Tangled

by Carolyn Mackler

  “But you were going to get married, right? What’s the last thing he said to you before…you know…before he died?”

  My mom collected a handful of seeds and swept them into the trash. “On the phone or in person?”

  “I don’t know. Either.”

  She ran the water, rinsing off her hands. “He said a lot of things, Skye. I just don’t know what Ron is getting at here. You’ve been acting for seven years. I’m sure he can help you find emotion without going into Andres.”

  I wandered into the foyer. There, on the wall, was the rectangular painting. It’s an abstract self-portrait, a huge face surrounded by smudges of purple and black. The paint is thick in places, so the nose and chin emerge from the picture. In the bottom right corner, it says A.O. in tiny black letters.

  I stared at the painting. Ron said there were answers here. But the problem is, I don’t even know the questions.

  six

  I sat on my bed for a long time, mulling over the scene with Corey and her dad, thinking about what Ron said, thinking about fathers in general. I thought about my mom’s dad, Grandpa Lloyd, who plays golf seven days a week and has never revealed anything personal to me in my entire life. I thought about my friends’ dads, some chatty and involved, some who can never remember your name even though you’ve been introduced twenty times. Like Matt’s dad, a big-time corporate lawyer, always wearing a slate-colored suit, always pecking away at the latest handheld device.

  But what about my dad? Which cookie cutter would he have been? Would he and my mom still be together? My mom has told me that one time, as they were walking over the Brooklyn Bridge, he shouted into the wind, I love you forever, Luce Wainscott! So maybe they would have been. Or maybe he was just hopelessly romantic. I rolled onto my side and studied the photo of him that I brought in from the living room. He was tall with mocha skin, curly brown hair, and full lips. It looks like it was taken in Central Park. The leaves are orangish-brown, so it must have been when he first arrived in New York, the fall he met my mom. Eighteen years ago. If he lived, he’d be forty-eight now. That’s so weird. I can’t picture him older than thirty.

  I got up from bed and went over to my computer. I logged onto ReaLife, typed “Oliveira,” and hit enter. A bunch of Oliveiras popped up. Pedro Oliveira. Lila Oliveira. Francis Oliveira. And then, seventh on the list, was a guy named Andres Oliveira. When I saw that, I inhaled sharply. I peered at the small picture of this guy, smiling on some beach, all tan and buff with no shirt on. He was twenty-one, went to the University of Miami, and was originally from São Paulo, Brazil. I tapped the icon to write him a message.

  Hi,

  This is going to sound strange, but I’m looking for a person from São Paulo, Brazil. His name was also Andres Oliveira. He was a painter who came to NYC eighteen years ago. Andres died in a motorcycle accident in São Paulo soon after that. He was my father. I’m looking for any information on him.

  Thank you very much,

  Skye Wainscott

  After I clicked send, I copied the note, tweaked it a little, and sent it to all the Oliveiras on ReaLife. I’m not sure what I was looking for, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to put it out there. I waited for a while, but no one wrote back so I began scrolling through my friends on ReaLife, seeing what’s new. Kate was “counting down until Toronto. Eeeeee! 16 more days!” Some girl I went to camp with was “contemplating her ingrown toenail.” And there was Jena Gornik, “getting ready for a big night in the city.” Oh yeah, I thought. I was supposed to go out to dinner with her tonight.

  I opened Jena’s profile. True to form, she had a quote across the top of her page. It said: “Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.” Jena and her quotations usually annoyed me, but there was something about this one that hit home. Could it be possible that the universe, my universe, is unfolding as it should and someday, somehow, everything will make sense? I hope so. Because I can’t deal with the alternative, that life is a bunch of haphazard crap being chucked around and you just have to duck and hope too much doesn’t come your way.

  All of a sudden, I felt even worse for what happened at Paradise, for how I stole that guy Jena liked. I opened my desk drawer, took out a piece of paper, and wrote a note to Jena, telling her I’m sorry for being such a bitch and I hope she’ll forgive me someday.

  I was just licking the envelope when I heard a ping on ReaLife. I opened my inbox and was shocked to discover that Andres Oliveira, the one from Miami, had responded to my message.

  Hey there. I am originally from São Paulo. I have been going to college in Miami for the past two years. My mom is named Ana Oliveira. Her brother, Andres, was my uncle. I was named after him. He was a painter and I know he lived in NYC for a while, but I do not think he had any kids. When he died eighteen years ago, it wasn’t an accident. I do not know how else to say this, but he was very depressed. He came home to get help and it did not work out. I met him when I was little, but I do not remember. Sorry I could not help more. Oliveira is a common name in Brazil, so maybe it is someone else?

  Andy

  As I reread his message, I was trembling. It sounded like we were talking about the same Andres, especially with the painting and the timing of his death. But what was this Andy guy saying about depression and how it wasn’t an accident?

  I clicked print, grabbed the paper, and walked into the kitchen. My mom was standing at the counter, singing to herself as she loaded watermelon chunks into the Cuisinart. I stared at her.

  My mom glanced over at me. “Everything okay?”

  I stood there, not saying a word.

  “Skye? Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  I turned and walked back into my room. As I closed my door, I wondered how it’s possible that one person’s entire world can change while the other person is still making watermelon soup.

  seven

  I must have fallen asleep. My mom was knocking on my door. I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. It was a little after five.

  “Yeah?” I mumbled.

  As my mom turned my doorknob, I flipped over the printout from Andy Oliveira. I’d been reading it when I drifted off.

  “Jena just called,” my mom said. “Your phone was in your bag, out in the hallway.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She and her friends got into Grand Central Station. They’re going to take the subway up here. They’ll probably be at Patsy’s in a half hour.”

  I rolled over so I was facing the window.

  “You look exhausted,” my mom said. “Want me to call Jena and tell her you’re not up for it? I’m sure she’ll understand. You’ve got an important callback tomorrow.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I said it’s okay,” I snapped. Then I got up off my bed and headed into the bathroom.

  I changed into a minidress and heels. I put on eye-liner, mascara, and a touch of gloss. I rubbed pomade into the ends of my hair and swept it back from my face with a headband. I dug through my jewelry box until I found the amethyst necklace my grandmother gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I know when some people are upset they go frumpy, but I tend to take it in the other direction, doing everything possible so no one will guess I’m a wreck inside.

  I grabbed the note I’d written to Jena and headed out to the living room, where I began transferring stuff from my bag into my purse.

  “You look lovely,” my mom said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  I dug through my bag until I found my iPhone.

  “Want me to walk you up there?” my mom asked.

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “What if you’re recognized? Want to wear a hat?”

  I shook my head.

  “Use the Am Ex to pay for dinner,” my mom said, opening the front door. “And tell Jena I said hi.”

  As my mom reached over to squee
ze my arm, I dodged her and headed to the elevator.

  On the way up Columbus, I blasted my music. I could see a few people looking at me and whispering things to their friends, but I stared straight ahead as if I didn’t notice.

  As I turned onto Seventy-fourth Street, I spotted Jena and two other girls waiting in front of Patsy’s. I’d met them before, at a barbeque at Jena’s house, but I had no idea what their names were. One was medium height with red hair. The other was tall with a black dress and dark lipstick. I took a deep breath and approached them.

  “Hey, Skye,” Jena said, smiling. She’d gotten her braces off since the last time I saw her. Maybe it was that, or maybe she’d grown out her hair, but she looked different, older. “You remember Ellie and Leora, right?”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “We saw your movie last week!” Ellie squealed.

  “You were amazing,” Leora said. “It seemed like you really were a prostitute.” She blushed a little. “In the best possible sense.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you were able to meet us,” Ellie said. “You must be so busy.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I said, shrugging. “We shot it last fall.”

  “Shot it!” Ellie squealed. “That’s such an insider’s term!”

  “Easy, girl,” Leora said. Then she cupped her hand over Ellie’s ear and whispered something.

  “I’m sorry.” Ellie grinned bashfully at me. “I was having a starstruck moment.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, shaking my head.

  I’ll admit it, I used to soak up this kind of attention. These days, though, I don’t deserve it. Maybe if I booked a job it’d be different, but as things are I feel like a big impostor.

  We headed into Patsy’s and the hostess led us to our table. After she’d handed out the menus, Ellie and Leora went in search of the bathroom. As soon as they were gone, Jena leaned toward me. “I’m not mad anymore, okay? I was really pissed about the Dakota stuff when it happened, but I’m over it.” Jena brushed her hands against each other and then shook them off. “Totally over it.”

  I stared across the table at her, impressed by her level of honesty. In my world, we tiptoe around things, allude delicately to them, but never stab right at the heart.

  “I…uhhh…I was going to…” I stumbled, reaching for my purse.

  Before I could give Jena the note, she touched my arm. “I’ve actually learned some stuff about Dakota,” she said. “Big stuff. Like, maybe it was for the best that you, well, hijacked the situation.”

  I set my purse back on the chair. “What stuff? How?”

  “I’ve sort of…I’ve become friends with his brother online. I know it sounds weird and maybe it is, but you know, I really like Owen. Anyway, Dakota’s in mourning. Anything with him would have been a total rebound.”

  “In mourning?”

  “He had a girlfriend who died in a car accident a few months ago.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  Jena nodded. “And she was with another guy when she died. Messed up situation. Besides, Dakota wasn’t my type. I don’t know what my type is, but I’ve decided it’s not him.”

  Leora and Ellie returned. We ordered a garden salad for the table and two medium pizzas, one veggie and one pepperoni. At first, Jena’s friends seemed nervous around me, but by the time the salad arrived the three of them were gossiping about school and guys and summer plans. It was almost like I wasn’t there. Jena tried to include me, such as telling me she’s doing an internship in the city this summer, but whenever I said anything the conversation fell flat.

  I started to wonder if maybe I suck at the whole talking thing. And the whole friend thing for that matter. I was watching Jena and Leora and Ellie, the way they finished each other’s sentences and wiped sauce off each other’s faces and constantly referred to a vast array of inside jokes. I definitely never had it like that with my friends, not even back when things were good.

  I was relieved when dinner was over. I paid the bill and we maneuvered out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. Leora and Ellie were skipping ahead, arm in arm, toward Columbus. Jena and I trailed quietly behind.

  “I’m sorry about your grandmother,” I said. “My mom told me. Is she doing any better?”

  Jena shook her head. “We’re not sure yet. It was a major stroke, so she’s still in the hospital. The doctors say it could take months or years, if ever.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Thanks. It’s been pretty hard.”

  Just as we approached the corner, I reached into my purse. “I almost forgot,” I said. “I wrote you a note. It’s what we were talking about before…about Dakota.”

  Jena tore open the envelope. As she began reading, her face grew pale.

  “What?” I asked.

  Jena opened her mouth, but then Ellie and Leora started shrieking, “Come on! We did it! We hailed our very first taxi!”

  Jena started toward the cab, but then turned, stepped closer to me, and gave me a hug. I wanted to hug her back, I really did, but instead I just stood there, my arms stiff by my sides.

  Dinner had been a temporary distraction, but on my way back to the apartment, it started hitting me hard. Were Andy Oliveira and I talking about the same Andres? And, if so, did my dad really have depression? And kill himself? The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. Actually, worse isn’t even the right word for it. I mostly felt numb, like I wasn’t alive, like if a car plowed into me as I crossed the street I wouldn’t feel it.

  Somehow, my legs made it home. When I stepped into the apartment, my mom was at the dining-room table. I could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. Then I glanced at the paper in front of her.

  “I went into your room,” she said, touching the printout from Andy Oliveira. “I was looking for the notes from Ron so we could practice tonight.”

  I stared at her, waiting for her to confirm whether it was true or false.

  “How did you find him?” my mom asked.

  So it was true.

  “I did a search on ReaLife,” I said.

  My mom nodded.

  I could feel my throat getting tight. “Was there even a motorcycle?”

  “Andres was severely depressed,” my mom said. “They said it was bipolar disorder. He went back to Brazil to see some top psychiatrists. He wasn’t even sure he was going to return. We both decided it was for the best.”

  “Was there even a motorcycle?” I asked again.

  “Yes,” my mom said after a long pause. “But there was also a note.”

  I slumped against the wall. I felt like I was going to black out. “But I thought you had this great love story. When were you planning to tell me the truth? And what about the fact that I have an aunt and at least one cousin in Brazil, and they never even knew about me? How is that possible?”

  “I didn’t want you to be born into any more tragedy,” my mom said, rubbing her temples. “Your biological father had died. That was bad enough. You didn’t need to be haunted by the specific details.”

  “But what about me? Depression is hereditary, you know? Don’t you think I should be aware of that?”

  “You’re nothing like Andres,” my mom said.

  “How do you know?”

  My mom shook her head. “I know.”

  “Maybe you don’t. Maybe there are things you don’t want to see.”

  “Skye,” my mom said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I asked her. “This has everything to do with me.”

  Then I walked into my room and closed the door.

  I was tossing around on my mattress, fading in and out of sleep, when my phone rattled on my bedside table. For a second I thought maybe it was Matt. He always used to text me in the middle of the night. I grabbed my cell and was surprised to see a message from Jena Gornik.

  Jena: I know it was you. I recognized the handwriting on your let
ter.

  Skye: What was me?

  Jena: I found your note at Paradise. The one by the hot tub.

  Jena: Skye? Are you still there?

  Jena: Skye? Are you getting these? Please just say something.

  I turned off my phone, dropped it on the bedside table, and closed my eyes.

  eight

  At seven thirty the next morning, my mom came into my room with a cup of tea.

  “Your hair appointment is at eight forty-five,” she said as she placed the saucer on the bedside table, next to my phone. “Want me to call a car service, or should we brave it and take a cab?”

  I hugged my knees against my chest. We hadn’t talked since our conversation when I got home from dinner, and now she was acting like nothing had happened.

  “It’s probably fine to take cabs today,” my mom said, lifting the dry cleaner bags off my audition clothes and laying everything across my bed. “Jon usually needs a half hour for your hair, so we’ll be at the callback safely before ten.”

  “You can cancel it,” I grumbled from my pillow.

  “Cancel your callback?” my mom asked, her voice shrill.

  “The hair appointment.” I slid out of bed and walked toward the bathroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking a shower.”

  When I emerged in my towel, my mom was sitting on my bed. She’d unraveled a twisty from a hanger and was fiddling with it between her fingers.

  “I can see you’re upset,” she said. “We had a fight, Skye. We don’t usually fight, and I know this is difficult for both of us. Particularly difficult, given the subject.”

  I pulled the towel tighter around my chest.

  “But let’s put this aside,” my mom said, “at least for now. Let’s go to your callback and—”

  “I’m going by myself.”

  My mom opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again, stood up, and walked out of the room. Once she was gone, I moisturized my arms and legs and got dressed. I massaged mousse into my hair, did my makeup, and headed into the kitchen for breakfast. My mom was standing over the counter, trimming stems off daisies.