NOW
She’s back in bed.
I feel a physical jolt when I walk past my mother’s slightly open door on Sunday morning and see the familiar mound in her bed. Things have been so different the last few months. I thought I’d set my expectations low in terms of her recovery, but it still feels like a punch when I see her dark room again.
I force myself to cross the threshold, force myself not to run out of the house when I see the ghost of the mother I’ve known all my life.
“Mom,” I say gently, coming to the side of her bed. “Do you need anything?”
“No, sweetheart,” she says, and her face is smushed against the pillow.
“Where’s Dad?”
“I think he stepped out to check on something at the clinic.”
I try to quiet the voice that says it’s all over, that everything is going back to how it was before. I’m alarmed at the way it makes me shaky, the way it makes me want to curl up in a ball and weep.
It was during the worst of everything last fall that Mom started to be more present. On days when I was the one wrapped up in my bed, refusing to budge and unable to stop crying, she’d rubbed my back and brought me water and told me she was so sorry.
Then she’d started meds and started seeing a therapist, and the change in her had been radical. She wasn’t healed. The gaunt, faraway look in her eyes didn’t disappear overnight, but slowly her body seemed less vacant. I could ask her a question and know she’d heard me. She made dinner sometimes. She went for walks without my father.
Even then, I’d been wary. I’d known it was too good to be true. A person doesn’t suddenly come back from the dead—which, at the worst times, is what my mother seemed to be. Dead. Now I want to kick myself.
There were times in the past when I almost believed that things had changed. I’d catch glimpses of my mother, happy and healthy, for an hour or a day or the length of a conversation about boys, but it always went back to the way things were.
Why did I let myself believe this change would last?
“I’m going out for a while then,” I say, desperate to escape this porthole into the past. “Should I get anything for you?”
“No, thank you,” she says.
I’ve almost shut her door when I hear her call me back.
“Jessi . . . I talked to Melanie last night. Is that where you’re going?”
“Yeah,” I admit, surprised. Mel and Mom are talking now? Since when? My mother’s illness meant that Mom and Mel had never gotten to know each other beyond surface-level conversations and platitudes.
“I’ve been checking in on her from time to time over the past few months,” she says, which surprises me even more. But I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about Mom 2.0. I feel sad that I’ll probably never get to know her after all, that it seems like she’s gone already. “She told me you and Luke were seeing each other again.”
My heart drops.
“It’s not that serious,” I say quickly.
“Well, we should still have him over for dinner sometime this week. What do you think?”
“Sure, Mom,” I say, and shut her door, but I already know the chances of her even remembering this in twenty-four hours are slim to none. When the darkness takes her, it returns her to us wiped clean.
For a long time, I used to think that as soon as I graduated from high school, I would pack up and leave Winchester. Leave my parents and this world where I managed to feel both loved and forgotten, at home and adrift. But the past year has turned my world upside down and crushed it. Instead of leaving, I’ve decided to take the next year to catch my breath.
Just like Mom guessed, I drive right to Mel’s house.
It’s like muscle memory being around her again. I push back the thoughts of my parents, forget the fact that Mom 2.0 is gone, and without trying, I am going through the motions, becoming the Jessi Mel knows and loves again. On one hand, I know I will never be that girl again and that this act can only last so long. On the other hand, it feels so familiar to be in the Cohen house again, to be loved by Mel, and to be with Luke, even if it’s all pretend this time.
I’m not sure if Luke is home, but Naomi is there again when I get there.
She’s working at the dining table, probably planning lessons for the coming school year, while Mel sits in the living room, surrounded by her mountain of blankets.
“I’m spending more time out of my room now that I get company much more often,” Mel says, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I haven’t been here for her. That with Luke at school this year, she pretty much had only Naomi.
I can’t even imagine how lonely she must have been.
I sit on the couch beside her, and she peppers me with questions the way she used to when I was a kid. At the time, she was the only grownup that even seemed to care what I thought of anything, what I loved and hated and dreamed of doing.
Now she says, “Did you decide to go to State after all?”
“I’m taking a year off,” I tell her.
“Oh. How come?” she asks.
I shrug, try to think of what to tell her. “I don’t know what I want to do, and I don’t want to waste my money and time.”
“Lots of people don’t know what they want to do,” she insists. “You kind of just bluff your way through it the first couple of years until you figure yourself out.”
“Maybe I’ll bluff in Winchester for a while first,” I say.
She looks concerned, but doesn’t say anything else.
“I’ll go grab you some more water,” I say, reaching for her empty cup and disappearing into the kitchen.
The kitchen is eerily the same. The same appliances in all the same places. I swear, even the pile of undone dishes looks the same as the one I saw on the very last day I spent in the Cohen house before everything happened.
“When I take a break from my planning, I’ll get to the dishes.”
I jump at the sound of Naomi’s voice. “Oh, I can totally do them.”
“No, it’s fine,” she says.
“Seriously, Naomi. That’s why I’m here—to help out. I’ll do it,” I insist.
“Thanks,” she says. From the way she hesitates, I can tell there’s more she wants to say.
I go to the fridge and fill a glass of water for Mel.
“You know, the weird thing is,” Naomi continues like we’re in the middle of a conversation. “I thought I saw Luke drive past me on Friday on my way here. I must have missed you in the front seat.”
It takes me a moment to realize she’s still talking about the whole takeout nonsense from two nights ago.
“You must have,” I repeat lamely.
“The other weird thing—I keep meaning to ask Luke, but maybe you know. Who is Court?”
“Court?”
Naomi nods. “He’s on the phone with her at all hours of the day and night, so I figured you’d know her.”
Anybody listening in on our conversation would be wondering how she made the jump from the first weird thing to the second weird thing, but I know exactly what she’s saying.
She doesn’t believe us.
I swallow.
“Ah well, she’s probably just a friend from school,” Naomi says, helping herself to a mandarin from the fruit bowl. As she starts to peel it, I smile and say, “Probably,” like I’m totally unbothered by what she’s just told me.
My façade is breaking, so I turn my back on her and start on the dishes.
When the hell did Naomi, of all people, become so observant?
I’m still filling the sink with soap and water when I hear footsteps, and then Luke walks into the kitchen. He’s in his famous pajama bottoms, his chest firm and distracting. He yawns as he walks past Naomi, his hair in bed-induced disarray.
“Morning,” he says to both of us.
He’s holding a box of cereal, walking toward me to grab a clean bowl, when I do it—I throw myself in front of him and press my lips against his. He freezes for one secon
d, and then he’s kissing me back, his tongue wreaking all sorts of havoc on my sanity. I loop my arms around his neck as we kiss for one breathless, frenzied second.
We stop when Naomi clears her throat.
I disentangle myself from Luke, but he just keeps looking at me.
“I’ll take Mel’s water to her,” Naomi says, coming around to grab the glass on the counter where I left it and then leaving the kitchen. If what she saw did anything to assuage her suspicions, I can’t tell.
Once she’s gone, Luke cocks his head. “Now who’s ambushing who?”
But he doesn’t look angry or like I made him do something he didn’t want to do. And he definitely did do something.
“She’s suspicious,” I hiss to Luke. “She’s going on about how she didn’t see us at Dynasty when she was there on Friday. Also, who’s Court?”
I fold my arms across my chest.
Luke looks surprised. “Court?” he repeats. “How do you—”
“Apparently you’ve been speaking to her at all hours of the day and night.” I try not to let it show how desperately I’m hoping he’ll refute the claims, that he’ll say Naomi misheard or something. Something.
He just pushes his hand through his hair and reaches around me for a cereal bowl.
I know I should drop it, but I can’t. “How are we supposed to seem like a couple when you’re having phone sex with some girl?”
Luke turns on me. “First of all, we were not having phone sex.” An embarrassing sensation that feels a little like relief washes over me. “Second, I’ll be more careful.” He takes a step toward me, so only I can hear. “And third, you’re welcome to fuck whoever you’d like. This is just for show, remember?”
His words make me feel like I’ve been slapped.
“You know, I liked you better when you weren’t a giant asshole.”
Luke narrows his eyes at me. “Did you?”
I can’t answer him, so I turn away and go back to washing dishes.
10
THEN
“When I finish kicking your ass,” Ro said, his eyes fixed on the tennis ball as it hit the edge of his racket frame over and over again, “what do you intend to reward me with? Lunch? A parade?”
His tennis racket was turned on its side, and he was essentially juggling the ball with it. It was a game we’d played since we were little, trying to see who could bounce the ball on the racket frame the longest.
I’d shown up at the club that day intent on hanging out with Rowan whether he liked it or not.
I ignored him and kept counting.
“One hundred thirty-nine. One hundred and forty. One hundred forty-one. Yes!” I cried as his ball spun away from him. “You’re at one hundred and forty-one. I’m one hundred and forty-nine and undefeated, baby! So close and yet so far.”
“My eyes got tired,” Ro complained as I did my victory dance around him.
“A W is a W,” I said, still flapping my arms around like a chicken.
“It’s because you distracted me,” Ro said, changing tactics and trying to blame his loss on me.
“I did not! Next time, maybe don’t get cocky and try to talk, mkay?” I danced directly in front of him until he shoved me out of his way so he could walk back to the clubhouse.
“You’re such a dork,” he said.
“You love me,” I said.
He came to a stop again and glared at me. “Are you skipping? It’s just a fucking game.”
“Then why are you so upset?” I asked.
The truth was, he had a right to be suspicious. I absolutely was ecstatic to marginally hang on to my victory with the racket frame game, but a lot of my happiness had to do with non-tennis things. His brother, to be specific. Being with Luke made me feel full and loved, like I knew exactly who I was and where I belonged. Like I would never again have to wonder about where I fit in this world.
In much the same way his family had when I was a kid, Luke was beginning to feel like home to me.
When we got into the air-conditioned lounge room, Ro plopped down in a chair and took a swig of a sports drink. He offered it to me, and I took a sip.
“I’m so glad we got to hang out. I’ve missed you,” I said.
He nodded. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“Well, you’re so busy with practice,” I said.
“I’ve always been busy with practice.” The implication was that when he’d been busy with practice in the past, I’d come to the court and watch him play or come over to the house to hang out. Now, other things occupied my time. These things went unspoken between us, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they were there, dangling like cobwebs, waiting to be acknowledged.
I fiddled with the sticker on the bottle. I wasn’t going to apologize for having a life. Yet it felt like that was what Ro wanted—for me to apologize for having something that didn’t include him, and somehow I knew that thing was Luke.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he spoke over me.
“Me and Cassie Clairburne are a thing.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “But what about Eric?”
Ro shrugged. “Should have made his move sooner.”
“Wow, so a thing thing or just hooking up?” I asked.
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, Rowan, sometimes people like to have casual sex and mess around. Other times, they get into these things called committed relationships.”
Ro muttered something under his breath.
“What?” I asked.
It sounded to me like he’d said guess you’re the expert now, but he just shook his head.
“Well, congrats,” I said then, but he just held his hand out for the drink. I’d never seen anyone announce a new relationship with such melancholia.
Ro stood up from the table. “I’m going to go and get changed.”
“Ro, wait,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You just don’t seem like yourself. You’ve been so different since the summer.”
“Because my mom is fucking dying, Jessi, and the only thing I can do is hit some balls across a net.”
I flinched at his explosion.
“Maybe other people are able to go on their merry way and act like nothing is happening, but I am not, okay? I’m just not.”
“That’s not fair,” I said, feeling anger rise within me. “I don’t see anybody acting like nothing is happening or going on their ‘merry way.’ I’m over there how many days a week to check on her.”
“Okay, and where the hell is my brother? Huh?” he spat. “He just packs his things and hightails it out of Dodge when she needs him the most, yet he’s still the hero.”
A door opened and shut down the hall.
“Keep your voice down,” I told Rowan.
He was breathing hard, looking down at me like he’d run a marathon. “I’m just over this shit, you know?”
“I know,” I said. “But I hope you get that getting wasted every night is doing nothing to help.”
I’d told Luke I hadn’t seen Ro wasted recently, but something made me suspect that meant very little. When Ro didn’t say anything to refute this, I knew I’d guessed right.
“You’re just giving her something more to worry about,” I said.
Ro sank into the seat again. “I just wish I could do something. Why couldn’t she need a kidney or something? I have that. I’d give her that.”
I blinked back tears as I reached for Ro’s wrist.
“She knows that. I know that,” I told him.
“I come out here every day and I train. I go into the gym four times a week and do even more training, and I just don’t know what the point of any of it is. I’m not saving lives. I’m not changing anything. What’s the point?”
“Think about Roger and Serena and Rafa, all the people you grew up watching. Think about the way it made you feel when they won or lost. That’s the point. If you care about something, it matter
s.”
Ro swiped at his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” I said. “Plus, if you quit after all the money your parents have put in, after all the matches you’ve made her watch, Mel will actually skin you alive.”
He laughed. “I just don’t see how anything is ever going to be okay when she’s gone.”
“I don’t think it will be,” I admitted. “Like, it’s going to suck so much.”
Just thinking about it—a world without the sound of Mel’s voice, without her hugs, without her humor—got me choked up.
“We’ll all just have to stick together,” I said. “That’s what will make her happy.”
Ro stood and sniffed his shirt. “Better go change for real now.”
“Me too,” I said, standing. We walked together, but when it was time for him to turn left for the men’s locker room, he didn’t move. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around his waist, even though he smelled of sweat.
He stood stiffly for a few seconds, and then his arms slid around me. We stood there for a long moment, our hearts beating in sync.
“I fucking miss you,” Ro whispered into my hair before taking a step back and heading into the men’s.
I stayed there, my chest aching with something heavy, and I blinked back tears.
That Ro was hurting wasn’t a surprise, given everything that was happening with Mel. What was surprising was that it felt as if we were going through it separately, as if our paths had somehow diverged, no matter how much I tried to course-correct.
I always pictured Ro and me being friends until we were old and gray, watching tennis and sneaking red velvet cupcakes even when we technically shouldn’t have them. I pictured us talking through the hard stuff, leaning on each other, physically and emotionally. But for some reason, Rowan seemed to feel that he had to shoulder all his grief on his own.
Why?
What had changed between us? And why did it feel, even when our bodies were pressed together in a hug, like we were existing on separate planes?
NOW
I don’t know what to think.
Some Other Now Page 15
