Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  I breathe a sigh of relief as he walks away from me. Then a bigger sigh when I notice that Coach Ortiz is gone. A second later, Claudia bounds toward me, her pants, like mine, decorated with streaks of dirt. (“A softball player’s best accessory,” Mom always calls it.)

  “Lauren and Tabitha want to go out for ice cream!” she exclaims. “Join us?” Her voice is more tentative than usual, like I did scare her off during math class earlier.

  My first instinct is to say no. Now that I’m not focused on practice anymore, I keep thinking about Mom. What if Mom has been doing so well at Pine Knolls that they discharged her this morning, while I was at school?

  What if Mom meant it when she said she was going to change, and she worked so hard all weekend that she’s waiting at home? She’s sitting next to Dad on the couch, him complaining about some rude person on the other end of a sales call and her talking about how she never ever wants another drink.

  Ever.

  She could be there, like she’s supposed to be.

  Deep down, I know that’s not true. I know that there’s no happy fairy tale waiting for me at home. That fairy tales are filled with monsters and missing mothers anyway.

  That’s why my second instinct is to say yes. Because if I don’t go home yet, that fake “happily ever after” can still exist in my mind. Until I see otherwise, Mom could be there, frolicking in a field with talking animals.

  “Totally! I’d love to come.” I sling an arm around Claudia and give her my best apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about earlier, too. Like I said, I was tired. But ice cream will definitely wake me up.” I make an exaggeratedly hyper face. “Sugar rush time!”

  Then I run ahead of my best friend, toward the dirt path through the woods leading to the ice cream stand.

  This afternoon is exactly what I needed. First practice, then my favorite dessert, followed by walking home with Claudia so I can tell her the truth.

  Perfect.

  Eleven

  “That was, by far, the best ice cream sundae I’ve ever had in my life.” I clutch my stomach and pretend I’m about to fall over. “I’m going to explode.”

  Claudia pokes me like I’m the Pillsbury Doughboy, but instead of giggling, I let out a moan. “Good thing you don’t like cherries,” she says. “That would have put you over the top. Also, I’m going to say it again—who doesn’t like cherries? They’re the best fruit ever.”

  I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “No way. They taste way too sweet.” I point my finger at her face. “I’ll never understand how you like onions. They taste gross and they make you cry. Can’t you see that nature is telling you to stay away?”

  “Well, I guess I’m just a rebel.” Claudia shakes her head and her long brown hair swishes around her shoulders. Claudia has the best hair ever, even though she complains all the time about how curly it is. I’d swap my straight, fine, limp, totally blah blond hair for her lion’s mane any day. Last year, when my cousin Susanna got married, I spent almost an hour sitting in the hairdresser’s chair, making small talk about the weather and my grades while she curled my hair. It looked totally cute. Until fifteen minutes later, when the curls came out and my hair was as straight as ever.

  Not fair at all.

  “Oh yeah, you’re totally a rebel.” I poke her back. “Miss Won’t Answer a Question Without Raising Her Hand in Class.”

  “I don’t want to get in trouble!” Claudia exclaims. “It’s one of the class rules.”

  I nod authoritatively. “See? You’re the anti-rebel.”

  “Fiiiiine.” Claudia drags out the word, but she still gives me a silly smile. “You’re my partner in crime, though. Well, anti-crime.”

  I smile back, but mine definitely isn’t a silly one. Because even though Claudia is right that I’m a total rule follower (I never take even one step outside the “designated outdoor lunch zone” in the school courtyard), today I don’t feel that way.

  Today, when the girls invited me out for ice cream, I didn’t text Dad to tell him where I was going, even though I know I’m supposed to.

  Today, I figure it’s okay to break the rules. After all, Mom has barely followed any family rules in the past year. If she can do it, then so can I.

  I still stuff down a twinge of guilt at the thought of Dad sitting at home, waiting and worrying. Because I know that Mom hasn’t come home early. I know my imagination is making up its own fairy tale.

  I just have a little twinge of guilt, though, and there’s so much other stuff hanging out in my brain that I can easily hide it. Like one more box in a dusty attic I’m trying to forget about.

  I do need to take care of one of those boxes, though. I take a deep breath and turn toward Claudia, the words already forming in my mind: So, remember how I told you that my mom was on a business trip? That’s not actually what’s going on …

  I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Claudia starts talking.

  “Hey, Veronica?”

  “Yeah?” I’m still busy thinking of how I want to disclose the truth.

  “Um, can we talk?”

  “Sure, yeah.” I wave at the cloudless blue sky above us and the playground on the other side of the street, the one where we met when we were three years old and our parents brought us to playgroup there. “We are talking.”

  “No, like I mean seriously talk.”

  “Oh.” I slow to a stop, then turn to face Claudia. Does she already know what’s going on? My stomach both drops and rises thinking about it, like my entire body is a roller coaster.

  “Cool.” Claudia has stopped, too. “So, ah…” Her voice trails off, and she tilts her head back to stare at that cloudless blue sky. “My mom and dad are separating.”

  She’s still not meeting my eyes.

  “They told us this morning,” she says. “Me and Jamie, I mean. Over breakfast. I was eating my eggs like normal and BAM!” Claudia finally looks at me. There are tears in her eyes. “Dad’s moving into a hotel room until he can find an apartment. Mom was crying when I left for school.”

  I reach out and grab her hand. I squeeze it hard, trying to send my best friend love through our clasped fingers.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Claudia sniffles. “What if I did something to make them hate each other?” Her lips tremble, and even with her bright pink sneakers and beaded rainbow bracelet, my best friend looks muted, like she’s a color picture morphed into black and white.

  “You didn’t do anything,” I say softly, then reach out for a hug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  It’s the question I wish Mom and Dad had asked me the other day, when they sat me down for my own life-altering news. I would have answered with a no, of course, but it would have been nice if they asked. Because sometimes, talking just makes things worse. Sometimes it helps to block out the world for awhile, to retreat into a cocoon of safety and spend a bit more time as a caterpillar.

  Because as awesome as being a butterfly seems, change isn’t always a good thing.

  “Not now.” Claudia shakes her head. “Can we just … walk? Maybe swing?” She points toward the playground, where two swings sit empty.

  I smile. “Definitely!”

  We walk over and sit down on the sun-warmed swings. Claudia doesn’t need to know about my mom’s troubles. That’s too much stress for one person to deal with. Plus, Mom will be better soon anyway, so it’s no big deal if I keep this little bit of information from Claudia.

  I tilt my head back, kick my feet up, and gaze at the sky.

  Then I fly into the cloudless world above me.

  Twelve

  “Dad?” I poke my head into the kitchen, but it’s empty. No work stuff spread out on the table, no Ritz cracker crumb–covered plate left on the sink next to the counter. That’s Dad’s usual afternoon snack: crackers spread with creamy peanut butter. He says it was his favorite as a kid, and that he never outgrew it. Mom always complains that he never outgrew forgetting to put his plate in dishwasher, too.
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br />   The counter is clean, though, as wiped down and empty as it was when I left for school this morning. Dad’s slippers are lined up next to the front door and all I can hear is the high school kid next door playing basketball.

  I peek into the family room and Dad’s office, but there’s no one there. Mom and Dad’s room is empty, too. It feels emptier than usual. While Dad’s side of the bed is rumpled, the covers half pulled up and the pillow flattened with its usual head indentation, Mom’s side of the bed is untouched. The pillow is plump and fluffy, the bedcovers so straight that I doubt Dad even rolled over in his sleep.

  It’s as if there’s a neon sign hanging above the bed, blaring out an awful message: YOUR MOTHER DOES NOT SLEEP HERE ANYMORE.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, then spin around and pull the door closed behind me.

  “Dad?” I call again. Dad works from home selling some kind of special computer part, but he’s usually done by now. Maybe he’s doing yard work? I almost smile at the thought. Dad is not the get-down-in-the-dirt-and-work-with-his-hands kind of guy. Mom’s the one with the green thumb. Whenever our neighbor Mrs. Thoren walks her dogs down our street, she always tells Mom that we have the best flowers in town.

  I wonder what our garden will look like this year.

  I head back into the kitchen and push all the thoughts of dying plants and wilting flowers out of my mind. That’s when I see the piece of paper on the refrigerator, held up by the magnet shaped like a narwhal, my absolute favorite animal when I was a kid. (Now, too, actually. It’s like a unicorn but real!)

  Veronica—

  I had to meet with someone. I’ll hopefully be back before dinner, but you can make a peanut butter sandwich if I’m late.

  Love, Dad

  “Oh yay. Another peanut butter sandwich,” I mutter. It’s what we had for dinner last night. And what I had for lunch today. Usually Dad’s pretty good about making dinner—he’s a better cook than Mom—but he told me he wasn’t in the mood last night. And this morning he realized he hadn’t been to the supermarket in a few days.

  Which basically means that I’m half peanut butter sandwich, half human girl right now.

  It’s already six thirty, but I’m definitely not hungry after that huge sundae. So there’s no reason for me to be upset at Dad for being late. He’s a grown adult. He’s allowed to go places and meet people.

  It’s not like I’m afraid of being home alone, either.

  I just … well, I’m mad he wasn’t here to notice my little act of rebellion.

  What kind of meeting is Dad at, anyway? Shouldn’t he realize that this is a highly sensitive time and he should be here for his traumatized daughter? Not that I am traumatized, but what if I was? Who could be more important than me?

  Unless …

  I think back to the strict look on Ms. Ito’s face when she told us that Mom couldn’t have visitors for a whole month.

  “This is of the utmost importance,” she’d told us, her mouth all pinched, her eyes narrow. “Our patients need to separate themselves from their home environment. They need a break to concentrate on their healing and recovery. That means no phone calls, no emails, and no texts.”

  It felt like a tether had been connecting Dad and me to Mom, and Ms. Ito had snipped it with a pair of heavy-duty shears.

  SNIP!

  But what if Dad decided to go back there anyway? Without me? I clench my hands together so tightly that the blood drains from my fingers. How could he do that?

  “It’s not fair,” I whisper.

  “What’s not fair?” Dad’s voice makes me jump, and I whirl around, my heart pounding.

  “You scared me!” Then I narrow my eyes. “Where were you?”

  Dad blinks. “Out.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Didn’t you read my note?”

  “I did,” I say slowly. “It said you had a meeting. Who was it with?” I lean back against the kitchen counter and pretend to be all casual, like his answer doesn’t matter at all. Like him visiting Mom wouldn’t be the biggest betrayal ever—well, besides Mom’s.

  “No one you know.” Dad smiles, but it looks too big. Too bright, like someone turned the lights up too high.

  “Okaaaaay.” I realize that I’m tapping my fingers against the counter way too fast and force myself to stop. “Are you sure? I know a lot of people.”

  Dad grins. “I’m sure you do, honey.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “Not this person, though. Don’t worry.” He walks over to the cabinet and pulls out his trusty box of Ritz crackers. “How was school today?”

  “Fine.” I watch Dad get out the jar of peanut butter, then a knife, a plate, and two napkins. (At least he knows he’s too messy for just one.)

  “Great!” Slowly and meticulously, Dad takes out eight crackers, one by one, then adds a thick layer of peanut butter to each. He arranges them on a plate, stuffs the napkins under his arm, and turns to face me. “I’m heading to my office for a bit.”

  “Oh.” My mind whirls about for a way to keep him here longer. Maybe he was with Mom and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he really does care about my first few days without Mom but is afraid to ask. Maybe he doesn’t care at all.

  But all I know right now is that him walking away isn’t what’s going to help us. That maybe Mom is away, but at least we’re here. At least we can (maybe) talk and laugh and have fun. Shine a little sunshine on the fog that’s descended on our house.

  “Hey, Dad?” He arches an eyebrow. “Can you play catch with me in the yard for a bit? Before work?”

  “Oh, honey.” Dad gestures in the direction of his office. “I have a bunch of calls to make. Let’s do it this weekend, okay? Maybe you could practice for chorus now? You don’t need me for that, right?”

  The fog gets a bit heavier, and I let out a huge sigh. “Dad. I can’t keep doing chorus this spring, remember? I mean, if I make the All-Star team.”

  Dad shakes his head like he’s clearing out a bunch of cobwebs. “Oh, right. That’s a bummer, huh?”

  “Yup.” I look at my feet. It is a bummer. It’s why I haven’t talked about it much with Dad or Mom. Or anyone else really. I really like chorus. I liked learning that I really can hit the high notes and that I am good enough to get a few solos. That softball isn’t the only “thing” I am talented at.

  It’s my main “thing,” though, and that’s just the way it is. I’ll get over it. I’ll be okay.

  “Well, then we’ll practice later. Okay?” Dad doesn’t wait for an answer before padding out of the kitchen and across the house. A few seconds later, I hear the office door click shut.

  “Okay,” I whisper to the empty kitchen, the only witnesses the open Ritz cracker box and a dirty knife.

  Thirteen

  When I wake up the next morning, it feels like my head is a cymbal and some overly enthusiastic drum player has taken all their aggression out on me.

  “Arrgggh.” I grimace and roll over in bed, pulling my pillow over my head. Even with my blinds down, the sun is still streaming through my window. I should ask Mom and Dad if we can invest in those blackout shades Tabitha has in her room. She’s supersensitive to light and noise when she’s falling asleep at night. It’s why she’s never been to one of our sleepovers. The first time she tried, Lauren’s snoring kept her up all night.

  (To be honest, Lauren’s snoring would keep anyone up all night.)

  I don’t usually get headaches. Not like Dad, who complains a few times a month about his migraines. He has to hole up in his bedroom and shut off all the lights, a damp washcloth over his eyes. Even me whispering to him makes him clench his teeth in pain.

  Dad once warned me that I could “age into” migraines, but I doubt that’s what this is, even if the idea of a wet washcloth does sound good right about now. No, it’s the nonstop crying I did last night that’s making my head feel like one of those pictures of explosions in Lauren’s favorite comic books.

  After Dad retreated to his office and I had to squelch the desire to text Mom fo
r advice on what to do if I see Coach Ortiz again, I could only manage about ten minutes of some random Netflix movie before I started crying.

  (There’s only so much of a “heartwarming mother-daughter relationship” storyline you can watch before you feel like the movie industry is directly targeting you.)

  After a few minutes, I finally opened my eyes. I was still flopped on my stomach, so all I had was a direct view of my sheets, my favorite ones, light blue with softballs all over them.

  “Live softball and dream softball, right?” Mom had said when we bought them, shaking her head in acceptance after I’d rejected the “oh so pretty” pink floral sheets she’d suggested.

  (I am not a pink floral kind of girl.)

  The memory of Mom made me cry even harder. Which means that this morning, in addition to my headache, my face is probably a splotchy mess.

  At least the thought of getting out of the house makes me feel a bit better, even though it does absolutely nothing for my head. And Tylenol will help me there. I roll over and grab my phone from my nightstand, then practically shriek out loud when I see the time.

  8:02!

  The bus will be here in ten minutes! Why didn’t Mom wake me—

  Oh. Duh. The Mom-sized hole that had tunneled its way into our house gets a few inches deeper. This one is a literal Mom-sized hole. The figurative one has been here for awhile now.

  Dad had to wake me up yesterday, after I’d pressed snooze on my alarm clock three times, then shut it off entirely. I’m not the best early riser, and both my parents know that. It’s why even though I’m eleven years old, they still wake me up for school. It’s why they tell me that now that I’m older, I need to “take responsibility” and “be more mature,” but they still stomp their way into my bedroom every morning, allowing for just enough time for me to take a quick shower, get dressed, and grab a banana and a Nutri-Grain bar on my way out the door.

  “If you wanted a proper breakfast, you’ll get yourself up on time,” Mom always says.