The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

  “I guess things aren’t so scary when you really look at it,” I say.

  Jesús reaches his arms out. “It’s almost like I’m flying.”

  I stretch out my arms, just like Jesús, like a bird, and let the wind rush through my fingers. “From up here, it almost seems possible,” I say.

  “What does?” Moss asks.

  “Everything.” I smile at him, and he offers the same expression back to me.

  “It’s even better when you close your eyes,” Jesús says, flapping his arms.

  Color does the same, pumping her arms. “Happy New Year, Truth or Consequences!” she yells at the top of her lungs.

  We all holler back. “Happy New Year!” Our voices echo in the vacant desert.

  When we’re done flying, we all lie down in the palm of Jesus, our heads next to each other, looking up at the stars. And right now, somehow, time and borders don’t seem to exist. It isn’t a new year or a new day or a new minute. It just is. We just are.

  With all of us together, infinity forms out of nothing.

  Moss looks at me intently. Jesús is asleep on the other side of me. Somehow on the last night of Heaven, we’ve found our way into the palm of Touchdown Jesus instead.

  “Happy New Year, Esther,” he whispers, brushing my hair from my forehead with cool fingertips.

  “Happy New Year, Moss.”

  “Thank you for taking me to Mexico.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  And he says, “Am I? Welcome?”

  I lean in and kiss him. Our cold lips touch and melt together. And in this moment, I feel the past evaporate, even if only for just a moment.

  Love is like water. Sometimes it’s as solid as a kiss. Sometimes it’s as changing as the Rio Grande. And sometimes it’s as invisible as the steam that disappears from a cup of coffee.

  When I pull back from Moss’s lips, heat still connecting the air between us, he says, “I guess I got my answer.”

  29

  It’s January. School has started again, and I’m jealous that Color, Moss, Jesús, and Beth get to see each other every day, while I still lie in my empty pool when they’re not around.

  Color made over three thousand dollars at the garage sale, and the very next day, her mom put up the FOR SALE sign. Now Color sets brushes, rollers, and two containers of paint on the ground outside of Blockbuster.

  “This place needs to sell.” Color holds up a paintbrush. “It’s time to cover up Heaven.”

  “How can you be so calm about this?” I ask.

  Jesús pats me gently on the shoulder. “In the end, it’s just walls, mon chéri.”

  “And you know how I feel about walls,” Color says. “They crumble anyway.” That’s why she has glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. But I can tell by how she says it that Color’s as sad as I am. Some walls can hold you together when no one else does.

  Inside, everything is gone. The room looks so big and empty now. The concrete makes the air cold, and I shiver. Moss comes to stand close behind, offering his heat where mine has gone.

  Maybe it’s not as cold as it was a second ago.

  Only one thing remains. Color pulls back the curtain to the porn section. The wall of lost items is still here, so many words coloring the space. My throat starts to tighten at the thought of painting over all of this beauty. Where will it go?

  Color pops the lid on the paint can before anyone can say anything else. “My mom said I should use white paint, but I just couldn’t. As a society, we can’t be afraid of some color.” She has picked out a sky blue to paint over the walls.

  “Yes, but it’s easier when things are black-and-white,” Jesús says as he spreads sheets over the ground.

  “Who said life should be easy?” Color asks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I stand in front of my word. The nurse’s voice echoes in my head.

  Beth stands next to me. “How do you know she went to a family in California?”

  “My mom told me.”

  “Did she tell you anything else? Like what adoption agency she used?”

  “She said Tom made sure the baby was going to a good Christian family.” I turn to face Beth. “I hope she ended up with parents like yours, not mine.”

  But Beth seems to be thinking so hard that my compliment doesn’t even register. “And did you sign the birth certificate?”

  “No way,” I say. “My mom had power of attorney. She signed.”

  “What’s your mom’s first name again?”

  “Julie.”

  “Julie,” Beth repeats.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Julie signed the birth certificate.”

  “Yes,” I say, noticing Beth’s thinking face. “Why?”

  Beth snaps out of it. “I’m just wondering.”

  Color wraps an arm around my shoulder then, and says, “Will you do the honors, Esther?” A paintbrush drips sky-blue paint onto the sheets. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Every person in the room has helped me, so I take the paintbrush from Color, walk up to the wall, and say, “It’s not really going away. We’re just covering it up. It will always be here. For infinity.”

  “I love infinity,” Color says.

  And Jesús says, “Amen.”

  And Moss says, “Just do it, Esther.”

  Beth is concentrating on something in her head. She barely notices what’s going on.

  I know this moment isn’t a complex problem that needs to be solved. It just is. Sometimes you have to paint the walls and start over. Heaven isn’t what’s held on the walls anyway. It’s inside the person who holds the paintbrush.

  Beth tells me she doesn’t want her necklace back, to just paint it to the wall. When all is said and done, the only thing left in Heaven is Beth’s cross, permanently stuck to the wall painted the color of the sky.

  30

  Moss is supposed to be at HuggaMug, but Jesús said he would cover the shift by himself. Color is cleaning someone’s house. Beth is who knows where, and I’m supposed to be at the pet store. Instead, Moss’s feet are tangled with mine. His room is clean, like it always is, but his bed is messy, because we’ve been rolling around on it for the past hour, kissing.

  “Let’s go to Africa,” Moss says.

  “OK.”

  “Or Alaska. I want to go to Alaska.”

  “OK.” My head swims. I can’t see straight.

  “Anywhere with water. Have you ever noticed how moss doesn’t grow in the desert? For once in my life, I want to know what it feels like to be surrounded by water.”

  “OK,” I say dreamily. This is the most he’s ever talked.

  “Tell me another math joke.”

  “Why didn’t the quarter roll down the hill with the nickel?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it had more cents.”

  He laughs into my neck, and I melt into the bed in a pile of happiness.

  “Tell me another one.”

  “What do you call friends who love math?” I ask, my voice quivering from his whisper on my neck.

  “What?” Moss murmurs again. His breath is so warm, I think my skin might be on fire. Bliss surrounds me, covering me, waving over my head to my feet. I want him to kiss me again, to lay his body on top of mine and cover me, just like happiness is right now.

  “Algebros.”

  “Are we algebros?” he asks.

  “Nooooooooo.”

  “No?” He pulls back and looks at me.

  “I think we’re beyond algebros. You gave me a bathing suit for Christmas.”

  “You gave me Mexico,” he whispers. I glance at the map on his wall with all the red tacks. The single blue one stands out. I kiss Moss fiercely then. I’ve restrained myself up until this point, but my strength is waning.

  “OK,” he says, breathless. Moss licks his lips like he wants to taste what’s left of me there. “If we aren’t algebros—are we talking calculus? Trig?”

  “Shut up.” I pull him d
own on top of me.

  Moss’s fingers press into the vertebrae of my lower spine, like he’s playing keys on a piano, softly, investigating my body. His fingers climb higher up my back, and shivers cascade down my body. Holy lightheadedness.

  I kiss him more and pull him closer, my legs holding him to me. Moss’s fingers grace my hair.

  His lips feel good. Better than good. Amazing. Foreign. New. I never thought I’d like new, but new is good. New Mexico is good. I’m along for this ride wherever it goes. Somehow, I didn’t wilt and die in the desert, like I thought I would. I’ve figured out how to live.

  I pull Moss closer to me, my hands finding their way under his shirt. I don’t want to let go.

  “Esther?”

  And for the first time in my life, I say, “No questions.”

  There’s just so much more to explore. And if Moss can’t go to Alaska right now, maybe we can discover other things right here, right now, that are just as good, an adventure of body and being. Places you can only find when you stop and explore what’s right in front of you.

  I hold Moss to me and kiss him. Our chests press to each other, as if we’re folding together. My tongue explores every inch of his mouth. I need to taste what’s inside—all the words and thoughts he never says. They’re there, waiting for me. I just need to find my way through his maze.

  “Esther,” Moss says in my ear. “We can slow down.”

  But I kiss him again, because less talking, more making out. All I know right now is that this feels good.

  “Esther,” Moss says. “We need to stop.”

  “Why?” I say, breathless.

  Moss pulls away hastily. “Because I hear someone coming.”

  I scramble back from him, but there’s nowhere for me to hide. Moss’s bedroom door opens, and we face his mom, who’s holding a basket full of laundry.

  “Oh no.” She drops the basket and covers her eyes. Clothes fall all over the clean floor.

  “Jesus!” Moss shouts.

  “I didn’t think anyone was home,” she says, trying to pick up the clothes now scattered all over the floor, along with my pride. Her eyes stay half-closed.

  “Neither did we,” Moss says. I can feel my face exploding into dark shades of red.

  Moss’s mom tries to back out of the room, but her eyes still aren’t open all the way, and she runs into a wall. “Please proceed. Pretend I was never here.”

  Moss stands up and says, “Not likely.” He helps me off the bed but doesn’t let go of my hand. “We’ll leave.”

  “No! No, please stay. Love each other. There isn’t enough love in the world.” And now I see why Color loves her mom, because she sounds really nice and genuine. I would never say this to Color, but she sounds just like her.

  “It’s OK. Esther needs to get home anyway.”

  Moss’s mom looks at me warmly. “Esther . . . Your girlfriend?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Moss clarifies.

  Is that what we meant when we said we were “beyond algebros”? My stomach drops a bit at the word “girlfriend.” I look at Moss and respond with a simple, happy smile.

  “Yes, Esther. We’ve met once before. With the turkeys.” Moss’s mom puts the basket of laundry down and comes over to shake my hand. A hand that was just exploring her son’s body, intimately. I wave instead.

  “Hi, Ms. Jones,” I say. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Really, you don’t have to leave. I’ll go.” She moves toward the door, but Moss and I get there first, my hand still clasped tightly in his.

  “You do that enough,” Moss says. “It’s my turn.” And just like that, the Moss I first met, the boy who keeps his true thoughts inside and makes sharp comments, is back. I feel the sting of his words, but if his mom does, it doesn’t register on her face.

  “It’s good to see you again, Esther.”

  “You, too.”

  I don’t think I breathe fully until I’m outside of the house and the cooler air hits my skin. We both laugh, and I see Moss relax again. He pulls me back into his chest, the sunset painting his cheeks with an orange glow. I really do need to get home, but then his mouth is on mine and we’re kissing, and suddenly time doesn’t exist.

  And kissing feels OK.

  “More than algebros,” I say.

  “I think we’re a bit past that.”

  Moss kisses me again, but this time it isn’t rushed and anxious. I’m not reaching for anything but his lips. We come together in a tangle of tongues and breath.

  Moss cradles my face with his cool hands. He leaves them on my cheeks as I pull back, a cloud of warm breath between us. My face hurts from happiness.

  “I need to go.” I reluctantly grab my bike and notice the garage door is open. The old beat-up station wagon is gone.

  “Where’d it go?”

  “That thing was a piece of junk. It needed a new life.” He knocks up the kickstand on my bike. “Race you home?”

  He starts down his driveway as I jump on my bike to take off. Moss runs next to me until we get to my street, and then he has to turn in a different direction. Tom would kill me if he knew I was more than algebros with someone. I can’t risk it.

  I know I said I wasn’t going to lie anymore, but the more I try, the more it just seems inevitable. Especially when it comes to love.

  The pool is cold tonight. I’m wrapped in a blanket, holding the only picture I have of Amit and me.

  “Are you mad?” I ask him. He just keeps smiling.

  “Have you moved on, too?” Amit’s happiness isn’t helping.

  I inhale the cold air. “Is it wrong, what I did today?”

  Damn it, Amit. He just keeps looking at me like he loves me. But I can’t conjure him next to me anymore. Not even for a second will the past wave over me, so I can imagine touching Amit’s cowlick one last time. Lying here in the empty pool, it’s only me, even when the wind blows.

  I point to myself in the picture. “I gave that shirt away. And those pants.” I take another breath and feel tears roll down my cheek. “And you. I gave you away, Amit. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. But I’m not that girl anymore.” The tears come faster now. “I gave her away, too. I just didn’t want to fight anymore. Are you ever just tired of fighting?”

  Amit smiles.

  “I know. You’re not the fighting type.”

  I sound crazy right now, talking to a picture, but maybe my words will echo all the way to Ohio, and Amit will know it’s OK to move on.

  “We can be happy, right? The both of us, even if we’re not together?”

  Amit just keeps smiling.

  “What do you call a number that can’t keep still?” I ask him. I wish him to talk. To tell me this is fine. Amit would like Moss . . . eventually. “Come on. You’re the one who taught me this joke.”

  I lie down and look up at the stars.

  “A roamin’ numeral,” I say, hoping Amit hears my joke and laughs.

  31

  Mom has a brilliant idea, which she declares over a breakfast of scrambled eggs.

  “Tom, you should take Esther to work with you,” she says.

  “What?” he says.

  “What?” I say.

  “What?” Hannah says.

  “I’ve been reading about experiential education. It’s where kids learn outside the home by engaging in real-life opportunities.” Mom gestures to Tom. “Tom works at a bank.” Mom gestures to me. “Esther, you like numbers. It’ll be like a work-study thing. Like what Color does.”

  I drop my fork. It’s the first time Mom has said Color’s name in front of Tom. She always just refers to her as “the person from Happy Houses Cleaning Company.”

  “Color?” Tom asks. “What the heck does that mean?”

  Mom goes back to intently making eggs. “One of the girls who comes to clean the house is named Color,” she says nonchalantly.

  “That’s an extremely odd name,” Tom says.

  His tone reflec
ts his instant judgment. He already doesn’t like Color, just based on her name, because with Tom, abnormal is automatically bad. God, why does Tom suck so much?

  “Her name isn’t the point,” Mom says exasperatedly. Her tone reflects that she finds Tom exhausting, and I love her a little more. “The point is that Color does a work-study program through the high school. I thought maybe we could do something similar.”

  “You’re talking about the girl who tried to steal our stuff,” Hannah says. “She’s a klepto, Tom.”

  “No, she’s not,” I say sharply. Hannah is so annoying I can barely stand it. “I told her she could have it. You’re a liar, Hannah.” All this judging and name-calling has my blood at a boiling point. But oddly, when I call Hannah out on her truth, she goes back to her toast and actually shuts up for once. Satisfaction replaces anger. I knew I was right about her.

  “Color is not the focus of this conversation,” Mom says. “Esther is.”

  “Like always,” Hannah mumbles, but we all ignore her.

  “I’m confused,” Tom says. “You want me to take Esther to work with me to teach her about money? What is this—Mary Poppins?”

  Mom sets a plate of burned bacon down in front of us. “Not to teach her about money, but so Esther can see what you do, so she can engage in math in a real sense. Her math work is so over my head, she’s basically teaching herself. She needs adult interaction. Plus, she might want a similar job when she’s older.”

  “Not likely,” I whisper. No one seems to hear me.

  “She’s talented with numbers, Tom. It could be a good fit.”

  “Well, what do I get to do?” Hannah asks. “I’m talented.”

  “Not like Esther, honey.” Mom pats Hannah on the back. “What do you think, Tom?”

  He sits back in his seat and considers it, and I pray he says no. I actually ask God to do something for me. You’d think God would be receptive to my limited requests, since I rarely bother him for miracles and favors.

  “OK,” he says. “I’ll set it up for next week.”

  “Great!” Mom looks at me, excited. “I think this will be quite an experience.”

  And I say in my best British accent, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”