Dharma inhales deeply. Beth, Color, Moss, and Jesús look at me totally confused. Join the damn freaking psychic club! While we’re in Albuquerque, turkeys are melting in Truth or Consequences. We need to get home. Every second we’re here, I can feel myself getting closer to total destruction. With a jolt, Dharma grabs my hand again and brings it to her nose.
“Water,” Dharma says suddenly, still gazing off at God knows what. Literally, God only knows what. “You’re covered in water, Esther.” She sniffs my hand deeply again. “And . . .”
“What?” I beg.
More sniffing. “Salt. I smell salt.”
“Salt water? But we’re in the desert,” Jesús says. “The ocean is, like, a million miles away.”
Dharma and I link, like she’s in my brain and I’m in hers. The feeling that all people in the world are connected—every single one of us, by the skin that covers our bodies and the hearts that pump our blood and the love we wish we had—consumes me.
“This journey you’re on,” she says. “It ends at the ocean. There you will find what you’re looking for. But I think you already knew this, Esther.”
“The ocean?” Color says. “What’s at the ocean?”
Dharma lets go of my hand as I sit back on the couch. My entire body hums.
“The baby,” I whisper. “She’s in California.”
Jesús gasps. “It worked! She had the answer.” He gets out his notebook and a pen. “Dharma, I have this senior project I need to complete. Can you tell me what my truth is?”
21
Complex Math Problem: The square mileage of California is one of the highest in the country, which begs the question—Is it possible to find a needle in a haystack?
We have to save the turkeys. They’re sitting in Color’s garage defrosting. After our quick goodbyes, no one says anything for a long time as we drive, because what is there to say?
Once we’re miles outside of Albuquerque, the city barely a speck in the distance, Beth finally says, “You’re absolutely sure the baby went to a family in California?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you know where?” she asks.
I shake my head. “That’s all my mom would tell me.”
“California is a big state,” Moss offers.
I glare at him. He can take his offering and shove it up his ass.
“Sorry.” He sounds like he means it.
“But now we know what we have to do.” Color hasn’t lost her enthusiasm. For everything she’s been through in life—no dad, a mom who comes and goes on a whim, a brother who’s about as expressive as the moss that shares his name—she stays bright. “We need to go to California. Duh.”
“Yes!” Jesús echoes.
“I’m in,” Beth says without hesitation.
“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” Moss say. “I’d like that.”
Right. Duh. California. It took multiple lies just to get us to Albuquerque, a two-hour drive. A day trip. California is, like, at least a three-day trip. It may actually be a new-life trip, because I will be dead if Mom or Tom ever figure out I went there. To see the baby. A baby produced by having sex with a boy. Now we’re talking about running off to California. My life in New Mexico is not moving in the direction Tom had hoped. Turns out, there are problems everywhere. Problems are infinite.
“Sometimes the best answer we get is infinity,” Amit said once. “No matter how many times we rework the problem.”
Infinity is air through your fingers when all you want is a solid object.
Seeing Dharma today hasn’t solved anything. It’s only complicated my life.
It will take too many lies to get to California. Why do I always have to lie? Why can’t I be like Beth and Color and Jesús? Just say what I want and who I am and not have the world turn upside down.
“No,” I say. “No California.”
“But what about everything Dharma said?” Color counters. “Your journey. It ends at the ocean.”
“Maybe she’s wrong,” I say. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Beth says, “Well—”
But I cut her off, because my blood is pumping so hard, and my heart is heavy. I can’t keep lying and hurting people.
“No,” I say more emphatically. “No California. It’s over.”
I press my hand to my nose. It just smells like a hand. I can’t smell salt like Dharma could. And we’re over one thousand miles from California. But I knew that before. Now all I know is that it’s really out of reach. California feels farther than ever. I may know now that it’s where I need to go, but getting there hasn’t become any easier.
I want to scream. Why does it have to be so hard? Why do I constantly keep running into the same wall? That’s what crazy people do. They repeat the same action, expecting a different result. I love math, for Christ’s sake! I know one plus one equals two, and yet I keep hoping it will equal three.
I bow my head, and Jesús puts his hand on my knee.
“The truth sucks,” he says.
“Just think about it, Esther,” Color says. “You might change your mind.”
With all the effort I have left, I shake my head and then rest it heavily back on the seat.
Moss rolls his hands together next to me. His legs bounce like he’s anxious. He’s holding the rose quartz from Dharma.
When he notices me staring at it, he says, “She gave it to me.”
I wish what she gave me was that concrete. Moss’s legs just keep bouncing.
“Would you stop that?” I bark at him, and then instantly feel bad. I’m not the only person missing things. Color and Moss are missing a dad. Beth is missing her first love. And Jesús . . . I watch him as he lets the wind coming in the car cover him, his eyes a piece of the sun. He’s missing his truth.
“I’m sorry. I’m antsy. I need to go for a run,” Moss whispers. “You can come with me if you want.”
“Can’t,” I say. “Turkeys.”
It isn’t until we pull into Color’s driveway that anyone speaks again, Color talking first.
“Sweet Jesus,” she says.
Jesús is resting his head back on the seat with his eyes closed. “It’s pronounced Hey-soos.”
“No.” Color points to her driveway.
“Sweet Jesus,” Moss echoes, his face painted in awe.
“What is it?” I sit up straighter to see through the windshield. There’s a car in the driveway that I don’t recognize and a woman standing in the garage looking at all the frozen turkeys. My first thought is that we’re busted.
“Color, start talking in that British accent again and make this better,” Moss says.
The woman standing in the driveway has long black hair knotted into dreadlocks that hang clear down her back. Her jeans are ripped, and her white T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing her thin frame.
Color’s face is broken into pieces of happiness and pieces of dread. They fit together to make a collage of emotion and color.
In her perfect British accent, she says, “It’s our mum.”
22
I’m starting to think that maybe loving someone means lying to them. Mom found Tom on a Christian dating website back when we only went to church on Christmas and Easter, but Mom said our religious status was good enough, and Tom didn’t need to know all the details. She was lying.
I asked Amit not to tell anyone about the baby, and he did it for me. For love. Amit has been lying ever since.
Color looks at Moss and says, “Would you rather have a mom who was home all the time or a mom who’s barely ever home?”
Moss stares ahead and says, “You know the answer.”
And Color says, “Me, too.”
And for just a second, the car holds us together.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I whisper to Moss.
“That’s OK. I deserved it.”
“Esther, can you tell us a joke?” Color says.
“Why was the obtuse triangle always upse
t?”
“Why?” Color says.
“Because it was never right.”
Color laughs. So does Moss. And then suddenly Color and Moss are running down the driveway to lovingly hug their mom, who left them to scam money off their grandma in Denver, and Beth, Jesús, and I are left to marinate in the truth.
Love is lying.
And we need to be back at church in less than two hours. The turkeys are defrosting.
Jesús offers to help with the delivery. We leave Color and Moss standing in the driveway, dressed in lies that make people feel better.
We barely make it back to church on time. Jesús tells Beth just to drop him at HuggaMug to save time. He’ll get home just fine.
Pastor Rick stands in front of the church. I ask Beth why she doesn’t trust him.
“He’s too perfect,” she says. “Everyone has flaws. He works too hard to hide his.”
Complex Math Problem: If love is lying, does that mean that if I stop lying, I’ll never love again?
At home, I decide to go through the boxes of clothes in my closet. I finally need to let go of some things from my past. I need to be honest with myself. I will no longer hold on to anything that shouldn’t be held on to. Or at least, I’ll try.
Jesús works by himself on Thanksgiving, because people don’t take holidays from coffee, and Moss is spending the day with his mom. My mom suggests I get out for a bike ride before we spend the rest of the day eating, and I promptly ride to HuggaMug to see Jesús and to get an iced soy mocha frap. My lies are the only weight I intend to lose.
I bring Jesús an old apron I found in one of the boxes. My aunt Emily made Hannah and me matching ones for Christmas a few years ago. The edge is lined with white eyelets. Jesús loves it. He spins in a circle, modeling it as I sit on the couch inside the hut.
“For life’s many messes,” I say.
“Are you sure you don’t want it, mon chéri?” Jesús washes metal containers in the sink.
“An apron isn’t going to help my messes.”
His back is to me. “Are you still thinking about California?”
Always. Infinitely. Yes. Double yes. Those are my answers. I nod when he turns around.
Jesús wipes his hands on the apron. “Why don’t we go?”
My nodding becomes shaking. “I promised myself I’d stop lying.”
“How’s that going?”
“Well, I’m here with you instead of riding my bike, so not that well.” I put a finger in the air. “But from this moment on, I am not going to lie anymore. At least, not about things that matter.”
“Well, I’m not sure this apron is going to help with my messes, either, but at least I look good.” Jesús sits next to me and leans his head on my shoulder. “Can I ask you something? Since you’re not lying anymore. And this matters.”
“Sure.”
“Does God hate me?”
I sit back, completely surprised.
Jesús plays with the eyelet trimming on the apron. “You know God better than I do. You go to church and all.”
“I don’t know. He’s kind of given me the silent treatment ever since I committed a pretty big sin.” It’s Hannah who carries around a Bible, Hannah who loves going to church and singing in the choir and ogling over Pastor Rick, because he’s just awesome.
“It’s just . . . Why did he make some people gay?” Jesús asks. “Why couldn’t he just make me . . . normal?”
“What’s normal?” I ask.
“You know—penises that want to go into vaginas. It’s not that I would turn down a vagina but . . .” Jesús picks up the frothing wand. “I really want a penis.” And then he adds, “Other than mine.”
The frothing wand is covered in milk. Jesús licks it. I toss a couch pillow at him. He catches it and hugs it to his chest.
“Seriously, mon chéri, be honest—Does God hate me? It really seems like he does sometimes.”
Honestly, honesty is really overrated.
“First of all . . .” I take the pillow from Jesús. “You assume God is a man. God could be a unicorn.”
“A unicorn God would never hate gays.” Jesús puts his head back on my shoulder.
“OK, honestly?” I say.
“Yes,” Jesús says. “Honestly.”
“I don’t have the answer.”
He exhales, like that was what he expected. I know that disappointment.
“Since we’ve decided to be truthful right now, can I tell you something?” Jesús says.
“Sure,” I whisper into his hair.
“I think you’re crazy not to go to California. And I know you have a million questions and a million excuses, but she’s your kid, and you should at least see her.”
“There are reasons I can’t go.”
“No, mon chéri—they’re excuses. Take it from me. Love isn’t abundant. If there were people out in the world who could love me, and they had a way of finding me, I’d want them to do it.”
Jesús and I sink into the couch and exhale together.
“Make sure to write that down as research for your senior statement,” I say.
“Which part?”
“Love isn’t abundant.”
“Damn . . .” Jesús says. “This telling the truth stuff is really overrated.”
The bell rings, announcing that a car has pulled up, and Jesús jumps to action. I need to get home soon. Mom will want help mashing the potatoes.
“Welcome to HuggaMug; let me help you today,” Jesús says out the window. He glances back at me and winks. I gesture toward the bathroom.
I pee quickly and wash my hands, but can’t find any towels. I search the cabinet under the sink, but no luck in the paper-towel department. I do find a Dopp kit filled with shaving cream, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and hair gel. That’s odd. I pick up the shaving cream.
Maybe it’s where Moss shaves his head, which is super gross.
When I come out of the bathroom with wet hands, Jesús offers me his apron to dry them. He’s always helping other people.
“Is your family doing anything fun for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
But the bell dings and another car pulls up. Jesús says, “Welcome to HuggaMug; let me help you today.”
Hannah’s Bible is on the coffee table. I lean against the wall, gnawing on my lip.
“You’re pregnant?” Hannah’s younger voice echoes in my ears. I imagine her sitting on the love seat that occupies our spacious living room in New Mexico. It looks small for the room here, but in Ohio we had less space, and a love seat nestled perfectly into our lives.
As I sit on the too-small couch, my memory of Hannah in eighth grade settles in next to me.
She found out I was pregnant when she overheard an eighth-grade teacher gossiping about it with another teacher. That’s the kind of town we lived in—words moved quicker than wind and destroyed things faster than tornadoes.
“You’ve had sex?” she said. “With who?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You’re not going to tell me? But you always promised you’d tell me everything,” she said, her voice weak.
“Well, I lied,” I said. Remembering that makes me want to throw up.
“How could you not tell me?” Hannah trailed off, broken into pieces. “You promised . . .”
“Just leave me alone.”
I muster the courage to look at the space next to me on the love seat, but no one is there. Hannah’s Bible rests on the table, some sort of symbol of our blocked relationship. Hannah uses it as a shield, a way to defend herself against me. To push me away. Is that why it was written in the first place? To keep the outsiders out and the believers in? But if no one else is telling the truth, why should I believe what’s in there, anyway? If love is lying, then maybe what’s written in the Bible is just one big lie, masquerading as love.
“What are you doing?” Hannah’s voice is now deeper, and serious. An older, tanner version of my sister shows herself, her cantaloupe chest
puffed out proudly. The Hannah I had just remembered felt uncomfortable about her large breasts and wore sports bras to squash them down. Not anymore. I don’t know if it’s the clothes that hug her body in all the right places, or her straight posture, or the fact that she is growing older and further away from me, but the distance between us feels nearly infinite. I nonchalantly sit back on the love seat, knowing she won’t sit next to me, and watching her as she watches me, skeptically.
I caught her and Peter holding hands in choir. Like, the whole practice. Maybe caught isn’t the right word so much as noticed, like everyone else did. It was pretty obvious.
She grabs the Bible and hugs it to herself. “Did you look at this?”
“No,” I say, annoyed that she’s annoyed. What if I had? That’s the question I want to spit at Hannah. What’s so wrong with me looking at her precious book?
“Good.”
Hannah moves to leave, but I say, “What’s going on with you and Peter?”
She whips around. “Now, you want to be girlfriends? You want me to tell you all my secrets? Pardon me as I laugh.” And then she does that condescending fake laugh thing, and I regret asking.
“Forget it.” I need to get out of here.
Hannah’s older voice, a reminder that time never moves backward, trails after me, down the hallway, as I disappear into my room. “Just remember, Esther—who walked away first?”
Because Hannah follows orders, she listened to me all those months ago when I told her to leave me alone. I guess I shouldn’t be mad it’s lasted this long. I asked for it.
23
Color pushes the vacuum back and forth in my room, robotically. The spark that twinkles in her eyes most days is dim today. If I could take all the stars from my ceiling and give that light back to her, I would. I try to wait patiently for her to talk. When she’s vacuumed the same strip of carpet ten times, Color finally says, “My mom’s selling the Blockbuster. That’s why she’s home.”
“What?” I say too harshly.
Color struggles to hold back tears. “We need the money, and she was only holding on to the Blockbuster for me.” She stops vacuuming. “It’s like the end of an era, and I knew it couldn’t last because nothing lasts—that’s the nature of life—but the Blockbuster is Heaven, so I just thought maybe it would be different this time.”
The Infinite Pieces of Us Page 11
