Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

  I laughed as he stood and brushed the crumbs off himself. “Anyway,” I said, “I did love it. The movie.”

  “I’m glad.” He picked up the remote and flipped off the TV. “We should probably head up,” he said.

  I felt a stab of regret. I wasn’t ready to end our evening.

  I followed him into the kitchen with our empty beer bottles. I rinsed them and set them quietly in the recycling bin as he dumped the last of the popcorn into the garbage, then flicked off the kitchen light.

  In the guest room upstairs — my old bedroom — I checked my phone for the first time the whole day. Lots of frantic question marks from Gab and Leila. And a string of messages from my mother, some angry, some apologetic, and some desperate.

  It was weirdly gratifying. She was having feelings about me. Suddenly I mattered.

  Luke appeared in the doorway in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. “It’s unreal that you’re here.” He came over and sat next to me on the bed. “Is it really you? Are you really here?”

  “It’s really me. I’m really here.” He smelled like soap and toothpaste.

  “Are you tired? Or do you feel like talking more?”

  “I feel like I’ll never be finished talking to you.”

  He smiled — those pretty teeth, so close. “Should we go to my room?” He shrugged. “That’s where the music is.”

  “Sure,” I said slowly. “Maybe I’ll change first?”

  “Okay. You know where to find me.” He stood and disappeared down the hall.

  My pajamas, ugh. Gray fleece bottoms and a faded baseball shirt with a peeling number eighteen on the front. They were comfortable — a fact that offered little comfort now. Still, what was I supposed to wear for this? Lingerie? Clearly not.

  I quietly closed the door to change. I hesitated after I pulled off my shirt. To bra or not to bra? That was the question. Obviously I slept without a bra on, but my chest in the fairly snug, faded shirt . . . Yeah, no. The bra stayed on.

  I stopped in the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, then continued on to Luke’s room. When I tapped on his door, which was open, he didn’t respond. He was lying on his bed with headphones on, hands behind his head.

  Christ. His stomach . . . His shirt had ridden up, and in the dim light of a table lamp, I could just make out the faint whisper of hair trailing down from his belly button. He was wearing boxers — the elastic peeked above the top of his pajama bottoms. I stared at the spot, transfixed, my heart rate suddenly skyrocketing.

  He glanced up and smiled when he noticed me there and pulled off his headphones. He propped his pillow up against the headboard and patted the spot in front of it, scooting out of the way. “Sit.”

  On the bed? With you?

  I edged my way inside and swung the door partially closed behind me, which I hoped was okay. It seemed wrong wide open, but wrong closed tight, too.

  I sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against his pillow. He sat halfway down the bed, leaning his back against the wall.

  “So did you always live in this house?” I asked, grasping for something to say.

  “Almost always,” he said. “It was my grandparents’ house. My parents bought it when I was three, when my grandparents decided to downsize. They bought two condos — one here and one in Florida, for the winters.”

  “Are they alive still?” I unfolded one leg, positioning my foot in front of his feet. If he decided to straighten his legs, we’d have a traffic situation.

  He nodded. “Both of them. That’s my father’s side. My mother’s parents have both passed.”

  I didn’t want to conflate thoughts of death with his mother. “Did I ever meet them?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah! They were here a lot when we were little. And we sometimes stayed with them for the weekend or for an overnight.”

  More people who had taken care of me.

  “You know, it’s meant everything to my mom, seeing you again.” He nudged my foot with his.

  I stared at my feet, my self-styled toenails painted a rich shade of purple called, interestingly enough, Sole Mate. “It’s meant everything to me, too,” I said. Our eyes met. “I can’t thank you enough for making this happen. For both of us. I mean, for both her and me.”

  “Well. It was for me, too,” he said softly, nudging my foot again. He grinned, suddenly all mischief. “Are you still ticklish?”

  “I’ll never tell,” I said, yanking my foot away and crossing my arms.

  “Ha! Look at your defensive posture. Asked and answered.” He scooted off the bed. “Let me put on some music. What do you feel like?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  He messed with his phone over at his dresser. “Let’s go with the mellow acoustic list.” When the music started, he went over and closed the door all the way. He caught my eye. “Don’t want to wake them up,” he explained.

  “Right.”

  He hesitated. “I can open it, if you’d feel more —”

  “No, don’t be silly. It’s fine — keep it closed.”

  As if. As if he’d try something, as if he’d make a romantic advance.

  But God help me, my stomach fluttered at the thought.

  We talked about everything. Our parents, our childhoods, our friends, school . . . we gradually worked our way to the subject of girlfriends and boyfriends. He asked if I’d had many boyfriends, and I admitted I hadn’t. He, on the other hand, had had a lot of girlfriends, three of whom had lasted longer than a year, one of whom had lasted over two years. Four-plus years of monogamy = a lot of sex, I couldn’t help thinking. He must be so very good at it. Why was I even thinking about this?

  I asked about his last girlfriend, Makayla, who apparently he had been with until last fall. “Why’d you break up?”

  He sighed. “Long story.”

  “Let me guess: she wanted you to commit and you weren’t ready.”

  He gave a short laugh. “No, it wasn’t like that at all. She broke up with me.”

  Was she crazy? Who’d break up with Luke? “That had to hurt. After two years.”

  “Yeah. Well. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. I think my mom was more upset than I was. She had us married off in her mind.”

  Something flared in me at his words. Was it jealousy? “She liked her?”

  He nodded. “She did. She does. But Makayla . . . she’s ambitious. And she should be — she’s a very accomplished violinist.”

  Of course.

  “She wants to spend a couple of years in Europe after we graduate, to have adventures. And I don’t feel I can do that right now. So . . . we just don’t want the same things. And, being the logical girl she is, she didn’t think we should stay together.”

  I picked at the pilling on my pajama pants. “Did you want to stay together?”

  He chewed on his lip. “Yes and no. I mean, I didn’t want to break up. But she’s right — it probably wouldn’t have worked out. And if you can envision that it’s going to end at some point, sooner’s better than later, right?”

  “Probably. But I’m sorry you went through that.” I rotated so I was sitting next to him, leaning against the wall instead of the headboard. And leaning a little on him. He turned to look at me. I’m sure he didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was doing, either. I was sleep-deprived — it was after two — and I’d had a couple of beers.

  “You know,” he said, giving me a serious look. “I used to change your diapers.”

  I was so jarred that I struggled to form words. My diapers? The sudden clarity of all the ways he really saw me as a kid sister hit me hard. I covered my face. “Did you really?” I asked through my hands.

  He laughed softly. “Well, I mean, I helped. Mostly Mom cleaned you up, and I got to fasten the diaper. Oh, and if it was a poopy one, I was out of there.”

  I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes. Deep breaths. The idea of him not only seeing my nethers, but seeing them smeared with poop . . . if there were
a hole I could slip into and disappear forever, I would have leapt without a moment’s hesitation. “Good news,” I said, unable to meet his gaze. “I’m completely house-trained now.”

  He laughed. “Listen.” He gestured with his eyes toward the speaker. A song was starting. “Great Lake Swimmers. This one’s called ‘The Man with No Skin.’ They recorded it in a silo.”

  Grateful for the shift in focus, I leaned back and listened to the music. So mellow and melancholy. So dreamy . . .

  I must have dozed off, because suddenly Luke was nudging my shoulder and whispering my name.

  “Huh?” I blinked. “Oh — sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Great Lake Swimmers’ll do that.”

  I turned my face up to his. I was hazy, not quite in my right mind . . . I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth. I wanted to kiss him. He was so close, so fucking close.

  “I don’t want to say good night,” I said softly.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he reminded me. “Breakfast. More family time.”

  And then you’ll take me home. I frowned at the thought — I couldn’t help it. Everything that meant: dealing with my mom. School. Camping at Gab’s. No Luke.

  “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  I closed my eyes. “Just . . . gonna miss you.”

  He bumped my shoulder with his. “We’ll see each other,” he said. “Come on, cheer up. I can’t sleep if you’re down the hallway all sad.”

  “Okay,” I said, pulling myself off the bed. The ache I was getting from not being able to get close enough with him was unbearable.

  He turned down the music and opened the door, and we crept down the dark hallway quietly. There was no light under the door in his parents’ room. I hoped that meant they were resting peacefully.

  When I went into my room, Luke paused in the doorway, his face lit amber from the little lamp by my bed. “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.” He held up a hand in a wave.

  Not the good night I wanted. I gave him an exaggerated wave back.

  “Don’t mock me,” he said, laughing. “Wake me up if you’re up before me. Unless it’s, like, four a.m.” He gave me a pointed look. “You used to holler from your crib before the sun was even up.”

  “Probably wondering where the hell my breakfast was.”

  He laughed loudly, then quickly covered his mouth and ducked his head. He leaned into the hall to glance toward his parents’ room. He turned back to me, eyes wide. “You’re trouble,” he whispered.

  I shrugged. “Never claimed I wasn’t.”

  “That’s true, you didn’t.” He raised his eyebrows. “Okay. G’night.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it tight.

  “What?”

  I shook my head, horrified at myself. I had almost told him I loved him! I was off the rails. Too much fatigue, too much beer, too much something.

  “What?” He tilted his head and took a step closer.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He looked confused, almost hurt.

  I laid a hand over my eyes, weighing my options: confess to my over-the-top thoughts or leave him feeling hurt. “I was going to tell you . . .”

  “What?” he prompted when I petered out. “What is it?”

  “I was going to say I love you,” I blurted. I didn’t dare look at him. “I mean, I think I remember loving you. Or maybe I just know somewhere inside that I did love you?” I winced, sure I’d finally gone too far, and peeked out through my fingers. “Psycho, right?”

  He stared at me, which could have meant anything and therefore filled me with terror. I lifted my other hand to better hide my face.

  “Come here, you goon.” He pulled me into a hug. “I love you, too.”

  I sighed with relief and hugged him back. His arms were the warmest, best place I’d ever been.

  He pulled back long before I was ready, but he did plant a kiss on the top of my head. It was a sweet gesture, very brotherly. I was glad he did it. It seemed correct, and good, and promising.

  And yet . . . When he was gone, I climbed into bed and lay there, wide awake, for most of what remained of the night, trying — and failing — to control the unchaste direction of my thoughts.

  In the morning, Luke was in the bathroom when I went to see if he was up, so no one got to wake anyone up. I could hear Buddy and Mima downstairs in the kitchen, clanking and clattering. The aromas of bacon and coffee wafted up.

  We had a simple breakfast, watched some more videos — a few of which featured Luke’s grandparents, which was especially surreal: I’d had grandparents! Doting, white-haired grandparents! We talked some, but the energy was low, maybe stemming from the fact that Mima clearly was exhausted and weak. I felt guilty — I was sure I was the reason she was so spent.

  I had hoped to spend the afternoon alone with Luke, maybe go to the movies or out to dinner, but he told me he was in the weeds with homework. Well. So was I, but I would have blown it off to spend time with him. Which told me that the scale of feelings was probably tipped.

  Around noon, I gathered my things and hugged Mima and Buddy good-bye, and Luke and I headed out. He was quiet, and I wondered why. Did he wish we had more time together, too? Did he feel weird about last night? Was he worried about Mima? What was I thinking — of course he was worried about Mima! Guilt nudged at me. The point of this visit had been for me to meet Mima, and all I could think about was Luke.

  The sun shone brightly, sending the temperature soaring up near fifty. I rolled down the window for a moment, just to breathe the air. It woke me up, whipping my face and flinging my hair in all directions. It smelled like change, like new things. Spring was coming — fresh and watery and full of hope.

  In that moment, I realized, with some surprise, that I didn’t want to go to Gab’s house.

  I wanted to go home.

  I was still angry with my mom, but home, however imperfect, was home. And I felt a pull to return to it. Despite my resentment. Despite my anger. I had upset my mother, and even though I thought she deserved it, even though it gave me satisfaction in the moment, I couldn’t live that way. For better or for worse, she was my mother. And of all the possible lessons I might take away from having found the Margolises, one stood out. Life is short.

  “You sure?” Luke asked when I told him to drop me off at home. He glanced over. “You’ll be okay?”

  I nodded. His concern for me was something I felt in my chest, in my core, a gratitude that almost seared. He steered with his left hand, his right fingers tapping out a rhythm on his leg. I wanted to reach over and lay my hand on his, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t right.

  “So this is where you live,” he said, pulling into the driveway. “It’s different from what I pictured.”

  I snorted. “I’m sure it is. What did you picture?”

  He shifted the car into Park. “I don’t know. Something beautiful, I guess.” He looked flustered. “I mean, not that it isn’t nice.”

  I smiled. “No worries.”

  “Hey,” he said, shifting toward me, “do you think next month you could come for another visit?”

  Next month? “Of course,” I said. I hesitated. “I could come sooner, if that would be better.” It wasn’t just that I didn’t know Mima’s exact prognosis. It was that next month was a thousand years away. I didn’t want to not see them for a month. Especially Luke.

  He gave me a warm smile. “I really appreciate that. But between classes and rehearsals, I don’t have much free time over the next few weeks. And Mom probably needs a little while to recover from this visit.” He tilted his head at me. “Hey, don’t look so sad!” he said. “This weekend meant everything to her. And we’ll do it again. Okay?”

  “No, you’re right.” I nodded and reached for the door before I cried like an asshat.

  He got out and opened the trunk.

  “Thanks again for what you did for my mom,” he said, holding the bag out to me. The afternoon sun glinted gold on his hair and lit up his gree
n eyes. “What about your mom?” He winced, like he knew it was a tough question.

  I lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  He nodded. Then he took a deep breath and stepped forward to hug me again.

  I squeezed him hard. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.” He let go and smiled as he backed away from me.

  I stood on the walkway as he pulled out and drove off, and then watched him disappear into the distance.

  My heart went with him.

  I stood at my front door.

  I’d lived in this house since I was five — thirteen years now. A crooked crack ran through the cement front step. Teal paint peeled off the door. The dingy opaque rectangular window in the door let in light, but you couldn’t really see in. Or out.

  I pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Hello?” My mom’s clogs weren’t in their usual spot by the door. Her coat was gone, too. I took out my phone and messaged, I’m home.

  I dropped my stuff, went into the kitchen, and habitually opened the refrigerator. There were a lot of Chinese takeout containers in there and also, to my surprise, a red velvet layer cake. When was the last time she baked one of those? More years than I could remember.

  I pulled the loose plastic wrap off the cake and dabbed at the frosting with my finger to confirm what I already knew: it was from a can. The cake was from a mix, too, obviously. My mom was no pastry chef, but at one time this cake had totally rocked my world. The little girl who knew nothing about scratch baking or fine food went apeshit for boxed/canned red velvet cake. Until I discovered there was a world outside of my tiny bubble. Leila’s mom’s handiwork. Restaurants with the Wassermans. Laroche’s. It struck me that every good thing that happens in life, every discovery of the next best thing, stands to breed discontent for what came before.

  I got a fork out of the drawer and took a bite of cake. It tasted fake to me. Too sweet, almost caustic. Cheap.

  I wasn’t the same girl.

  Still, I ate it. It no longer appealed to me, but somehow I wanted it anyway. It was the connection I was after, I supposed — the link to an earlier time. Too many tethers to my past were broken already. I couldn’t bear to give up another.