by Jen Malone
Even though he says “they,” I know he’s talking about my mother. “She’s not the same person, though. The Mom I knew wouldn’t make all these huge decisions on a whim like this.”
“Unless she’s trying to move on. Maybe it’s hard for her to be in that house, with everything it represents. Maybe she’s trying to put her past behind her every bit as much as you’re trying to hold on to it.”
“It should be hard for her to be there. She should have to live with the consequences of what she did.”
Jonah’s quiet, and we both study the harbor below. Then he asks, “Wanna know what I think about your mom?”
I nod.
“I think she’s just as scared as you are.”
I bring my head up to stare at him. “What?”
“I think you scare her more than anything else. The way you’ve been shutting her out. Maybe taking drastic measures and making you all come on this trip was her way of trying to show you that she’ll do whatever it takes to be close to you again, and she’s scared it wasn’t enough to prove to you how much she cares about that. About you.”
“The problem is that she cares about herself more. If she cared about me, she wouldn’t have cheated. She would’ve fought more to save her marriage after my dad found out. She wouldn’t have ruined my life at the worst possible time.”
“Cass, really? Don’t you think maybe that’s kind of harsh? Maybe she had her reasons for doing what she did, when she did. You’ve never asked her.”
I came here to be comforted, not to argue with Jonah, but now my anger is directed at him. “Are you seriously suggesting there’s ever a good reason to cheat? I can’t believe you’d defend her!”
Jonah winces. “I’m not. I’m just trying to help you look at the situation from every angle.” He drops his hand to his side and studies the water again. “You push her away out of fear and she pulls you closer out of fear. You’re both doing opposite things, but for the same reason, when if you’d both just stop and listen to each other . . .”
I know he’s trying to be helpful, but his matter-of-fact tone pisses me off. Of course that seems like the obvious solution to him. He’s not in this. When you’re in it, it’s impossible to set aside all the feelings that color everything and just have a rational, dispassionate conversation. I hate that he doesn’t get that.
He clearly doesn’t pick up on my frustration because he keeps right on going. “I think you’re scared to hear her side of things, because if you do and she makes any sense at all, then you might have to stop being mad at her.”
My jaw drops. “Why wouldn’t I want that? You think I like being pissed off at her all the time?”
“Because if you forgive her and make peace with the fact that the situation—the divorce happening, you being on this trip, your house maybe getting sold—is what it is, then you have to acknowledge that things are never, ever going back to what they were. You have to accept things as they are.”
I hate that he’s all calm and logical and “oh, let me just mansplain all your hidden motivations and fears to you, Cassie, and then you’ll be magically fixed.” I don’t want him to be logical. I don’t want him to confront me and push me on this issue with my mom. Why can’t he just say, “You know what, Cassie, it totally sucks that you might lose your house on top of everything that’s already happened and you can vent to me all you want, and I will sit back and listen and then distract you from it all with crazy-good kisses?” He wants to talk about acceptance, but how about just accepting me, the way I am? Why does he think he has to fix me? Maybe I should be grateful he’s trying to help, but instead it pisses me off. Especially when he has no room to talk.
“You should turn the mirror around. You’re not exactly an expert on the subject—I don’t see you having nightly heart-to-hearts with your dad.” My tone is sharper than I intended and I wince when his eyes flash pain.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I probably shouldn’t be human-ing in my current state of mind.”
He grimaces. “No, it’s—um, I was gonna tell you when I saw you later, but then later became now and it didn’t seem like the right time.”
I cock my head as he runs a hand through his hair.
“I actually did call my dad. The other night. We talked.” His words are simple and clear and drama-free and I suck in a breath.
“You did?”
“Yeah. It went okay. He probably still thinks of me as his deadbeat son, but at least he listened a little more than before and he didn’t raise his voice until the very end of our conversation. So that’s progress, right?”
He shrugs and ventures a small smile and I know I should be happy for him. Instead, I’m ashamed that my first thought is traitor. Why does he get to make headway with his dad when any I’d made with my mom just went up in flames? Why can’t he be on the “parents suck” train with me, in solidarity, when I need him there more than ever?
Despite how horrible my internal thoughts are, I try to school my expression into something positive and supportive.
“That’s great,” I say. “Seriously. I’m really glad for you guys.”
“Yeah, well. Baby steps.”
“But you took them. That required a lot of guts.”
I hate that I’m saying the right things, but inside I feel completely abandoned and alone in my misery. I like Jonah—a lot. I should want him to be happy. But what if he and his dad continue to get closer, right as this crack between my mom and me grows into a canyon? What if he stops being sympathetic to the things I’m going through? What if we stop understanding each other? What if the thing that bonded us to begin with becomes the thing that pushes us apart?
“What made you decide to call him?” I ask in a small voice.
He looks uncomfortable. “Actually . . . your mom. We, uh, had a conversation about it the other night when we were cleaning up after dinner. You guys were timing Abigail climb the mast and your mom was asking me about stuff with school and I mentioned him and . . . we had a good talk. She said some stuff that got me thinking.”
Now I’m fighting back angry tears. I thought his opening up and being vulnerable and talking about his family stuff was because of something only I brought out in him. He said he liked me because he could be real around me, like that was different and new for him. But after five minutes alone with my mother, he’s spilling all his secrets? He’s not allowed to bond with her. What else is she going to take away from me?
“So, what? She gave you advice, and now you’re on her side?” I ask.
“What? No!” He puts a hand on my arm, but I shake it away. “It’s not like that. I’m not taking sides here.”
It’s the last straw. I lose it. “You should be taking sides, Jonah! You should be taking my side! That’s what you do when you’re someone’s . . .” I fumble for the right word. The things we’ve said to each other are definitely things you don’t say to someone you’re only casually dating, but we’ve never labeled anything, and now, with him talking to my mom the way he did, I’m doubting whether what I thought we had was really so special after all.
I wave my arm in frustration. “When you’re someone’s actual friend!” I finally spit out, taking in his helpless expression before stomping away with Beatriz at my heels. Halfway down the deck, I pivot. “You should stay here for the sail today. I’d rather have Drew for company.”
When I reach Minecraft, I add over my shoulder, “And thanks so much for adhering to our judgment-free zone, you ass!”
My chest aches and burns at the same time as my emotions war it out to see which horrible one gets to take center stage first. This morning I woke up feeling like a boss, with the whole learning-to-sail thing, conquering Point Conception, and the talk with my mom about Jonah. I was actually looking forward to today. It finally felt like I’d had a win, even if it was a small one.
One step forward, one million steps back.
How is it that, in such a tiny span of time, I went from a win to so many
losses?
Like any chance of working things out with my mother.
My home.
Maybe even Jonah?
Hope.
29
There is nothing “sunny-side up” about me when I pull beside the cheery italic script and tie on to the platform. I don’t see Drew, but the shower’s running as I descend the cabin stairs. My mother’s in the kitchen and I brush past her without a word. When she follows me into my berth, I stand with my back to her, running my fingers absently along the branches of my bonsai tree.
“Did you hear from Dad?” I ask, my voice tight and cold.
Behind me, she exhales. “I did. I had to wake him up, but we talked. He thinks we should accept the offer.”
I drop my chin to my chest and close my eyes briefly. Then my anger takes hold. “Accept it. Accept it.” I chew the words and spit them out. “Obviously you’ll accept it. Because everyone but me finds it oh so easy to simply accept things and move on. You. Dad. Drew. Jonah. Everyone just shrugs and says ‘Oh well, that’s life. What’s next?’”
“Cassie, that’s not true. We all have our own ways of dealing with things. We’re all working hard to adjust to everything that’s happened this year.”
I whip around. “Really? Because it sure doesn’t seem like that. Dad left without a fight. Drew’s perfectly happy to be here. You’re . . . I don’t even know what you are.”
Mom takes a step toward me and I stop her with a brusque head shake.
Her hands flutter to her sides. “I’m struggling with this in my own way, Cass. I’m sorry if I haven’t been better about expressing that—I guess I was just trying so hard to make everything seem okay to you guys that I didn’t think I could show my pain. But if you think I’m not hurting too . . .”
The last thing I need right now is her sob story. Not after everything else. “I’d like to be alone, please.”
Mom opens her mouth and then closes it. “If you’d just—”
I throw up my hands. “Stop trying to reason with me. Why does everyone think I need to be reasoned with today?”
Mom’s eyes narrow and she studies me closely. “Did something happen with Jonah?”
“You mean the guy you told me you couldn’t respect because he was running away from his life, but are now trying to make your new bestie? That Jonah?”
My berth is tiny and the walls are always closing in, but never more so than they are now. The air between us is hot with our breath and it’s stifling.
“My bestie? Cass, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
I take two strides, crowding her space and forcing her to step backward into the kitchen. As soon as she crosses the threshold, I grab the door and shut it in her face, relishing the satisfying click the latch makes as it settles into place.
“Cassandra Marie.”
My mother’s voice has warning bells, but I ignore her. I fall onto my bed.
I stuff the pillow against my stomach and curl around it. I can feel a whole wall of tears behind my eyes, just waiting for the dam to break.
On the other side of my door the shower goes off and the radio squawks. “Sunny-Side Up, come in, Sunny-Side Up. Do you copy? Over.”
Mom’s footsteps pad lightly to the navigation center and I hear, “This is Sunny-Side Up. Over.”
It’s Jonah, and I hold my breath and strain my ears, knowing he’s going to ask to talk to me. If he thinks he can get me to continue our fight with an audience, he’s got a—
But he doesn’t ask for me.
In a level voice he asks my mother, “Are you good with getting under sail in about fifteen? Over.”
Mom’s voice is also steady and belies no trace of our fight as she answers. “You’re not swapping out with Drew? Over.”
There’s a pause and Jonah’s voice is quiet as he says, “Change of plans. Over.”
I’m sure Mom can put two and two together there. She replies, “Roger that. We’ll be ready. Over.”
“Happy sails,” Jonah says softly. “Over and out.”
I hear the sounds of Mom replacing the transmitter and talking to Drew through the bathroom door. Footsteps trudge up the stairs.
Now I will the cry I’m holding in to come. I’d welcome anything to flush out even half of the adrenaline coursing through me, but the dam stays stubbornly in place.
The engine comes to life, and a short time later a second set of footsteps goes above. I can sense us turning and motoring out of the harbor. After a few more minutes the motor cuts off and its sounds are replaced by those of flapping sails, snapping in the wind. We rise and fall over small waves, but it’s a familiar sensation now.
Eventually I drift asleep.
When I wake it’s middle-of-the-night quiet and the boat sways underneath me. For a moment I forget we’re under sail because the motion is no more than the gentle back and forth of being in a protected harbor. But then I hear Drew coughing up above.
I roll over and try to force myself to return to the blissful oblivion of sleep, but I can tell right away it won’t work. Everything about the day before is already flooding back in. My stomach rumbles from missing dinner and my full bladder forces me from my covers. I use the bathroom, then make a peanut butter sandwich. Above me, Drew’s coughing continues, and I wonder why Mom isn’t sending him down for water. Then I register the soft snoring coming from my mother’s berth.
Drew is sailing alone? In the middle of the night?
I slap together another sandwich for him and fill a plastic cup before climbing the stairs.
“Yum yum for your tum tum’s here,” I sing softly. When we were little, whenever we ordered pizza or Chinese, my dad would call that out to us as soon as the doorbell rang. Drew and I would push and shove and scratch each other in a race to the door, trying to win the honor of handing over Dad’s money to the delivery person on the other side.
He turns and smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey. How’re you feeling?”
I feign ignorance as I buckle my life jacket. “Me? You’re the one coughing up a lung up here.”
Drew accepts the water and drinks half of it down in one gulp. He wipes his mouth. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
I shake my head, looking out over the glassy sheet of water. There’s a half moon tonight, and it lights a path that leads straight across the ocean and into the sky. It looks like you could walk over it and right up into the stars. It’s beautiful, but the stillness also seems ominous. I’ve never seen the sea this calm.
Calm before the storm. There’s one Jonah could have used against me in our bet. I ignore the tightness in my chest that forms when I think about him.
Drew checks the instrument panel and I ask, “Mom left you alone up here?”
“Only because of how insanely quiet the conditions are.”
“Still. I’m surprised.”
“I don’t think she was having a great night.” Drew’s voice is neutral, but my stomach twists with guilt anyway. He definitely heard some of our argument over the noise of the shower, then. I should have expected that. It would almost be better if he yelled at me for being such a brat to her. He must want to, given the limited information he has to go on. Or maybe even if he had all of it. I don’t know anymore.
“Mom told you about the house stuff, right?” I ask.
He nods, his eyes sad. “Yeah.”
That’s it?
“And?” I prod.
“And what? I kind of figured that was coming, the longer Mom’s been out of a job.” He shrugs.
I’m not unsympathetic to our family’s financial situation, but I refuse to believe that there aren’t other options short of selling our home out from under us. Dad could return stateside, for one. They don’t have to get back together or anything, but maybe we could turn our basement into a little apartment for him. Save the “two households to maintain” burden.
Even if he wouldn’t agree to that, rentals in Pleasant Hill are a thousand times chea
per than what he must be paying to live in Hong Kong. That right there would buy us more time for Mom to find something. If the housing market is so hot, surely the job market isn’t as dire as she’s making it out to be? Maybe she’s just being too picky about what she’s applying for. Maybe she should quit looking for a branch manager position and just look for a job. Isn’t it only fair that she be the one to sacrifice for once, instead of asking the rest of us to?
I turn to Drew. “Okay, fine, you saw the writing on the wall. But don’t you have any feelings about it?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know.”
Which I interpret as code for: “Don’t feel like talking about it.”
Too bad. Maybe if he hears my ideas, I can get him on my side and we can make a case to Mom and Dad. But before I can formulate a plan, he starts coughing like crazy again.
“Geez, at least cover your mouth so your lung doesn’t land on me,” I say lightly.
He smiles through another cough, and another.
I squint at him. “Are you feeling all right?” I reach out and touch his forehead and it’s a little warm, despite the fact that the night is cool.
He grimaces. “It’s just a stupid summer cold. Mom’s shift is in an hour; I’ll be fine till then.”
I look out at the glassy sheet of water, devoid of even tiny whitecaps, take a deep breath, and say, “Go get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on things here and wake her when it’s time.”
He laughs, which makes him cough again. When he recovers, he says, “You’re gonna sail? Alone?”
I wave my hand over the railing. “Hey, I have mad skillz now, remember? I have sailed into the belly of the beast and lived to tell the tale.”
“If you mean Point Conception, I’m not buying it.”
I sigh. “Fine, whatever. But a sloth moves faster than we are right now. We’re basically sitting in a bathtub, so what ‘sailing’ are we even talking about? I’ll just hang out and watch us move five inches over the next hour, and then I’ll call down to Mom. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll wake her in half an hour instead. Besides, you refusing to rest now means you’re not gonna be any good to her tomorrow, if the wind picks up and she needs an actual sailor’s help. Go.”
