I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I graduated from middle school, and we moved. And this blanket,” she tugs at the end of the afghan that covers her legs, “is here permanently. Because my dad has slept on the sofa every single night since we’ve lived here. And my parents have fought and screamed, but then claim they’re staying together for me. They hate each other, and I don’t know … sometimes I really believe my mom hates me, too.”
Her eyes start to water, but she puts a stop to that really fucking quick. She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, then refills her glass with whatever briny liquid she’s consuming.
“Your mom doesn’t hate you,” I say, because whose mother hates them? Isn’t the whole point of being a mother centered around giving unconditional love?
“If it’s not hate, it’s something close. I just don’t understand what changed. And they’ll never tell me. I just don’t know what I did—” She clamps her mouth shut and plucks at the seam on the blanket.
I take a deep breath and speak slowly, willing her to listen to every word I say. “You didn’t earn that kind of treatment, Paloma. It’s nothing you did.”
I don’t want to push, but she’s finally opening up a little and I want her to keep going.
She doesn’t need me to hound her for details this time; she volunteers them.
“My fifteenth birthday,” she says.
“What about it?”
“That’s the last time that I remember my parents being happy. It was the night of my quince. They danced. My God, did they dance that night. Fast dances, where Dad spun Mom around like they were twenty years younger.” Paloma sways a little and smiles while she talks.
“And slow dances, where Mom rested her cheek on Dad’s chest while they barely moved. I probably should have been embarrassed that they were dancing at my party. I was fifteen, and it was in front of all of my friends. But I wasn’t. I was filled with so much stupid, naive hope that night.”
I selfishly think for a minute that I wish I could’ve been there. That I had been invited as Paloma’s guest. That I’d know this history of her and her family first hand, rather than a memory.
“I didn’t even want to stay the night at Faith Workman’s. But I did. Because I wanted to give Mom and Dad time to be alone. So I left my birthday party with Faith and tried so damn hard to sleep. But I kept thinking about this box my grandmother gave me for my gift. It was this beautiful, green malachite. I couldn’t remember if I’d packed it up while we were at the banquet hall, or if I’d left it on the edge of the stage while I was saying goodbyes.”
“So you went home?” I ask.
Paloma nods, and it’s filled with regret.
“The Workmans only lived two streets down, and I wasn’t going to wake up her parents to drive me home. So I waited until Faith was asleep, then snuck downstairs and ran home. It was all familiar, every tree and sprinkler and curve in the road. I’d walked the path from my house to Faith’s hundreds of times. But I’d never been out alone at three o’clock in the morning. I ran full-speed the entire way. I was sure I’d woken my parents when I busted through the front door.”
Paloma squeezes her eyes shut. Like she’s wishing it was all a dream.
“As soon as I closed the front door behind me that night, I could hear them. I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened outside their door. They talked about everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
Paloma scoffs. “How they’d never part with those lame lovebirds they got as a wedding gift. Fine, they could each take one. But no, they weren’t even worth anything if they were separated. They talked about retirement funds, and who was entitled to how much. They talked about the cars. How Dad made less money than Mom, so she should have to buy out his portion of his car loan so he wasn’t saddled with a big balance he couldn’t afford on his own.”
“Jesus,” I say. Not knowing the right words to comfort this girl I care so much about, with a hurt running so deep through her that I know can’t fix, but I want to so badly.
“They talked. They argued. The passionately fought for what they thought was rightfully theirs. But they never once mentioned me.”
“Paloma—”
“Neither one of them was willing to fight for me.”
She stares off with an unfocused gaze.
“Does this bother you?” she asks, tipping her glass my way as she changes the subject. “Guess I should’ve asked that before you sat down, huh?”
Her accent is thicker now that she’s drinking.
“I’m okay,” I say, staring at my hands.
“Say it, Oliver,” she dares me, her dark eyes shining as she leans close. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking about me right now, just say it.”
I want to tell her that I don’t like this side of her nearly as much as the girl who was literally climbing mountains with me the other day. I want to tell her that she’s better than this. But I can’t say any of that, because this is how Paloma is dealing with her shit, and who the hell am I to judge that?
So I say the second stupidest thing that pops into my head, “You ever thought of AA?”
“I’m not an alcoholic, Oliver.” She bristles, instantly defensive.
“That’s not what I meant. I was just thinking it might be nice for you to have someone to talk to who gets it. At least a little more than I do, I guess.”
It’s hard for me to know what draws her to the amber liquid in that bottle when I’ve never had anything stronger than a virgin Pina Colada.
“I cannot fathom how you choose, of your own free-will, to not drink. Like ever.” She gives the bottle a look that makes me jealous and freaks me out all at once. What is the secret of that liquid? I’d be more curious if I didn’t see firsthand how it breaks Paloma down.
“I didn’t say forever. Just for now. Maybe later on I’ll change my mind. But right now it makes sense to me.”
Because as fucked up as things are in my life, I want to face my problems with a clear head. I wish Paloma would see the benefit of that.
“I don’t know. I just don’t get it.” She pours another splash in her cup and brings it to her lips.
I’m not morally against drinking. I think plenty of people drink very well.
Paloma isn’t one of them. I wish I could get her to see that.
“That’s because you don’t see how incredible you are, Paloma.” I take the deepest breath of my life before I go on. “You don’t need to drink to be you, you know? I guess that’s what appealed to me about straight edge in the beginning. That it was just a way to say, ‘I’m okay, my thoughts are okay, all of me is cool without any of that other stuff.’ And you’re pretty damn perfect the way you are, Paloma. Trust me, there are things that I wish I could forget, or had some magic potion to move on from—”
“Oliver,” she says with a laugh that isn’t really happy. In fact, it’s pretty damn sad. “I don’t drink to forget who I am, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Okay, then why do you?”
“I drink to forget where I came from,” she confesses.
“Paloma—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“What happened that night?” she demands, not willing to let this go.
God, she’s determined as hell when she sets her mind on something.
I link my fingers together and press my hands away as I sigh. “We’re not doing this right now.”
“You said we’d talk later. So let’s talk,” she argues, leaning forward and tilting way over to the right all at once.
You’re nearing drunk, I want to say.
Instead, I jump up and start pacing the room. Paloma stares up at me and occasionally closes one eye, like she’s trying to focus, like I make her dizzy.
“Why do you keep pushing this? Nothing happened.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I don’t believe you either,” I say. “Not about Martin—”
“Well, maybe you don’t need to,” she bites out. “You think I need to go to AA, for fuck’s sake. To talk to someone. To have someone who understands—”
“I wish I could talk to someone about it—”
“So, talk to me!” she yells.
I back away.
“Oliver, talk to me,” she begs.
“I can’t.”
It’s only two words, but it’s desperate. It’s raw. And she must believe me because she sets her glass down on the side table. She glances around the room like she’s debating whether or not to clean up all of the evidence of tonight. To wipe down the glass. To fix what’s broken with us. Or maybe she’s just too tired.
It must be the latter because she closes her eyes for a long time, and then says, “Okay. That’s fine. Will you just lock up before you go?”
I shake my head and sigh. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere, Paloma.”
(Written in Paloma’s room while Oliver slept downstairs.) (Undelivered)
32.
So talk to me.
I want to. But she can’t help. And, even if she could, I can’t put that kind of weight on her shoulders. It would only make every single thing worse. Besides, I’m not the only one here dealing with shit. Paloma has a ton of her own crap on her plate. She’s wrong if she thinks I should open up. It would only make things infinitely worse for her.
Everything about that night feels dark and weighed down. Like a storm cloud, ready to burst and flood the land. But it won’t open up. Just like I don’t. She doesn’t understand that the one thing she wants to know more than anything, is the one thing that could tear her life apart even more than it already is. I can’t do that to her. I can’t be the one to hurt her.
I toss and turn on the sofa for the next few hours. The couch is soft enough, but every time I move, I have to unstick myself from the leather. I’m not used to the noises of Paloma’s house, and every creak on the stairs or buzz from the appliances in the kitchen makes me wonder if she’s going to tiptoe down so we can make things right.
How is it that just hours ago we were laughing outside and sharing lunch? How did everything go so dark, so quickly? Why did she have to go there?
I’m not doing this anymore. I’m going to figure out a way to move on. To forget Tarryn. To forget that night.
To be happy with Paloma. To be happy with myself.
I’m Oliver Wu.
I’m half-Chinese and half-Irish-American.
Because of that, I never felt like I fit into one place. I never knew why I didn’t like Century Eggs the way Dad and his family did. Or why I didn’t want to run cross country like Mom did.
Straight edge was the thing I thought I was, but it only took one night to crumble all of that. Even if it wasn’t my fault.
It took this year, and this girl, to prove to me that I’m not. That even those things I sang about and carved X’s into my hands over—those aren’t my values.
I’m just Oliver Wu.
And that’s okay.
That’s enough.
I’m going to write this damn essay about all of those things. I’m going to take my finals and graduate. And then I’m going to go away to college. My dad wants me to be a doctor; my mom wants me to be a scientist. I think I want to be an architect.
Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll buck the entire system and do something with music. Maybe I’ll learn to feel music for myself again, not worrying about what the band will think of the songs I write, or if their message is on point enough with what they all claim to want to stand for.
I’m sure as I get older, I’ll change my mind about a lot of things. I may even change my values. I don’t know.
One thing I don’t want to be for the rest of my life is stuck in one place. I don’t want to be a victim anymore. I don’t want what happened that night to define me. I don’t want to be a person who can’t see the good in the decent people I meet every day because of a single event.
I’m a lot of things, but stuck in a moment is not one of them.
I know what it’s like to beg for truth but get no answers. Tarryn paralyzed me.
And now I’ve done the same exact thing to Paloma.
I think and toss and turn and think some more. All of it is becoming clearer.
When the living room starts to fill with light, I take that as my cue to leave. Paloma’s mom
may be out of town, but this isn’t how I want to meet her dad if he comes home anytime soon.
Before I go, I fold the blanket and stash the pillow on top, then pile them into the wicker basket. I wipe down the bottle of Maker’s Mark and search the kitchen for the liquor cabinet to stash it away. I rinse the glass and store it in the back of the cabinet. Maybe when Paloma comes downstairs, she’ll think my being here was all a dream.
Maybe.
My eyes feel like they have sand in them as I search the living room for my keys.
I finally find them near the front door.
Next to the postcard.
Greetings from Los Angeles!
Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination.—Mark Twain
But apologies from Paloma. xx
I take in a sharp breath before writing:
Lunch tomorrow? Happiness will be served.
(Written on the Metro on the way to lunch) (Undelivered)
33.
“You invited a friend?” Dad asks. He adjusts the banner that he’s hung up on the patio cover, then steps down the ladder.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“To your mom’s birthday lunch?” he qualifies.
All right, maybe it was a stupid idea.
“He checked with me last night, and I said it was fine,” Mom calls to us as she steps out from the sliding glass door and onto the back patio. She slips her arms around my dad’s waist and tugs him in close. I can’t help but think about all that Paloma told me about her parents and how she hasn’t seen anything like this in years. I wonder if it will be upsetting for her to see my parents … being my parents.
“If it’s going to be a problem—” I start.
“No problem at all, Oliver,” Mom says. She pops a kiss on my cheek, and then wanders off, mimosa in hand.
“Same friend who came over a while back?” Dad asks. “Patricia?”
“Paloma,” I correct. I can’t hide the grin when I say her name.
“Don’t remember the last girl you had around,” he says. “Sure it’s a good idea right before you’re leaving for school?”
I feel all itchy talking about this with Dad, so I just say, “It’s fine.” Because it is.
“I’m gonna go grab the rest of the chairs from the garage,” I say.
I putz around for the next hour: dragging out the coolers and helping to fill them with ice and drinks. I answer the door over and over, grab drinks, and stash purses for guests. I spray down the driveway, even though I keep one eye on our street the entire time, waiting for one of our neighbors to report me to the water police. Trust me, I get that we’re in a drought, and water is precious, but my dad belongs to the school that says, ‘If you’re willing to pay for it, it should be yours to use.’ I feel like a dirty criminal the entire time.
As I’m winding up the hose, a car pulls in the drive. It’s a black sedan I don’t recognize, but that doesn’t mean anything, I don’t know what everyone coming to Mom’s party drives. I wrap the last of the hose up and wipe my wet hands down the front of my shorts.
The passenger door of the car opens, and Paloma steps out.
Holy shit, she actually came.
I mean, she’d texted me to say that she would, but still, the sight of her walking up my driveway is just surprising.
The man in the driver’s seat waves. It’s Paloma’s father. He backs downs the driveway just as she sees me.
“Hey!” she says. “Sorry, I’m a little late. Dad made a wrong turn.”
I cross the yard to where she is. She’s wearing this white cotton sundress, and
next to her dark skin, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
“You’re not late. And I would’ve come to get you.”
She shakes her head. “No, I know. Dad wanted to see where I was going. Trust issues and all.”
“Yeah, you never did tell me why you don’t drive, you know.”
Paloma bites down on her bottom lip, and even though her eyes are covered with dark sunglasses, I know she’s looking around for a way out.
She pulls in a deep breath and says, “I, maybe … okay, so I crashed my dad’s last car.”
“Jesus, Paloma, did you get hurt?”
“No, nothing like that.” She puts a hand on her waist and pops her hip out a little. “You know how they tell you in Drivers’ Ed that drunks sometimes walk away from accidents unharmed because they don’t tense up at all?”
I nod.
“So, I guess that’s true in my case.”
“You were drinking and driving?”
She nods slowly. “I mean, technically, I didn’t make it out of my driveway. I put the car into drive instead of reverse and plowed through our garage. But, yeah…”
She lets her voice trail off.
“Everyone has a night they wish they could forget, right?” I say, giving her an out to drop it.
I don’t need Paloma to feel remorse for shit she’s done in the past on my account. I want to know her history, but not punish her for it.
“Oliver?” she asks.
“Yeah?”
“Why are there balloons on your mailbox?” Paloma reaches up and pulls her sunglasses from her face. There’s fire in those eyes.
“Right, so, it’s a little lunch celebration. I’m so glad you’re here, I really could use the company in there—”
“Celebration for what?”
“Just … it’s my mom’s birthday?”
“Oliver!” She stomps her foot when she says my name, and it’s crazy adorable.
“It’s fine. Really. I promise,” I say. “Trust me, I cleared it with both of my parents. They’re so happy you’re here.”
“Oliver, I don’t even have a gift,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
A Postcard Would Be Nice Page 13
