Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

  The concern on his face was plain. He would hug me if I let him. But I didn’t want him to touch me like a brother. I wanted him to touch me like he touched her. Images sprang into my head — images I didn’t want: Luke on the couch between Makayla’s legs, pushing into her . . . his face in the throes of pleasure . . . calling out her name when he came. . . .

  “Hey,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”

  God, he really did love me. I wanted that. I wanted to be important to him, wanted him to hurt when I was hurting. But I also wanted . . .

  More.

  I stepped back. “I’m sorry. This is just . . . harder than I expected.”

  He tilted his head. “You mean . . . Mom?”

  I nodded, grateful for the face-saving excuse, though I felt guilty for latching on to it. “I just didn’t realize how overwhelming this would be. And I’m really tired, and you’re right, I should go before it gets too dark.” I mustered up a smile. “Have a good time tonight. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I turned and beelined for the front door as he called out after me. But I couldn’t stop, not even to let him say good-bye. If I stopped now, I’d dissolve into a giant puddle of tears, and he’d figure out how depraved and dishonest I was.

  I flung myself into the car, trying futilely not to cry. I needed to drive, but my eyes were blurred with tears. I pulled out my phone, wondering who to reach out to. I glanced up when there was motion in my peripheral vision. A car had pulled into the driveway next to mine. Its driver regarded me curiously.

  No. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, the universe springs the unthinkable on you.

  Makayla. She opened her door and climbed out. I turned my head away, but not before I managed to take her in. Her curly red hair spilling down from a messy updo. Her faded jeans and clingy white shirt. She was beautiful and slender and put-together and just completely unbearable. I hated her.

  I started the car and jammed it into Reverse. It lurched as I stepped on the gas before the transmission had even registered the gear change. I backed into the street without even checking for traffic — thank God the street was clear, as getting into a fender bender at the foot of Luke’s driveway in front of Makayla the Perfect would have killed me.

  I made it maybe three blocks before I had to pull over. I couldn’t see. I wasn’t okay.

  I parked on a side street and dug in the glove compartment for tissues and tried to pull myself together — at least for long enough to get myself home, where I could bury myself under the covers.

  Just my luck — a minivan slowed and pulled into the driveway I was parked near, its inhabitants all eyeing me curiously. I turned my face away and grabbed my phone, pretending to be absorbed.

  There was a message alert, and I didn’t know if I could bear to look. I could just imagine what it might say: Jules, Makayla said you were sobbing in the driveway, and then you snubbed her and took off like a bat out of hell. He wouldn’t say that, I knew. But he might pose a kinder, more concerned version.

  But it wasn’t from Luke. It was from Gab. It was a selfie of her and Leila, arm and arm, grinning. The message: All is well.

  And just like that, the atomic world had returned to balance. Somehow, clearly, they had worked their shit out. I had wanted and needed this to happen, and I was relieved it had. And the timing of it . . . I wanted to see it as a sign that anything was fixable, no matter how broken it seemed — that maybe Luke and I could be okay, too. But Gab and Leila had a whole lifetime of love and trust to work from. Luke and I had fragmented, slippery little slivers of time.

  I wrote back, I am so, so glad, you guys. But, um. Something happened.

  Gab wrote, What is it? Are you okay?

  I wrote, No. Not okay. I am pulled over on a side street in Milwaukee, trying to stop crying.

  My phone rang immediately. I answered and blurted it all out without even saying hello. “And I know I’m supposed to be his sister and I know I shouldn’t care if he does the dirty with Makayla fifty times a day and I know I’m fucked up, so you don’t have to say it,” I concluded with a rough hiccup.

  “Oh my God, you poor thing,” Gab said.

  It was Leila’s reaction that I worried about more, but when she said, “Oh, sweetie — that must be so hard,” I cried with relief.

  Gab instructed me on what to do. “Breathe slowly. Wipe your eyes. When you’re ready to drive, put your phone on speaker, and Lei and I will distract and entertain you all the way home.”

  “Not home,” Leila said. “Gab’s house. Just come straight to us, okay?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Okay.”

  And I did. I drove carefully, focusing on the warmth and sureness of the voices I knew better than any others in all the world, returning to my nucleus. When I finally got there, they continued to hold me up, to get me through.

  I also, at Gab’s urging, had a long talk with her mom. She made me feel normal, validated. She helped me find all the truth I contained inside me. All the truth, and also the accountability and acceptance and goodness and hope.

  There was nothing wrong with me, she assured me. It wasn’t my fault I fell in love with Luke. Feelings are feelings, she said, and they’re not right or wrong. They were inconvenient, though, and, yes, they posed a lot of challenges to the possibility of a future of any sort with Luke.

  But after talking with her, I allowed myself to hope. I was still struggling to accept what could never be, but I had hopes for what maybe could be, in time. I considered my largely one-sided relationship with Eli, and how somehow that was enough for me. I thought of how I’d come to appreciate my mom, even though she was a far cry from perfect.

  And Gab’s and Leila’s friendships were priceless to me. I had come to accept how it was with the three of us, that I’d never be an equal part. I knew fuck-all about chemistry, but I did remember learning this: Almost all of the mass in an atom is made up from the protons and neutrons in the nucleus with a very small contribution from the orbiting electrons.

  Why doesn’t the electron ultimately fall into the nucleus? We had talked about this in class — a discussion that quickly sailed over my head. So I don’t know why it doesn’t. It just doesn’t. But if I had to be an electron, I could never want for a better nucleus than Gab and Leila. I would orbit them faithfully for the rest of my life, if they’d let me.

  And so maybe with Luke, too, I could settle for less than everything. Because having a brother — a real brother — would be huge. It would be amazing.

  Someday it would, just maybe, be enough.

  I plugged along, one day at a time, trying to get to that elusive better place. Gab’s mom coached me through my first post-meltdown message to Luke. She helped me to strike the right tone, to connect as sincerely and honestly as I could without oversharing and burdening him with feelings that he didn’t need to know about, feelings that I was working to let go of.

  After that we kept in semi-regular contact, and he was good about reaching out if I’d been quiet. The steady, unchanging nature of his feelings for me, once a source of frustration, was now a lifeline. I was grateful.

  So I tried to keep up the banter we were so good at — the easy, warm repartee we’d shared when I last saw him, the teasing and laughter over ramen. I tried to walk the line — enough contact to keep us connected, but not so much I spiraled into jealousy and desperation. It wasn’t easy. But there was no other path forward.

  On Mother’s Day weekend, Casey reserved Mom for dinner and a movie Saturday night. On Sunday he would come for breakfast, and then we’d take Mom to the Art Institute. But with Saturday night free, I invited Gab and Leila for dinner.

  I threw open the windows and puttered around in the kitchen all afternoon. It was the kind of day only May can pull off — softly breezy and fragrant. I splurged and made a creamy, lemony pasta with asparagus and shrimp. For dessert, I baked shortcakes and topped them with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. It made me happy, cooking and feeding people I loved. I
t affirmed solid, immutable things I was coming to know about myself — namely that food, friends, and home would always be important to me. And Gab’s and Leila’s enthusiasm and praise for my cooking filled my heart.

  When we finished eating, we settled into the living room. The door to the screened porch was open, and slivers of warm light from the setting sun beamed in and made glowing puddles on the rug and hardwood floor. Leila was wearing shorts, and her legs-for-days never ceased to draw my envy. I thought of what had happened between Gab and her. Leila was such a sweet and beautiful creature. It wasn’t hard to understand someone — anyone — being attracted to her. I imagined she’d fall in love in college, marry soon after, and have beautiful blond children who looked just like their mama. If she did, I hoped they’d call me Aunt Jules. And Gab, Aunt Gab.

  Or maybe she’d become CEO of some amazing children’s charity or something. Or maybe she’d surprise us all and become something we couldn’t predict. I kind of liked that idea, too. Maybe I was learning to live with the unknowable. That would be useful. That would be good.

  “Southern Comfort,” Gab said, brandishing another unlikely-to-be-missed bottle of booze from her parents’ cabinet and setting it on the coffee table.

  “Make sure that leaves with you,” I said to Gab. The last thing I needed was my mom coming home and finding me with empty bottles of the hard stuff. I supposed at some point she’d realize I have the occasional drink, but it wasn’t on my agenda for Mother’s Day weekend.

  “I promise,” Gab said. She cued up a Janis Joplin documentary on the TV. “Apparently SoCo was Janis’s drink.”

  “Who’s Janis Joplin?” Leila asked, settling on the floor in front of the TV.

  “She was this amazing singer in the sixties.” Gab fiddled with the remote. “She died at twenty-seven of an overdose. Booze and heroin. We will salute her tonight.”

  “Oh my God, Gab.” Leila put her hands to her head. “Tell me you didn’t get heroin.”

  “Oh hell no,” Gab said. “Just weed.”

  I filled glasses with ice, and Gab poured inadvisable quantities of Southern Comfort into our glasses, topped with some ginger ale. I still worried about alcohol, but less than I used to. If I didn’t drink or even think about it for weeks, that seemed promising. Maybe I could keep up this moderate approach through college and into adulthood. I’d probably be worrying and negotiating my rules for the rest of my life, but maybe I could make peace with that.

  Gab started the documentary. We would end up turning it down and ignoring it anyway — we always did. Apart from in theaters, we always ended up talking over movies and then being surprised to see the ending credits rolling on the screen.

  We talked about college — Gab and Leila would room together, of course. I wondered what it would be like, when they started making different friends and their circles expanded. They had just mended a pretty significant fracture . . . I imagined — hoped — that they would always be able to hold steady when there were cracks.

  But now, here they were, joking about using the sock signal when they have bed guests in their dorm room. Gab gleefully recounted her sexperience with Byron, making fun of their awkward sexual moves the same way she used to mock her and Leila’s basketball moves.

  “Sex with men is grossly overrated.” She raised her eyebrows mischievously. “I have high hopes for women, though. Do you think Sammie Brock is a possibility or am I just dreaming?”

  Leila’s attempted smile was losing to a confused expression. “You like Sammie Brock?”

  Gab’s eyes flitted over both of us, then away. “I don’t know. I think about her. It’s probably just another passing crush. In the long parade of crushes.” She stared into her glass. “Is that, like, weird for you to hear about?”

  “Kind of,” Leila said.

  Gab’s expression twisted. “I shouldn’t have said anyth —”

  “I mean,” Leila interrupted, “I don’t even know who you like,” she said softly. “That’s messed up.”

  Gab glanced up at Leila, and for a tense moment I didn’t know if she was angry or hopeful. “Yeah, I guess it kind of is,” she said quietly.

  I exhaled. Hopeful.

  Gab said, “After what happened . . . I don’t know — I was afraid to bring up anything that reminded you of it. If it weren’t for that, I would have told you.”

  “Gab,” Leila said. “You can tell me.” She scooted close to her. “You can tell me anything.” She pulled her into a hug, and they held tight to each other. Proton and neutron.

  Watching them, my heart was so full that I ached with it. When Gab opened her eyes and saw me, she laughed. “Lei. We made Jules cry.”

  Leila let go of Gab with one arm and gestured me over to join the hug, smiling. “Of course we did.”

  And that made the ache worse, and greater, the feeling that came from how well they knew me. I wrapped my arms around them both.

  I woke the next morning to the smell of real coffee. I followed my nose to the kitchen, where my mother was refolding the bag of coffee from Laroche’s. “Happy Mother’s Day,” I said, hugging her.

  She hugged me back. “I made you some tar,” she said, stepping back and nodding at the coffee maker with a smile.

  I laughed. “Bless you.”

  “What time should Casey come? Is ten still okay?” She pulled mugs out of the cabinet.

  “Yup.” I was making eggs in purgatory — poached in a spicy tomato sauce — and toasted sourdough bread and a fruit salad.

  When the coffee was ready, we sat down at the table. “I have a Mother’s Day gift for you,” she said. She shrugged nervously. “If you want it.”

  “A Mother’s Day gift for me?” I asked. “Isn’t that backward?”

  She smiled, then grew serious again. “I found Carol.”

  “Carol?”

  “Ethan’s mom.” She held her hands tight around her mug.

  I took a breath. “Oh. Is she still in Milwaukee?”

  Mom nodded. “She’s divorced now, though.”

  I nodded, trying to process what this might mean. Six months ago, Milwaukee meant nothing to me. Now, somehow, it was everything. “Did you talk to her?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I wanted to talk to you first. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I want to meet her,” I said. But upon saying the words, I immediately grew anxious. “But maybe not yet.” I couldn’t bear for another relationship with newfound family to go wrong.

  She nodded. “Sure, no need to rush. Take your time.”

  “I will.” And I would. This time I would proceed slowly. Carefully. Thoughtfully.

  Casey arrived right on time, bearing a bouquet of white lilies. He wished my mom a happy Mother’s Day and kissed her on the lips. We had breakfast on the screened porch, which was filled with the smell of the newly bloomed lilacs. Then Casey drove us downtown to brave the crowds at the Art Institute.

  “Does your daughter like the Art Institute?” I asked from the backseat.

  “Allie loves all museums,” Casey said. “She’s a born nerd.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  Casey glanced back with a smile. “She’s excited to meet you, too.”

  As we worked our way down I-94, I thought of Luke. This would be his first Mother’s Day without a mother. My heart ached for him.

  I sent him a message: Just wanted you to know you’re in my thoughts today. I know it can’t be easy. I’m thinking of her, too. *hugs*

  Sending a similar message to Buddy was harder. I didn’t know what he knew about me, what he thought about me. But I did it anyway.

  Luke responded for both of them. Thanks, Jules. We went to the cemetery and then out to brunch. We’re going to watch the Cubs game this afternoon.

  I wrote, I’m going by Wrigley Field right now. On our way to the Art Institute.

  He sent back a smiley. Give the Thornes my regards.

  I sent a smiley back. I will.

  And th
en I thought of Eli, who probably barely remembered Mother’s Days with his mother. I messaged him, Hey, is this a rough day for you?

  He wrote back a few minutes later, IT IS AN AWESOME DAY. He followed it with a photo of his acceptance letter from the summer program at University of Iowa.

  I sent back congratulations and confetti.

  He wrote, A FEW MORE WEEKS AND I’M OUT OF HERE. PLUS, BONUS — LOOK WHAT IS IN THE CAFÉ.

  He sent a picture of an unreasonably attractive guy sitting at the window, reading and sipping coffee. Eli added, PLEASE, JESUS, LET HIM BE GAY.

  I smiled. Oh, Eli. Apparently he was not at all bested by the day, which shouldn’t have surprised me, given his general feelings about Hallmark holidays. I wrote back, I’ll send a prayer up, too. And then I added, I love you, fyi.

  He replied, You’re such a mom.

  I laughed.

  When we arrived at our destination, my mom threw me a bone and suggested we start in the basement.

  This time I looked at every single Thorne miniature, with Mom and Casey at my side. Casey shared freely of his vast arsenal of history, geography, art, and minutiae. It wasn’t hard to see where his daughter must get her nerdiness. I liked him an awful lot, although not as much as my mother liked him; she beamed at him like a smitten schoolgirl. Fortunately, he beamed back at her the same way.

  I didn’t even mind wandering around the painting exhibitions upstairs with them.

  It was a good day.

  Later that week, I graduated from high school. As we lined up, I heard girls saying things like, “Can you believe we’re actually graduating?” And I thought to myself, Well, yes. I can. To me it was more like a “finally” than an “actually.” I hadn’t felt like a high-school kid in a long time — especially after all I’d been through that year. I was more than ready for “next.” For once, I was the one who wasn’t a huge emotional mess. I only welled up twice: when Gab’s and Leila’s names were called.

  Summer blew in like a hurricane. My days at Tina’s were dust-filled and unglamorous, but they were happy. Sometimes I would come home and find Casey cooking dinner. He planted herbs in pots in the small yard, and he often asked my opinions on which herbs to use in what dish, even though I suspected he knew more about cooking than I did by multiples. But it was clear that he was making an effort, and it meant a lot to me — more so for my mom’s sake than mine. He wanted to be welcome. He wanted to fit in.