by Jenny Han
“Mom, stop! Just stop for a minute.”
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” she repeated, looking around the room.
“Just listen to me for a second. I had to come. Jeremiah and Conrad needed me.”
The look on my mother’s face made me stop short. I’d never seen her angry like this before.
“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me about it? Beck asked me to look after her boys. How can I do that when I don’t even know they need my help? If they were in trouble, you should have told me. Instead you chose to lie to me. You lied.”
“I didn’t want to lie to you—,” I started to say.
She kept on going. “You’ve been here doing God knows what …”
I stared at her. I couldn’t believe she’d just said that. “What does that mean, ‘God knows what’?”
My mother whirled around, her eyes all wild. “What am I supposed to think? You snuck out here with Conrad before and you spent the night! So you tell me. What are you doing here with him? Because it looks to me like you lied to me so you could come here and get drunk and fool around with your boyfriend.”
I hated her. I hated her so much.
“He’s not my boyfriend! You don’t know anything!”
The vein in my mother’s forehead was pulsing. “You call me at four in the morning, drunk. I call your cell phone and it goes straight to voice mail. I call the house phone and all I get is a busy signal. I drive all night, worried out of my mind, and I get here and the house is a wreck. Beer cans everywhere, trash all over the place. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Isabel? Or do you even know?”
The walls in the house were really thin. Everyone could probably hear everything.
I said, “We were going to clean it up. This was our last night here. Don’t you get it? Mr. Fisher is selling the house. Don’t you care?”
She shook her head, her jaw tight. “Do you really think you’ve helped matters by meddling? This isn’t our business. How many times do I have to explain that to you?”
“It is so our business. Susannah would have wanted us to save this house!”
“Don’t talk to me about what Susannah would have wanted,” my mother snapped. “Now put your clothes on and get your things. We’re leaving.”
“No.” I pulled the covers up to my shoulders.
“What?”
“I said no. I’m not going!” I stared up at my mother as defiantly as I could, but I could feel my chin trembling.
She marched over to the bed and ripped the sheets right off of me. She grabbed my arm, pulled me out of the bed and toward the door, and I twisted away from her.
“You can’t make me go,” I sobbed. “You can’t tell me anything. You don’t have the right.”
My tears did not move my mother. They only made her angrier. She said, “You’re acting like a spoiled brat. Can’t you look beyond your own grief and think about someone else? It’s not all about you. We all lost Beck. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anything.”
Her words stung me so badly I wanted to hurt her back a million times worse. So I said the thing I knew would hurt her most. I said, “I wish Susannah was my mother and not you.”
How many times had I thought it, wished for it secretly? When I was little, Susannah was the one I ran to, not her. I used to wonder what it would be like, to have a mom like Susannah who loved me for me and wasn’t disappointed in all the ways that I didn’t measure up.
I was breathing hard as I waited for my mother to respond. To cry, to scream at me.
She didn’t do either of those things. Instead she said, “How unfortunate for you.”
Even when I tried my hardest, I couldn’t get the reaction I wanted from my mother. She was impenetrable.
I said, “Susannah will never forgive you for this, you know. For losing her house. For letting down her boys.”
My mother’s hand reached out and struck my cheek so hard I rocked back. I didn’t see it coming. I clutched my face and right away I cried, but part of me was satisfied. I finally got what I wanted. Proof that she could feel something.
Her face was white. She had never hit me before. Never ever, not in my whole life.
I waited for her to say she was sorry. To say she didn’t mean to hurt me, she didn’t mean the things she’d said. If she said those things, then I would say them too. Because I was sorry. I didn’t mean the things I said.
When she didn’t speak, I backed away from her and then around her, holding my face. Then I ran out of the room, stumbling over my feet.
Jeremiah was standing in the hallway, looking at me with his mouth open. He looked at me like he didn’t recognize me, like he didn’t know who this person was, this girl who screamed at her mother and said terrible things. “Wait,” he said, reaching out to stop me.
I pushed past him and moved down the stairs.
In the living room, Conrad was picking up beer bottles and tossing them into a blue recycling bag. He didn’t look at me. I knew he’d heard everything too.
I ran out the back door and then I almost tripped going down the stairs that headed down to the beach. I sank to the ground and sat in the sand, holding my burning cheek in the palm of my hand. And then I threw up.
I heard Jeremiah come up behind me. I knew it was him right away, because Conrad would know not to follow me.
“I just want to be alone,” I said, wiping my mouth. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see my face.
“Belly,” he started. He sat down next to me and kicked sand over my throw up.
When he didn’t say anything more, I looked at him. “What?”
He bit his upper lip. Then he reached out and touched my cheek. His fingers felt warm. He looked so sad. He said, “You should just go with your mom.”
Whatever I’d been expecting him to say, it hadn’t been that. I’d come all this way and I’d gotten in so much trouble, just so I could help him and Conrad, and now he wanted me to leave? Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes and I wiped them away with the back of my hands. “Why?”
“Because Laurel’s really upset. Everything’s gone to crap, and it’s my fault. I never should have asked you to come. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Pretty soon we’ll all have to.”
“And that’s it?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
We sat in the sand for a while. I had never felt more lost. I cried a little more, and Jeremiah didn’t say anything, which I was grateful for. There was nothing worse than your friend watching you cry after you just got in trouble with your mother. When I was done, he stood up and gave me his hand. “Come on,” he said, pulling me to my feet.
We went back inside the house. Conrad was gone and the living room was clean. My mother was mopping the kitchen floor. When she saw me, she stopped. She put the mop back into the bucket and leaned it against the wall.
Right in front of Jeremiah, she said, “I’m sorry.”
I looked at him, and he backed out of the kitchen and went up the stairs. I almost stopped him. I didn’t want to be alone with her. I was afraid.
She continued. “You’re right. I’ve been absent. I’ve been so consumed with my own grief, I haven’t reached out to you. I’m sorry for that.”
“Mom—,” I started to say. I was about to tell her I was sorry too, for saying that thing before, that awful thing I wished I could take back. But she lifted her hand up and stopped me.
“I’m just—off balance. Ever since Beck died, I can’t seem to find my equilibrium.” She rested her head against the wall. “I’ve been coming here with Beck since I was younger than you are now. I love this house. You know that.”
“I know,” I said. “I didn’t mean it, what I said before.”
My mother nodded. “Let’s sit down a minute, all right?”
She sat
down at the kitchen table and I took a seat across from her.
“I shouldn’t have hit you,” she said, and her voice broke. “I’m sorry.”
“You never did that before.”
“I know.”
My mother reached across the table and took my hand in hers, tight as a cocoon. At first I felt stiff, but then I let her comfort me. Because I could see it was a comfort to her, too. We sat like that for what felt like a long time.
When she let go, she said, “You lied to me, Belly. You never lie to me.”
“I didn’t mean to. But Conrad and Jeremiah are important to me. They needed me, so I went.”
“I wish you would have told me. Beck’s boys are important to me, too. If something’s going on, I want to know about it. Okay?”
I nodded.
Then she said, “Are you all packed? I want to beat Sunday traffic on the way back.”
I stared at her. “Mom, we can’t just leave. Not with everything that’s happening. You can’t let Mr. Fisher sell the house. You just can’t.”
She sighed. “I don’t know that I can say anything to change his mind, Belly. Adam and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. I can’t stop him from selling the house if that’s what he’s set on.”
“You can, I know you can. He’ll listen to you. Conrad and Jeremiah, they need this house. They need it.”
I set my head down on the table, and the wood was cool and smooth against my cheek. My mother touched the top of my head, running her hand through my tangled hair.
“I’ll call him,” she said at last. “Now get upstairs and take a shower.” Hopefully, I looked up at her and I saw the firm set of her mouth and the narrow of her eyes. And I knew it wasn’t over yet.
If anybody could make things right, it was my mother.
chapter thirty-four
JEREMIAH
There was this time—I think I was thirteen and Belly was eleven, about to turn twelve. She’d caught a summer cold, and she was miserable. She was camped out on the couch with balled-up tissues all around her, and she’d been wearing the same ratty pajamas for days. Because she was sick, she got to pick whatever TV show she wanted to watch. The only thing she could eat were grape Popsicles, and when I reached for one, my mother said that Belly should have it. Even though she’d already had three. I got stuck with a yellow one.
It was afternoon, and Conrad and Steven had hitch-hiked to the arcade, which I wasn’t supposed to know about. The moms thought they were riding their bikes to the tackle shop for more rubber worms. I was going to go boarding with Clay, and I had my swim trunks on and a towel around my neck when I ran into my mom in the kitchen.
“What are you up to, Jere?” she asked.
I made a hang ten sign. “I’m gonna go boarding with Clay. See ya!”
I was about to push the sliding door open when she said, “Hmm. You know what?”
Suspiciously, I asked, “What?”
“It might be nice if you stayed inside today and cheered up Belly. Poor thing could use some cheering up.”
“Aw, Mom—”
“Please, Jeremiah?”
I sighed. I didn’t want to stay home and cheer up Belly. I wanted to go boarding with Clay.
When I didn’t say anything, she added, “We can grill out tonight. I’ll let you be in charge of the burgers.”
I sighed again, louder this time. My mom still thought that letting me fire up the grill and flip hamburgers was a big treat for me. Not that it wasn’t fun, but still. I opened my mouth to say “no thanks,” but then I saw the fond, happy look on her face, the way she just knew I would say yes. So I did. “Fine,” I said.
I went back upstairs and changed out of my swim trunks and then I joined Belly in the TV room. I sat as far away from her as I could. The last thing I needed was to catch her cold and be sidelined for a week.
“Why are you still here?” she asked, blowing her nose.
“It’s too hot outside,” I said. “Wanna watch a movie?”
“It’s not that hot outside.”
“How would you know if you haven’t been out there?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did your mom make you stay inside with me?”
“No,” I said.
“Ha!” Belly grabbed the remote and changed the channel. “I know you’re lying.”
“I am not!”
Blowing her nose loudly she said, “ESP, remember?”
“That’s not real. Can I have the remote?”
She shook her head and held the remote to her chest protectively. “No. My germs are all over it. Sorry. Is there any more toast bread?”
Toast bread was what we called the bread my mom bought at the farmer’s market. It came sliced, and it was white and thick and a little bit sweet. I’d had the last three slices of toast bread that morning. I’d slathered it with butter and blackberry jam and I’d eaten it really fast before anyone else got up. With four kids and two adults, bread went really fast. It was every man for himself.
“No more toast bread left,” I said.
“Conrad and Steven are such pigs,” she said, sniffling.
Guiltily, I said, “I thought all you wanted to eat were grape Popsicles.”
She shrugged. “When I woke up this morning I wanted toast bread. I think maybe I’m getting better.”
She didn’t look any better to me. Her eyes were swollen and her skin looked grayish, and I don’t think she’d washed her hair in days because it was all stringy and matted looking. “Maybe you should take a shower,” I said. “My mom says you always feel better after you take a shower.”
“Are you saying I smell?”
“Um, no.” I looked out the window. It was a clear day, no clouds. I bet Clay was having a blast. I bet Steven and Conrad were too. Conrad had emptied out his old first-grade piggy bank and found a ton of quarters. I bet they’d be at the arcade all afternoon. I wondered how long Clay was gonna be outside. I might be able to catch him in a few hours; it’d still be light out.
I guess Belly caught me staring out the window, because she said, in this really snotty voice, “Just go if you want to.”
“I said I didn’t,” I snapped. Then I took a breath. My mom wouldn’t like it if I made Belly upset when she was all sick like this. And she really did look lonely. I kinda felt sorry for her, being stuck inside all day. Summer colds sucked more than anything.
So I said, “Do you want me to teach you how to play poker?”
“You don’t know how to play,” she scoffed. “Conrad beats you every time.”
“Fine,” I said. I stood up. I didn’t feel that sorry for her.
“Never mind,” she said. “You can teach me.”
I sat back down. “Pass the cards,” I said gruffly.
I could tell Belly felt bad because she said, “You shouldn’t sit too close. You’ll get sick too.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I never get sick.”
“Neither does Conrad,” she said, and I rolled my eyes. Belly worshipped Conrad, just like Steven did.
“Conrad does get sick, he gets sick all the time in the winter. He has a weak immune system,” I told her, although I didn’t know if that was true or not.
She shrugged, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. She handed me the cards. “Just deal,” she said.
We played poker all afternoon and it was actually pretty fun. I got sick two days later, but I didn’t mind that much. Belly stayed home with me and we played more poker and we watched The Simpsons a lot.
chapter thirty-five
JEREMIAH
As soon as I heard Belly come up the stairs, I met her in the hallway. “So? What’s going on?”
“My mom’s calling your dad,” she said gravely.
“She is? Wow.”
“Yeah, so, don’t, like, give up already. It’s not over yet.” Then she gave me one of her
wrinkly-nose smiles.
I clapped her on the back and practically sprinted down the stairs. There was Laurel, wiping down the counter. When she saw me, she said, “Your father’s coming over. For breakfast.”
“Here?”
Laurel nodded. “Will you go to the store and get some things he likes? Eggs and bacon. Muffin mix. And those big grapefruit.”
Laurel hated to cook. She had definitely never made my dad a lumberjack breakfast. “Why are you cooking for him?” I asked.
“Because he’s a child and children are cranky when they haven’t been fed,” she said in that dry way of hers.
Out of nowhere, I said, “Sometimes I hate him.”
She hesitated before saying, “Sometimes I do too.”
And then I waited for her to say, “But he is your father,” the way my mom used to. Laurel didn’t, though. Laurel was no bullshit. She didn’t say things she didn’t mean.
All she said was, “Now get going.”
I got up and gave her a bear hug, and she was stiff in my arms. I lifted her up in the air a little, the way I used to do with my mom. “Thanks, Laure,” I said. “Really, thanks.”
“I’d do anything for you boys. You know that.”
“How did you know to come?”
“Belly called me,” she said. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Drunk.”
Oh, man. “Laure—”
“Don’t you ‘Laure’ me. How could you let her drink? I count on you, Jeremiah. You know that.”
Now I felt awful too. The last thing I wanted was for Belly to get in trouble, and I really hated the thought of Laurel thinking badly of me. I’d always tried so hard to look out for Belly, unlike Conrad. If anyone had corrupted her, it was Conrad, not me. Even though I was the one who bought the tequila, not him.
I said, “I’m really sorry. It’s just that with my dad’s selling the house, and it being our last night, we got carried away. I swear, Laure, it’ll never happen again.”
She rolled her eyes. “‘It’ll never happen again’? Don’t make promises you can’t keep, hon.”
“It’ll never happen again on my watch,” I told her.
