She takes the paper and gently folds it, returning it to the envelope.
“I’m not okay with what your sister did. But sometimes God creates mountains in life. Trials.” She lays her hand on her chest, taps one finger twice. “And you have to find the strength within to climb them.”
Mom’s never talked about God. We were never the church-going type, the pray before our meals type or Sunday-school dresses and itchy tights type. Her mom was though. Grammy. She used to sing in the church choir at Bellevue Church of Christ and every once in a while Zoe and I would visit, sit in the pews kicking each other’s patent leather shoes and drawing with those tiny pencils as we listened to her sing We lift our hearts to thee…
“It’s been a struggle,” Mom continues, “but I’ve scaled that mountain. And now,”—her hand strokes the back of my hair—“all I can do is move forward. Keep the rest of my family happy and healthy.”
Sometimes you just know something—instinct, I guess. Like the way a caterpillar knows when to stop eating and hang upside down for its transformation into a butterfly. Looking at Mom, I can see she’s suffering too. Tired of tofu and dollar stores and plastic bags that fold instead of zip. Sick of putting on a smile when maybe all she really wants to do is let her perfect exterior crack a little.
“You must think I’m a horrible mother.”
I whisper to protect her from my acidic tone. “You’re doing a good job.”
“So are you, sweetie.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Zoe’s room is quiet. The eerie kind with only the soft scrape of skin against carpet as I slide my arms and legs in and out, up and down. A carpet angel. The walls are alive with sunlight and it feels wrong—her room shouldn’t be alive if she isn’t. Carefully, so as not to disturb the angel, I roll onto my stomach and, just as I do, spot a sheet of paper caught in the underside of her desk drawer.
It’s not from a journal. Zoe didn’t have a journal, which after what Evan said about the depression I guess that sort of makes sense. I crawl across the floor and tug out the paper.
~*~
“Since we’re letting out all of our family skeletons tonight,” I begin, discretely burying the little squares of tofu beneath a mound of over-cooked rice. Mom straightens her shoulders, settling her wrist on the table’s edge and tilts her chin. Beside her, Dad chases his rice with a swig of “Coke.” He’s never been a huge talker even as dean where business could be handled with his presence alone. But today the man on the whiskey bottle must have his tongue, which gives me the push to say, “You guys may as well know I haven’t been working at Steamers Cleaners.” Evan sneaks a spongy square to the napkin on his lap then looks over at me, face round with curiosity. “I’ve been working at Pacific Rim.”
Of course this catches Dad’s attention, but it’s Mom who speaks up. “Pacific Rim?” Her tone wavers and although her mouth says, “Doing what?” her eyes ask the real question: They let you work there? which I ignore.
“In the art department with Mr. Hunter, as a model.” I wait. Oblivious as to what I’ve just admitted, Evan takes a huge bite of rice and with his other hand hides another chunk of tofu in his lap. Mom’s confusion is innocent; she doesn’t fully understand.
“You’d make a beautiful model to sketch, honey,” she says, smiling.
Dad sets his fork down with a clink.
“Bart Hunter?”
I know it’s childish, but I all of a sudden want to hurt Dad. Not hurt him bad, but jab him a little in the gut like he’s letting his old friend, Jack Daniels, do to me every time he takes a sip from his glass. I nod.
“Bart teaches Life Drawing,” Dad says more to himself than any of us at the table. Behind his wrinkled forehead, wheels are turning; thoughts knocking loudly like the teeth of wooden gears sitting in the kitchen’s old clock.
“Yep.”
It’s a lovely feeling, revenge.
Mom dabs her lips with the corner of a napkin and starts to say something—still clueless, as is Evan—but Dad lays his hand gently on her arm.
“Life Drawing is…” His lips linger on the word, but he can’t bring himself to say it.
A fire explodes in me, right there in my chest where the weight of secrets and lies and heartbreak and death collect until there’s no more room for anything else. And I say it. The word that makes Mom gasp. The word that sends Evan’s fork falling to the floor. The word that has Dad standing, towering over the table with a bright red face.
“Nude.”
“Upstairs. Now, young lady.” Dad’s arm outstretches toward the stairs, fast and hard. Dad doesn’t get angry and I can’t help but think his outburst has something to do with his drinking and I fight really hard not to throw that in his face right in this moment.
“Why, Dad?” I stand and meet his narrow stare. Uncomfortable because Dad and I aren’t like this. We don’t argue, don’t fight. We sit on the couch and watch reality TV together, wash cars and tinker with tools in the garage together. “So you can tell me how I’ve disappointed you? How I’m tarnishing our family name? Well, I have news for you. You’ve disappointed me. And maybe I am tarnishing our name, but you know what? It doesn’t matter because you already did that when you became Dishonest Dean just to get credit for some athlete’s success!
“And we might as well let that cat out of the bag too—I stupidly fell for this really great guy who it turns out is Head of the Harbor on the rowing team at Pacific Rim.” I look to Mom. “Most people don’t even know what that means, but I bet Dad does.” I meet his eyes again, glaring like I’m trying to slice through him. “Know anything about who that might be, Dad?”
Mom rises, ready to quiet us, but I don’t give either of them a chance to say anything.
“That’s right. A Kingsley. I fell in love with John fucking Kingsley the second. But guess what? I broke it off because how could I be with someone who screwed my family over? Someone who left my dad jobless and under scrutiny from not just the school, but the entire town?
“At least my intentions were in our best interest! And the only reason I was working for Mr. Hunter, which by the way is not a degrading job—it’s art, for God’s sake—is because I’ve been forced to pay my own tuition and any regular-paying job wouldn’t even come close to the thousands of dollars I need every quarter, not including books!”
I’m crying. I’m not sure when tears started pouring down my cheeks, but my vision is so blurry I don’t even see my dad draw near. He pulls me into a bear-hug and I try to pull away, but his arms hold tight. The spicy cologne he’s worn since I can remember fills my nose and it’s comforting and familiar and all those things you wish for when you’re hurting. Like blankets and bathrobes and parents.
“Quinn…”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I sniff, leaning in to him. “I’m under a lot of stress right now. I didn’t mean to say all that.”
“Apparently, it needed to be said.” Hands on my shoulders, he pushes me back just slightly. “Feel better?”
I nod, mopping my tears with my fingers.
“Sort of.”
Mom rushes over. Her hand touches my arm, but she says to Dad, “You two need to talk.” There’s a heaviness in her words that makes my stomach curl up like a scared dog. Weight that comes with news: a note from my dead sister, a new school, new house...
I take a step back.
“No more surprises today.”
Dad nods, cradles his strong arm around my back and says, “This is something you’ll want to hear.”
Mom returns to the table with Evan who has a napkin full of tofu and a guilty crinkle in his nose. Does he know too? What Dad’s about to tell me?
He winks as Dad pulls me into the living room. I manage a half-smile in return, pull it from the warm feeling Evan gives me. It’s gone that fast—the blame and aversion I’ve had toward him for the last year. Disappeared. Replaced with understanding and appreciation and gratitude. He loved Zoe, and probably even my parents by the way he puts up
with Mom’s budget meals. I have a feeling they give each other something—my parents and him: a means to commemorate my sister. An opened door that had once been closed with a bottle of pills.
Because Evan does the same to me, brings back a whisper of something I’ve lost. Fills the emptiness inside a bit. Maybe over time, months and months like my parents, my Zoe-hole will be filled too.
Dad sits on the couch and I sit beside him. My hands are sweaty. I have no idea what to expect, what he plans to tell me.
“I’ve told you John Kingsley and I were college roommates at Ohio State,” he begins, straightening his glasses. “But I think it’s time you know the whole story.”
I tuck my feet under me, thinking about his words: he and Mr. Kingsley have a story. A history. Of course they do; any roommates would. And hearing that makes John Kingsley sound like a real person. But this is where my mind starts to go all slushy. John Kingsley is not a real person. He’s an abstract figure, like a radio DJ or the president of some far away country only with a name that cannot escape me. He’s a taker. A deceiver. A self-centered man who abandoned my dad—fed him to the sharks while he and Torrin made their escape unscathed.
And, yet, my dad speaks his name without abhorrence.
“John was twenty when he dropped out of college. When he found out Renee was pregnant, God, he was so excited. They moved out here, to California, but by the time John Jr. was born, John still hadn’t found a job. They were really struggling to get on their feet so I asked my Uncle Rob—your great uncle who worked for a commercial mortgage company—if he could help out my friend. John took to the business and was later offered a position at a company branch in Tipp City where he made a lot of money.
“Two years ago, John called me up and told me how his boy had led Brown’s rowing team to take first place in the IRA Championships, bringing a ton of recognition to the school. It was my idea, this whole thing. Enrollment had been low the last few years and I thought maybe if John Jr. rowed for Pacific Rim, I could attract more students to the school. An increase in students meant additional funding.
“But John Jr. didn’t want to. He was happy at his school back east and didn’t like the idea of transferring weeks into the quarter. So I bribed him. Told him he would get credit toward his degree. John was the one who eventually convinced him. He felt like he owed it to me for setting him up with Rob all those years ago. And John Jr. only agreed to please his dad because, well, that’s the kind of kid he is.”
He’s still a liar.
“So why’d he have to cheat the system?” I look at Dad and say. “Why couldn’t he just take classes at Pacific Rim and row like all the other students?”
Dad rubs his hands together. “The rowing division was a mess. John Jr. had to spend his entire days working with Coach Summers to get the varsity and freshman teams in shape, teaching them everything he knew.”
Don’t think it, don’t think it—that sort of makes sense, based on what Torrin’s told me. Goddamnit. I rub my face.
“How’d you get caught?”
“One of the other administrators was looking into this new rowing sensation I kept bragging about and noticed in his file I’d passed him in a class that was still in session.” Dad fingers the edge of the cushion, brings his big round eyes to mine. “It was a stupid mistake, Quinn. All of it.”
I wonder if Torrin feels like it was a mistake.
“Some friend John is, letting you take the fall for everything.”
“He didn’t want to. Neither did John Jr. They wanted to come clean and admit their wrongdoing publicly. But I saw what dropping out of college had done to John, and I couldn’t stand to let his son go through the same for something that was my idea in the first place. So I walked away from my position.”
“With the help of Jack Daniels?” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but suddenly here it sits, uncomfortably on the couch between us.
Miles upon miles of understanding pass over Dad’s face, stretched out like an old highway whose potholes and faded yellow lines hold tight to a century of history. Ghostlike. But when you know what you’re looking for it’s pretty easy to see.
“That was a long time ago, Quinny. I’m not that person anymore.”
“Denial. Great. Isn’t that the first sign of an alcoholic?” Pain and sadness tighten my throat; I can’t manage the accusatory tone I know should make me feel better. “Besides, aren’t you worried you will be that person if you start drinking again?”
He shakes his head. “I have much better control over my anger nowadays—age does that you know.”
“You blame age for everything.”
“This mess of gray didn’t come empty-handed,” he says, sliding his fingers through his hair with a chuckle. “It’s taught me a drink here and there cannot make me someone I’ve learned not to be.” He kisses my forehead. “You don’t have to worry about your old man, sweet pea. Your own troubles are keeping you busy enough these days.”
If blowing up at an amazing guy for the wrong reason is trouble then, yes. I’m busy as hell.
~*~
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Any time, kid,” Evan says as he pulls up to the entrance of my school. Past ten o’clock, the sidewalks are vacant, still soggy from the trail of storm that refuses to move on.
Evan’s called me kid before—after the whole I-kissed-my-older-sister’s-boyfriend incident. Back when he and Zoe seemed so much older. At sixteen, eighteen was adult, eighteen was freedom; the two of them, acting in their mister and misses ways. It used to bother me. I wasn’t a kid. I was in high school, had my driver’s license; I’d even tasted beer.
I don’t mind it now. Because I would do anything to go back to that time, talk to Zoe about her up-and-down episodes. I’d offer to do her homework when she was feeling blue, sit in class for her if that’d make her stay with us for even one day more. All of us. Even the guy beside me who I’m fairly certain would’ve someday asked her to marry him, become the father of her children.
“I want you to know,” I start. I don’t know why. I guess it’s something I’ve been meaning to say to him for a while. “I’m sorry for kissing you.”
Pressing his back into the seat, he raises an eyebrow. “Quinn, that was a really long time ago.”
“I know…but it was stupid and immature and…” My words fall off into nothing, but I force myself to reel them back in. “Before today, I thought maybe Zoe’d found out about it, and that’s why she’d taken all those pills.”
He shakes his head, awkwardly pats me on the shoulder. “She knew about it the day it happened.”
“She what?”
He chuckles at my bulging eyes, the grip I now have on the dashboard. “Zoe and I didn’t keep things from each other,” he explains. “I told her right after it happened.”
“Why would she not confront me about it then? Why would she let me go on thinking she didn’t know?”
He shrugs. “She knew it didn’t mean anything. That you were just, you know, being you.” He means trying to be like her. There’s a part of me that now understands why she let me shadow her; it made her feel normal, wanted. Unlike the manic and depressive sides.
I settle back in my seat then I notice a glossy photo stuck behind the steering wheel. A girl. I point to it. “Who’s that?”
He glances at the picture then back at me.
“Jana.”
“Your girlfriend?”
He nods. “We’ve only been together a month.”
A lump forms in my throat and I swallow it down; sadness for Zoe has no place in this conversation. “You meet her at school?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She’s pretty.” And she is. With short pixie hair and a carefree smile.
“Thanks.” Little crinkles fan out across his cheeks which warms my insides. Evan deserves to be happy. Then he gets this weird look on his face. I cover my mouth.
“Do I have tofu stuck in my teeth?”
He laughs.
“Not sure if you want to hear this, but I think you look like your sister.”
I unclick my seatbelt and grin.
“Let me guess. The eyes?”
“Yeah…and your ears. You have the same ears.” Absentmindedly, I touch my ear. A guy who remembers what his girlfriend’s ears looked like, Zoe was lucky to have.
“I almost forgot.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded square of paper. The letter to him, from Zoe, that I found jammed in her desk drawer.
“Should I read it now?” By the lift of his voice, he has no idea what it is. And I feel the obligation to warn him. Because, maybe, he won’t want to read it, draw up old feelings. Especially now that he has Jana.
I shake my head. “It’s from Zoe.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Perhaps letting the idea settle: he’s holding the words of the girl who once loved him and then pushed him away. Perhaps debating if he wants to know what’s written inside. If there’ll be truths or reasons or answers.
“Did you read it?” he eventually asks in a whisper, pressing his fingertip into the stiff corner of the note. I nod.
“I wasn’t sure what it was or if it was something you’d want to read.”
He looks out the window to the sad little gas station across the street, its blue neon sign flickering unsteadily.
“I assume since you’re giving it to me there’s nothing too harsh.” His thin lips pinch together, barely a smile.
I shrug, at the same time thinking my sister’s words: I will forever live within the memories we created. Forgive me, Evan.
“It’s something I’d want to know.” I open the door and say, “See you.”
“Next week,” he says, but his mind is already miles away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Do you remember the first time you talked to me?”
Derek. I don’t bother turning around.
“Why are you following me? It’s creepy.”
“I’m not following you. I was headed to the library to—”
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