and regrettably—makes my puffed cheeks more prominent. “Then let’s.”

  6

  MAXINE

  I stare at the screen even as my vision turns furry around the edges. This little corner nook feels too dark, cramped, and isolated to offer me courage. My clammy palm slides off the mouse. I haven’t gotten a Harper e-mail in a long time. The cops declared her death “accidental death by drowning” and closed the case. True, they found booze and pot in her blood, but the way that girl swam made fish jealous. So Ezra and I set up a website last year for any leads about that night. We even offered a nebulous “reward,” though neither of our families has chunks of cash. “We’ll figure that out when we need to,” Ezra said, always logical. “Rewards aren’t only money.”

  Maybe I should call Ezra. Maybe I should forward the e-mail to him without actually reading it. Maybe, maybe, maybe. No. I have to get Ezra out of my head. Out of my heart.

  I hover the cursor over the e-mail and click. This might be the clue we’ve been waiting for.

  From: goodsamaritan77@yahoo.com

  To: Trethewaymax@gmail.com

  Subject: your sister’s death

  Dear Miss Tretheway,

  I am so sorry for your loss. Your family is living through the worst kind of pain.

  I’m also sorry for my tardy note. I have been in Europe most of the year, and so I wasn’t aware of what happened till I returned, through a neighbor of mine. And I also heard that you’re actively searching for information about your sister’s death, even though the police have declared the tragedy an accident.

  I can’t say I know what you’re going through, not exactly, because of course grief is more personal than any other emotion, and therefore we each have to bear it alone. But I have a vague idea, perhaps more than the average person offering you their condolences.

  You see, I too lost a sibling to mysterious circumstances. Many years ago. My younger brother, when I was twenty-one and he was eighteen. He had deferred college to backpack across Europe. I was in my final year of business school. Stephen was with a group when he fell, though I was positive he’d been pushed. He was too agile, too careful, to have merely fallen. I refused to accept it. Especially because there weren’t actual witnesses to his fall. Or at least none that had come forward.

  The determination to find out which of the group hated him enough to kill him—and why—was what got me up in the morning during that first awful year. Maybe I needed that hatred, even if I didn’t have a specific person to pin it on.

  But maybe, if I’d continued to hold onto it, it would’ve held me back.

  I finally realized that I may never know exactly what happened, but knowing wouldn’t bring Stephen back anyhow. And that maybe I could honor him best by living my life fully. Not with hate in my heart, but with acceptance.

  I hope this helps you, even if in a very small way. And I hope you take no offense at my reaching out in this manner.

  Kind regards,

  Jonathan

  I reread the e-mail, thinking there must be some embedded clue, but all I can see is Harper’s picture on the website, the photo Ezra took of her when we were all jogging around Town Lake the day after they both got their UT acceptances. Harper was ahead of us on the trail, of course, with as much energy as if she’d slept overnight. She looked back over her shoulder to encourage us to speed up. The previous night they’d invited me to a show at Emo’s followed by breakfast in the wee hours at 24 Diner.

  By the third read I have to admit there’s nothing hidden, no message to decipher.

  I hit reply and stare at the flashing cursor. Why is it so hard for me to remember—and to admit—she smoked and drank before she died? The cops aren’t stupid. Why am I so afraid to acknowledge that a life can be swallowed up by a random sinkhole?

  “Hey, Aunt Shelby said it was my turn to pick!” Race yells from downstairs. And then what sounds like the clatter of the TV remote against the coffee table.

  “You always pick!” Will fires back. “And she’s not our aunt, dummy!”

  And then the soft murmur of Shelby’s response, something I can’t make out, but I can tell it’s calming to the boys all the same.

  I quit my e-mail, rest my forehead on the edge of the desk, and wonder if it can hold me up for good.

  7

  LINNEA

  In those long post-op days in that ratty recliner, days when my lucidity rode the wave of pain meds, I read this romance novel where almost every chapter started with the heroine waking up with a smile on her face. At the time I thought about how corny that was. How unrealistic. And yet, here I am, waking up with a smile on my face.

  Daniel. Baking soda bath, my bra’s unexpected debut, first kiss.

  I think past the pizza he brought back for us, past the part where he said he’d better get going and let me get some sleep because getting swarmed by wasps and falling off a ladder takes a lot out of a person, and he got off the sofa and I got up too and walked him to the door.

  “Wanna take some dessert to go?” (That was me.)

  “I’d rather have it here,” he said. “Unless you’re trying to tell me to get lost.”

  “I don’t have anything thawed.”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “I tend to freeze things I make at home,” I explained, “or I’ll eat them all. So everything sweet in this house is frozen.”

  “Yeah, you’re right: I can’t wait for it to thaw.”

  And before I could puzzle out his sudden urgency, he leaned toward me like he was losing his balance, and kissed me, tentatively and sweetly, his feather-touch fingertips on my face the exact opposite of bee stings.

  “You were wrong about one thing,” he said when we separated.

  “Hmm?” I was still relishing the smell of his skin (licorice).

  “Not everything sweet in this house is in the freezer,” he said.

  I erased the space between us and brought my hands to the small of his back and I kissed him. While at first it felt like I was borrowing boldness, within seconds it felt natural. Afterwa
rd, he gave me a brilliant smile that dazzles me as much in memory as it did in reality.

  Yawning, I think how nice it is to wake up without a heart-out-of-place dream in my head. As I stretch lazily in bed, I spot something on my arm. I blink fast and look closer. On the inside of my right forearm there’s something scrawled in what looks like marker.

  I slam upright in bed.

  What the … ? Daniel? No. I said goodbye to him, I locked the door, I even double-checked when Mom texted and asked me to. Not Daniel. But it’s on my right arm, and I’m right-handed.

  I feel something cold against my leg and rummage in the sheets. Sure enough, an uncapped black Sharpie, bleeding into the cotton. The acrid smell fills my head.

  I skim my fingertips over the letters. Starting at the inside of my elbow and ending at my wrist, they fade as they reach the final word. My pulse speeds when I touch them.

  “I do own you,” I whisper. “I own it now.”

  This is crazy! Who am I talking to? What am I talking to?

  Either my vision gets blurry or the words themselves grow softer, like their edges are seeping into my skin. Suddenly I’m seeing something, but not through my eyes. There’s water. A pond. No, a lake. Spread out in front of me like a rucked tablecloth, the moonlight spilling across it liquid and cloud-white. I can smell the water, the peaty earth, the gentle rot of moist leaves.

  The crunch of footsteps drowns out water lapping at the shore. A shadow eclipses the moon. A fear grenade explodes in my belly and my throat turns airless. I’m facedown in the wet dirt, and there’s pressure on the back of my neck that keeps me from turning my head, and all I can think about is—

  I refocus my vision with a squint, and the letters appear sharp again. I lay my whole palm against the scrawled-upon skin, and my arm and hand grow warmer. I force breath into my lungs over and over, quickly, until I feel light-headed. I’m back. I’m back to seeing what’s really in front of me. My legs under the sheets. The ACL poster on my wall. The stack of folded clean clothes on my dresser. My work schedule push-pinned to my bulletin board. The Don’t Californicate Austin! bumper sticker on my mirror.