And some groceries. We really need groceries.
It appears that my mom has stopped cooking. And shopping. And maybe also eating. Who knows?
All I know is that she spent the entire week on the covered patio behind the A-Frame, hunched over a boiling pot of wax and dipping old sheets into plastic bowls filled with bright dye. She strung the fenced yard with crisscrossed strings of clothesline. I watched as the week progressed, and the lines filled with brightly colored squares of fabric, flapping in the wind like Tibetan prayer flags.
But here’s the thing: we’re not meditating on the top of a mountain somewhere. We’re a block from the beach, and we need to eat something besides shrimp.
Last night she sat across from me at the Bait Shack and peeled her shrimp with dye-stained hands, telling me about the color variations of octopi and sea stars and triggerfish. Every time I tried to bring up our financial situation or ask her about one of the dozens of forms I need to track down for those complicated financial aid applications, she somehow managed to veer the conversation back to undersea creatures.
When the bill came, I grabbed it from her and used my debit card to pay. The waiter whisked it away and I told her, “That’s it, Mom. No more Bait Shack. We can’t afford it.”
She shrugged and went back to talking about the wonders of the octopus. The woman’s obsessed. She’s also in denial. It’s time for one of us to break down and go to the grocery store. It looks like I’ll be that person.
I stand up and smooth my skirts. “Ladies and Gentlemen!” I call out. “We hope you have enjoyed your ghostly experience. The park will be closing in fifteen minutes.” I lift my right arm and gesture toward a dirt path. “Please be sure you have gathered all of your belongings, then make your way through the lighthouse museum store to the park exit.”
“Is there time to get me another beer before we head out?” the dad asks.
“Depends on how fast you can drink it,” I say.
He chuckles and heads toward the concession stand.
I don’t drink anymore, not since last Thanksgiving. Right now, though, I would kill for a cold beer. I would kill for a cold anything. It’s eleven P.M. and still probably eighty-five degrees out here.
Darren heads toward me, fumbling with ten or twelve discarded glow sticks that he’s picked up from the grass and bushes.
“I need you to check the tower,” he says. “Make sure no one’s hiding out in there and then lock ’er up.”
I glance up to the top of the lighthouse: 219 steps.
“Yeah, okay. I’m on it.” I hike up my skirts and head in.
I really should look on the bright side. I definitely can’t afford a gym membership, so two or three times up and down these stairs every night is a good thing, right? That’s what I’m telling myself at first, but then the rhythm begins to take over: my feet striking against each metal stair, the sound reverberating through the tower. I’m all alone in here; I can feel it.
By the time I reach the top, the sound of leather soles striking against metal has combined with the heaving of my breath and the rapid beat of my heart. I throw open the door to the viewing platform, relieved to feel wind, heavy against my face. I step out into the night, still grasping tight to my electromagnetic flow meter. I start to walk along the narrow platform, checking for stray tourists. But once I see the light come sweeping past, those ugly turkeys somehow return to my mind, and something inside of me caves. I lean against the wall of the lighthouse for support, and then my legs give out. I slide into a crouch and wrap my arms around my knees.
It’s not exhaustion I’m feeling—at least it’s not physical exhaustion. It’s just …
I can see Ángel’s face, surprised at first, and then crumpling into agony, when that no-nonsense doctor stood at the foot of his bed and told him that his heart would quit on him. I can feel my own heart speeding up, working harder—as if to compensate for his own heart’s slowing. I can feel my hand on TJ’s arm. Grasping for something solid, something warm and alive. I can sense the presence of TJ’s own hand, covering mine, for just a few seconds. And I can feel his face lifting up, the slightest bit, and his eyes squeezing shut.
And then we pulled apart, and Ángel smiled, shrugged, and said, “Well, I guess we’re gonna have to find me a new one.”
He said it in English—mildly accented but perfectly understandable English.
He sat up a little and looked right at the doctor. “You do that, yes? You find new hearts?”
The doctor winced, as if Ángel had poked him with something sharp, annoying but not painful. “It’s not quite that simple, son,” he said.
I started to translate, but Ángel raised his hand to stop me.
“It can’t be so hard,” he said. “Everyone has a heart, yes? You’ll find one for me.”
The doctor stumbled and mumbled something about talking through his options, and then he fumbled with his phone for a moment and rushed out of the room. Prashanti, clearly frazzled, followed behind him in a flurry of nervous energy and white coats.
Ángel looked over toward me and TJ, both frozen against the wall. “Well, that sucks.”
Incapable of forming a single word, I said nothing in reply. But TJ jumped right in. “Yeah, it does,” he said. And then, without missing a step: “And, by the way, asshole, when were you gonna tell us you speak English?”
I watched TJ and Ángel laughing together. And I realized something: I couldn’t remember the moment that I learned my father was sick. I had no recollection at all—where I was, who was there with me, how I felt, what I said.
None of it. It was gone.
But now here it is—the memory of sitting beside my father on the swing out by the lake, his arm wrapped around me, hugging me close. The air was cool, and a breeze came off the water. We moved together back and forth, and he told me not to worry. He told me it would all be okay—he would be fine. We would be fine.
But I’m not fine. I’m not even close. And Mom? I can’t even …
* * *
I wake up on Saturday morning, determined to pull myself together, to pull our lives together—starting with our finances. Mom finally gave me the bank information so that I can start filling out the financial aid forms, but I need Wi-Fi to access the forms. The internet constantly blinks in and out at the A-frame, and I’m not going to risk getting halfway through a thirty-five-page form and then having it all be lost.
I pull on a clean tank top, call out good morning to Mom—who is hanging sea anemones out to dry in the backyard—and head to Starbucks. On the way, I stop at the ATM and deposit my first-ever paycheck, feeling incredibly proud and accomplished.
When I get to Starbucks, I order a straight-up coffee for the first time in my life. Feeling equally proud to have saved two dollars, I pour out a third of the cup, fill it with (free) half-and-half, and add four sugars. Then I sit at a large table, boot up my computer, and dive into the complete and utter nightmare that is a College Scholarship Service PROFILE form.
I think I have listened to the interactive guide a dozen times, but still I have no idea what the hell half of these documents are or where to find them. I send Mom a long and detailed email, listing each of the documents we are missing, all of them some strange combinations of numbers and letters. I hit send on the email, also sending out a little prayer to the universe that my mother will be able to gather enough focus to help me through this. I don’t think I can do it alone.
After begging the nice Starbucks barista for a free refill, I find the courage to pull out the stack of mail that Mrs. Pennington, our neighbor from Winter Park, sent from our real house.
I sort through the pile efficiently, separating the bills from the junk, and I come across the letter from Costco. Our membership expires in four days, and we can’t afford to renew it. When I see the flyer filled with Costco coupons among the junk, I decide I need to seize the moment.
I pack up my laptop and head out to the car, flyer in hand. I’m going grocery
shopping.
The door swings shut and I come face-to-face with a majestic snowy egret perched on the railing outside of Starbucks. He stretches his neck slowly and gracefully swivels his head from side to side so that I can admire his elaborate, ruffled plumage. He turns to face me directly and nods. Then he spreads his enormous wings and takes to the air, calling out his familiar song:
Hraaa, hraaa!
My own personal cheerleader, waiting outside of Starbucks, sending me off to Costco with renewed confidence.
Hraaa, hraaa! Hraaa, hraaa!
A half hour later, I’m pushing an enormous flatbed cart down the aisle of Costco, feeling utterly overwhelmed. When I reach the toilet paper display, I turn into the aisle. Why not start with the essentials?
I stand in front of a few thousand rolls of toilet paper, trying to calculate how much we need to get through our summer in the A-frame. Two months. That’s about sixty days. Mom and I are two people. How many rolls of toilet paper will we go through in sixty days? Maybe, like, a roll a week for each of us? Okay. I guess I need the twenty-four-pack just in case. I flip through the coupon book. Charmin Ultra Soft 24-Pack for $13.99. Two dollars and fifty cents off. That’s not bad, right?
Of course, the twenty-four-pack is at the very top.
I lug a stepladder across the concrete floor so that I can get to the highest stack of toilet paper. I’m on my tiptoes, reaching with both hands, when I see—of all people—TJ. He’s coming around the corner with his own flatbed cart filled to overflowing. He’s wearing surf shorts, flip-flops, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His hair is damp, and I swear his biceps are glistening—like he’s out in the midday sun instead of under the fluorescent warehouse lights. He’s with another guy about our age, who also looks like he just hopped off his longboard. His jaw has the same curve as TJ’s, and he’s even more buff. I’m guessing he’s a cousin too.
I grab the toilet paper and hug it to my chest, ignoring the strong instinct to hide my face with it, because I’m almost certainly blushing. I’m also remembering that moment yesterday, when I instinctively grabbed that now-glistening arm.
TJ looks down at a list and then points to the Brawny paper towels.
“We need some of those,” he says.
Is it possible that he hasn’t noticed me? Of course, it’s possible. I’m all the way at the other end of the paper goods aisle in an enormous store. And I’m not exactly glistening. I’m sleep-deprived and sweaty, I haven’t brushed my hair, and—in my enthusiasm for pulling our lives back together—I left the house without changing out of my pajama sweats. Overall, I’m looking perfectly forgettable.
“Those Viva ones are on sale,” the other guy says, pointing to a placard above his head.
“Yeah, those work,” TJ tells him. And then, because the heavens are conspiring against me, he looks down the aisle, searching for a stepladder, and finds me instead—hugging a jumbo pack of toilet paper.
“What’s up?” he says, nodding once. He says it in the way that means, I really couldn’t care less what’s happening in your life, but I’m obligated by this situation to say something.
I scramble down the stepladder and try to shrug, which is a little awkward while holding twenty-four rolls of toilet paper.
“Not much,” I say. “Just getting some stuff for home.”
The other guy looks at my cart, stacked with—among other things—two enormous cans of black beans, a five-pound bag of rice, a three-pound bag of lentils, a six-pack of Lysol wipes, a box of individually wrapped ramen noodles, two cases of LaCroix water, and a handful of Luna Bars. Those last items are extravagant, I know. But I don’t think my mom can live without her LaCroix and Luna Bars, so I’ve decided to wean her off slowly.
“What are you gonna do with all those beans?” he asks.
“I’m a vegetarian,” I say, hoping that will suffice.
It’s true: I am a vegetarian, as of yesterday. After our farewell meal at the Bait Shack, I went into Publix to buy some groceries and realized how incredibly expensive chicken breasts are. And beef? Don’t even get me started. I decided, standing beside the meat coolers, to put Mom and me on a vegetarian diet. We will experiment—just like the great blue heron. Those birds are notorious for eating just about anything that comes their way. Once, scientists in Mississippi watched a great blue heron eat a stingray. A stingray! If one of those guys can figure out how to get sustenance from a stingray without killing himself in the process, then I should at least be able to figure out how to cook a bag of lentils.
It will be good for us.
“That’s cool,” he says, walking toward me. “I’m Demetrio, by the way. TJ’s cousin.”
I knew it.
“I’m Vivi,” I tell him, dropping the toilet paper on top of the pile. “I work with TJ at the hospital.”
“Yeah,” Demetrio says, reaching out to balance my toilet paper, which is about to topple off the cart. “I know who you are.”
I steal a glance at TJ, who is studying the paper towels intently. I sort of wish I knew what exactly he knows, but mostly I’m terrified by the thought that TJ talks to his cousin about me.
“Yeah, well, uh, I gotta…” I get behind the cart and give it a shove, almost sending the LaCroix toppling to the ground.
I’m balancing LaCroix with one arm, pushing the cart with the other arm and my hip, and practically unable to breathe because—apparently TJ sucks the oxygen not only out of my car, but also out of this enormous warehouse. I decide this shopping adventure is done. Not looking back to say good-bye, I carefully maneuver the cart toward a checkout aisle with no line.
It goes without saying that a line starts to build when my debit card gets rejected. And Mom’s Costco card and the “emergency” debit card Dad gave me when I left for college. The first time it happened, the bored-out-of-her-mind checkout lady took one quick glance in my direction and asked, “Got another card?” But with each subsequent rejected card, she simply shakes her head once, not even looking at me.
And now I’m out of cards and the two kids who have been swinging off the cart of the lady behind me are screaming, “Mommy, I’m hungry! Mommy, what’s wrong? Mommy, why is it taking so long?” Which means that every one of the hundreds of people who are spending their Saturday morning in Costco knows that my mom and I are completely broke.
I am going to die of embarrassment.
“Vivi!” I peer past the two kids using their cart as a jungle gym, and there’s TJ, standing alone in the middle of the Costco checkout area, waving his list at me.
“Hey, Viv!”
In all of these weeks, he’s never once called me by my name. He usually just grumbles “What’s up?” or, when he’s being particularly charming, he deadpans “Hey, glorious” (he’s not gonna let me live that one down). But now here he is, almost jumping up and down to get my attention, first saying my name and then giving me a little nickname.
“Hey, Viv! We’re not done yet. You forgot pickles—” He’s pointing at his list, and I’m feeling incredibly confused. “And I’ve got the money, remember?”
The checkout lady waves me through, and I push my cart forward and then maneuver it carefully back toward TJ. With the exception of the bored checkout lady, the people in every line are watching me and TJ.
He steps behind the cart and starts to push it back toward the soda aisle.
“Pickles?” I ask, practically jogging to keep up with him.
He glares at me, still leaning into my cart and pushing it toward the drinks.
“Two questions,” he says.
“Huh?”
“I’ve got two questions for you. One: Have you ever been to Costco before?”
I shake my head.
“Two: How much money do you have in your checking account?”
“I don’t know what happened,” I say. “I just deposited my paycheck.”
“Your paycheck?” he asks. “The hospital’s paying you?”
He asks as if it’
s absurd that I would be remunerated for my work there, since I’m useless.
“I got a job,” I grumble. “At night.”
“Hmm,” he mumbles. “And you just deposited the check?”
“Yeah, I mean, I have the receipt and everything,” I say, fumbling in my purse to get it.
He squints at me, concentrating. “It’s not available right away,” he says. “You know that, right?”
No, of course I don’t know that. But I can’t seem to find a way to answer.
He nods and looks down at my phone. “Check your bank,” he says. “If the money’s pending, you can’t spend it yet.”
I pull out my phone and look for my banking app.
“There’s free Wi-Fi here. You should use it.” He stops in front of the LaCroix display. “And while you’re figuring out how much money you have to spend, I’m gonna do you a favor and get rid of this insanely expensive water.”
“But my mom—”
“Yeah, my sister loves this shit too. I get it, but the generic brand is just as good, at a third of the price.” He’s heaving the second case of LaCroix off my cart. “She likes the aÇaÍ.” He shoves the cart forward to another drink display. “And the lime’s not bad.” He stops the cart and looks at me, still fumbling with my banking app. “Which do you want?”
I look up at the display, still trying to figure out what TJ is doing here, pushing my cart and recommending flavors of sparkling water. I’m feeling disoriented, wobbly. And the way it sounded when he called me Viv, it’s still there, sort of echoing through my head.
“Uh.” I name the first one I see. “Passionfruit?”
Oh sweet Jesus. And now I’m blushing.
His eyebrows raise almost imperceptibly. “Passionfruit it is,” he says. He grabs two cases at once and drops them onto my flatbed cart. “Come on.”
Flight Season Page 10
