I hope she’ll take something out of the box to show me, but she puts it on her bedside table.
“Mom?”
She looks up.
“Do you think your father and I would’ve gotten along?”
A few fresh tears pool on her bottom eyelids.
“Of course, he would have loved you. My dad was a tough man, but you would’ve gotten to the soft core inside, I’m sure. If I’d let him, he would have loved you with all of his heart.”
She reaches for another tissue and dabs her eyes.
“I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t matter,” Mom continues. “I figured if you didn’t know him then you wouldn’t miss him. You used to love it when we had the support group meetings. They were our surrogate family.”
I feel a sharp sting in my chest. They weren’t my surrogate family. They were hers.
“My father and I were very different people,” she says. “We couldn’t be in the same room without exploding at each other.”
“I could’ve come by myself to see him,” I say.
“You’re right,” she says. “I could’ve sent you here for the summers. I think I would’ve missed you too much, though.”
I would’ve missed her too much, too, probably. For a while, when I was little, everything was perfect. We were everyone’s ideal of the single mom and daughter team. We lived in a small apartment in Detroit until I was in first grade. Mom kept the books for some of the stores in our neighborhood while I was in school, so we had enough to live, eat, and have some extras. And we did everything together. But one day, at the dentist, everything changed. Mom was flipping through a magazine in the waiting room, and she saw an advertisement for a lightning-strike survivors’ convention. Mom tore the page out of the magazine. I gasped because I didn’t think you were supposed to do that. And I remembered that for the entire time the dentist was drilling and poking at my teeth, Mom was staring at that page she’d ripped out.
A month later, we checked in to a Ramada in Nashville, Tennessee. After the first day of the convention, Mom realized that it was really no place for a six-year-old. The things they talked about in the sessions were scary and sad, and I had to see a lot of grown men and women crying their eyes out, cursing God, and doing really weird stuff. But it was too late—I was there and Mom didn’t feel comfortable leaving me with one of the hotel babysitters, so for three more days, I saw and I heard it all.
On the third night, Mom told me what happened after she was struck by lightning—how it transformed her into someone more than just herself. How she was able to see anyone’s soul mate almost as simply as the rest of us could see someone’s eye color. At the time, I didn’t understand. I’d never even heard of a soul mate before. But as the years went on, I began to understand, and I was naive enough to think that maybe I was capable of having a soul mate, too.
After that convention, we traveled around a lot to meet up with other lightning-strike survivors. We moved a couple of times to be closer to some who Mom connected most with—Sue, Ron, Angela, and a few others. We lived outside of Chicago for a year, in Minneapolis for two, half a year in Columbus, and then back to Detroit. Since we moved to Wellfleet three years ago, Ron and Sue had both moved to Massachusetts to be closer to us.
I can tell Mom’s finished talking now. She wants to be alone with these letters.
“You sure you’re alright?” I ask.
She nods.
“Go back to sleep.” She kisses me on the top of my head, and I go back to bed.
TWENTY-FOUR
In dreams, anything can be anything, and everybody can do. We can fly, we can turn upside down, we can transform into anything.
—Twyla Tharp (dancer)
When I wake up the next morning, Mom is still sleeping. She must have been up most of the night looking through her red box and crying.
I go to the kitchen and put on the kettle to make tea. Today is Saturday and I’m planning to spend the entire day making headway on my new room. I stand in the door to the garage, imagining it clean, with fresh paint, a fun shaggy rug, a bed. I can see the Before and After as if I’m watching it on TV. It’s just getting from one to the other that’s hard to picture. I’ll need a pad of sticky notes and a Sharpie to label a few of the obvious things to toss that have been in the garage since we moved here—a broken bike, a few mildewy beach chairs and umbrella, some boxes filled with donations—clothes, shoes, pots and pans—that my grandfather must not have gotten around to giving away.
The tea kettle whistles and I rush to grab it, hoping the noise hasn’t woken Mom. But a minute later, she comes out of her bedroom, her eyes still a bit puffy. I pull a second mug out of the cupboard for her.
“Morning,” she says.
“Hi.”
“So much for the weekend. Bruce asked me to come in to organize some files or something,” Mom says.
“Doesn’t he have a secretary for that?” I ask.
“I guess they’re for a big client and he doesn’t trust her with it.”
“Well, I guess that’s a compliment,” I say.
“It is. I just wish he could give me my compliments during the week instead of on Saturdays.”
She stirs milk into her tea.
“I want to sort through all the stuff in the garage and label it,” I say. “I’d like to have the room ready before the meeting.” She flinches, but then she nods. She has to understand how much it sucks for me to be home during the meetings. And during all the preparation they do for it.
“I’ll bet Donny Lash would take some of the heavy stuff out of the garage for us,” she says. “I’ll give him a call if you want.”
“That would be great,” I say.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” she says.
After Mom showers and leaves for work, I stretch out on my bed and power on my phone. I’d turned it off after I left Jay’s yesterday. I knew that if he called or texted, he’d want to talk about what had happened, and I wasn’t ready yet.
There’s a text from last night at nine.
JAY: I’m incapable of doing anything the normal way. We know this.
And one from this morning, just twenty-five minutes ago.
JAY: What are you up to? Are we okay? Come over?
ME: We’re okay. I’m sorry I overreacted. I’ll come in the afternoon.
I know that if I go over there, we’ll probably kiss again. And if he stops it again, I’ll probably cry again. I roll onto my stomach and press my cheek into the pillow. I think of our kiss—the good parts—how perfectly our lips fit together. I try to imagine how Jay replayed it in his mind. I know he must have, and I hope he thought about the good parts, too.
I pull on sweats and an old Detroit Lions T-shirt, put on sneakers, and get some duct tape. I find a pair of gardening gloves so I won’t slice my hand on any of the rusted equipment. The garage door opener is broken, and I have to use all of my strength to pull it up. Once I do, I feel like the air is already making the room feel cleaner and fresher. I start shoving stuff toward the entrance so it will be obvious and easy for Mr. Lash to take it. I look around and realize there isn’t much to save. A set of metal shelves hold old gardening tools, tarps, a few inflatable rafts that are probably from the 1980s. A few snow shovels and a rake are worth keeping, but everything else looks old and broken. He should probably just take everything. I look over the boxes, blowing dust off the tops to see whether anything is written on them. Most are labeled LEDGERS with the year—and they range ten years. I open one and flip through some of the books, but they’re all filled with numbers, my grandfather’s old accounting ledgers. I’ll double-check with Mom, but they’re probably trash.
After two hours, I’m dirty and sweaty and sneezing from all the dust. I pushed almost everything to the front of the garage to haul away to the dump—either for trash or for the give-and-take shed. All that’s left, other than the boxes for Mom to look through, are the black metal shelves that need to be painted but are sturdy enoug
h to use, a few shovels and tools, and a bike pump. I pull the garage door closed.
My phone buzzes, so I take off my gloves and check it.
MOM: Donny said he could come by at 1—that okay?
ME: Perfect. Thank you.
I take a shower, already feeling the satisfying muscle soreness in my shoulders and legs from hard work. I like that feeling much better than the tingling aches I get sometimes now from the scars on the backs of my legs.
I get dressed and check my phone.
JAY: Timing?
ME: 2? I’ll come there.
JAY:
I’m practically bouncing, so excited about my new space. And, even with the weirdness of yesterday with Jay, a little flutter hangs out in my abdomen since I know that the potential for more kissing awaits me.
I hear the crunch of tires on the shell driveway, and then there’s a knock at the front door.
“Anyone home? Naomi? Rachel? You there?”
Everyone leaves their doors open, especially on warm days—not many of the houses on the water, including ours, have air-conditioning. Even though I’ve lived here for three years, the city girl in me still feels strange with the door unlocked all the time. So I’m relieved when I see it’s just Donny Lash.
“Hi, Mr. Lash,” I say as I open the screen door for him.
“It’s Donny. Please. I can’t be Mr. Lash. I’m not ready for that. I may never be.”
He chuckles. He’s older than Mom, but he has a young face—ruddy from years of working out in the sun, a big belly that sticks out over his jeans.
“So, Naomi said you have a couple loads of junk you need me to take?”
“Yes, thank you so much. I’ll go open the garage door for you.”
After struggling to pull up the heavy garage door, I’m surprised to see the silver pickup in the driveway—the one I’d been hoping to buy from him. And climbing down from the driver’s side is Rafe Zamora, the man we saw at The Wicked Oyster last night. He smiles.
“Hi, Rachel,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, wondering why he’s here.
“I can get that door working for you,” he says. “It would only take a few minutes—I can come back another time with the right tools.”
Donny is at Mr. Zamora’s side now.
“My truck had a flat,” Donny says. “And since Mr. Zamora’s borrowing this one for a few weeks, he came to help me out. But don’t worry, I’m still saving this heap for you.”
“You can call me Rafe,” Mr. Zamora says. “No ‘mister’ for me either.”
I nod but I probably just won’t call either of them anything. I call Mom’s lightning-strike group members by their first names, but I’ve known them forever. Other adults, it feels too weird.
“I understand if you have to sell the truck to someone else,” I say. “I’m not even sure I’ll be able to buy it now that I’m spending my money on fixing up the garage.”
“No, no, it’s yours. And we’ll work out a payment plan. Take as long as you need. I don’t like seeing you out riding that old bike on these roads. You need some solid wheels. Give me about a month, then it’s yours. Now, show me what we’re taking off your hands today.”
I point out the stuff I’d sorted—the junk pile and the giveaway pile. They load it on the truck, Donny chatting and Rafe adding in uh-huh and no way at the appropriate times.
So many questions itch at me. If Rafe knew Mom back then, before I was born, then he must have known my father. I want to ask him what my mom was like back then, if he knew her before she was struck by lightning, about Carson, about my grandfather. But I know that now isn’t the right time. If he actually comes to fix the garage door, I’ll have another chance.
After I get them glasses of cold water, they take off with all the junk piled in the bed of the truck that might be mine in a month.
I sweep out the empty garage and struggle to pull the overhead door closed.
TWENTY-FIVE
I’m a human being and I fall in love and sometimes I don’t have control of every situation.
—Beyonce Knowles (musician)
I hear cars pull into the driveway, then car doors and then Mom’s, Ron’s, and Sue’s voices in the front hall.
“Did Donny come by?” Mom asks, throwing her work bag on the kitchen table. Sue gives me a hug and then she and Ron settle in on the couch, ready to hang out for the rest of the day.
“Yeah, he took pretty much everything,” I say. “And that man from last night—Rafe Zamora—helped. He’s borrowing the silver truck.”
Mom’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, but I can’t read anything else in her face.
“Okay, well. I’m going to Jay’s,” I say.
I ride my bike to Jay’s. I picture sitting at Jay’s kitchen table, the way it used to be—Jay, Serena, and me. All of us distracting each other. Serena would read out class notes in the teacher’s voice, showcasing her talent at impressions. Jay would entertain us with fascinating information from his anatomy textbook. And whenever we were working quietly for too long, I’d get up to get us snacks. I miss the three of us.
I ride through town, which is quiet for a Saturday. Even though it’s breezy and cool, I’m almost sweating by the time I get to Jay’s. I lean my bike against the porch steps and climb them to the side door.
The kitchen windows are cracked open and I hear shouting. The fight is between Jay and Kyle, but I hear their mom, too, saying things like “Boys, come on,” and “Jay, stop!”
I look through a windowpane in the door. Jay’s face is right in front of Kyle’s, which means he’s bending down to look at him.
“You have no idea what you’re even saying,” Jay says. I can’t see Kyle’s eyes, but I imagine they look scared. I’ve never seen Jay this angry, and it is scary.
“You’re not always right,” Kyle shouts in his face. “You think you are, but you’re not.”
Jay shoves him. Kyle loses his balance, the kitchen table catching his fall, but barely.
“That’s it!” their mom yells. “Out!”
They both walk toward the dining room and push each other as they go through the doorway. I’m amazed that Kyle would even try to go after Jay—Jay’s like three times his size.
“Jay,” his mom says, as Jay finally lets Kyle go ahead of him. “Come here please.”
“Which is it, Mom? Go or stay?” I’ve never heard him raise his voice to her before, and it isn’t pretty. He’s standing close to her, his fists clenched by his sides. And he’s big. So, so big.
I see her body tense, but her voice is calm.
“Stay. I want to talk to you.”
Kyle, waiting on the other side of the doorway, shrugs and storms off.
Jay stares down his mom. She points at a kitchen chair. He sits.
I should probably leave at this point, but my eyes are glued to Jay. I’ve never seen him come undone like that.
“Have you been taking your meds?” his mom asks quietly, sitting down next to him.
“Yes,” he snaps.
“Have you been eating enough?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to see Dr. Bond?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? What’s going on? You’ve been off for a few days.” She touches his elbow gently.
He yanks his arm away and stands, scraping the chair on the tile floor. He turns and walks to the stairs, his shoulders sloped.
His mom sits for a few seconds, her face blank, and then she gets up and collects dishes from the table. I open the door, knocking on the window lightly as I do.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
“Oh, hi, Rachel,” she says, smiling at me sadly. “Did you hear all that?”
“Some.”
“Any idea what’s going on with him?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
“He told me you were coming, so I know he’s expecting you,” she says. “You can go up. But if he’s still in that mood, just come on back, and
I’ll keep you company until it passes.”
“Okay.”
When I get upstairs, Jay’s door is closed. I knock softly.
“What?” he says.
“It’s me.”
There’s silence for a few seconds before he says, “Come in.”
He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the bed. His legs are crossed like a pretzel.
“Are you doing yoga?” I ask. I’m feeling shy, maybe because the last time I was in his room, I was half naked, getting rejected. Or because I’m not sure what to say to him after seeing that other side of him down in the kitchen.
“Breathing.”
I sit next to him, tentatively touch his knee.
“How long have you been here?” he asks.
“A few minutes.”
“So my mom told you I kinda freaked out?”
“Yeah, well, I heard a little from outside.”
He cringes.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
I watch his profile as he stares straight ahead. A look on his face of … regret? Shame? I’m not sure.
I put my hand in his hair. He closes his eyes. I should be more protective of my heart, but it’s like now that we’ve broken the seal, I can’t imagine not touching him. I get up on my knees and I stroke the back of his neck with my fingertips, concentrating on the thickness of his hair, the way it curls at the back. I can feel his tension, so I reach around and start to dig my fingers in a little, to work the knots in his neck and shoulders. With his eyes closed, I can look at him as much as I want without making him uncomfortable. I study his eyelids, the dark eyelashes pointed toward the top of his cheeks. His nose, big, but not too big for his face. There’s some stubble on his cheeks, chin, above his lip. Just a hint. As my eyes settle on his lips, I feel warmth everywhere. In my chest, across my arms, down to my abdomen, and below. I continue rubbing his neck as I lean toward him. He opens his eyes and puts his arms around my waist.
I press my lips on his and he kisses me back. I feel all the softness and wet warmth of his mouth. I could die from how good it feels. He pulls me closer and I make a wish that we can just do this forever. His hands travel under my shirt, up my back to my shoulder blades. I don’t break the kissing, but I slowly move so that I can sit on him, straddling his still-crossed legs. He makes a little grunt in his throat when I settle myself on him. I can feel him through our two layers of jeans. He wants me. As much as I want him.
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