Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

  Mom was careful about how they were at home — he never slept over or anything — but there were changes. Hard not to notice that his name appeared in half her sentences. Also, she smiled more and zoned out a lot.

  Gab had the summer job she’d been waiting her whole life for: a counselor at Camp Chi. She’d camped there as a kid, but she was never gone for more than two or three weeks. Now she’d be gone the entire summer. For me, it would be a taste of what was coming.

  Eli was off in the cornfields of Iowa, making his novel more brilliant. I was glad he had something to offset the pain of Daisy’s sudden passing. I had rushed to his side, just like I had when Jay died. I repeated my routine of comfort administration, rat removal, and cremation. I wrote Daisy’s obituary on a napkin to match Jay’s, and Eli framed them together. In the fall, he’d start over with new rats. But for now, his focus was Iowa. And even from afar, I fussed over him and he mostly ignored me. And that was okay.

  Luke graduated from Lawrence, and it hurt my heart that Mima didn’t live to see it. How sad Luke must have been on one of the most important days of his life. Buddy, too. I wished she could have been there. I wished I could have been there, too. In a universe where I hadn’t fucked things up, I might have been. I messaged him my most heartfelt congratulations, and he thanked me. Very civil. Our correspondence now was less frequent, more moderated — a far cry from the days when I would wait with bated breath for my phone to vibrate with a new message, and then knock myself out to charm him with my cleverness in hopes of being irresistible. In hopes of being more to him than I ever could be.

  But I knew now that what I wanted was impossible, knew that I had to learn to want less. If I wanted to hold on to him, I had to start letting him go.

  One weekend in late June, Casey invited my mom and me to meet his daughter. She was with him two weekends a month — longer in the summer and over holidays. Allie was a bespectacled eight-and-a-half-year-old with bangs and slightly buck teeth who asked a lot of questions and looked skeptical while evaluating the answers. The first thing she asked me was how many Harry Potter books had I read, and did I think they were overrated. I told her all of them, and not even a little. She smiled with her lips closed — probably self-conscious about her teeth — and said, “Okay, then.” Like that settled it.

  While Casey grilled fish in their tiny backyard and my mom made a salad, Allie showed me her bedroom, which had only a small portion of her prize possessions, since she lived at her mother’s the majority of the time. But she did show me her rock collection, including her favorite pieces of pyrite, which, she explained, is commonly called “fool’s gold” but is actually a sulfide mineral.

  During dinner, I tried not to laugh out loud when she wanted to know which I liked better, sedimentary rocks or metamorphic rocks. Casey saved me by encouraging Allie to tell me about the differences, which she was only too happy to do. I was wildly and gloriously over my depth with her, but entranced with her intelligence and energy. She was geeky and bright and passionate about an amazing number of things. She was eight years old and already her own person. I was eighteen years old and still wanting everyone to like me. I could learn a lot from her.

  One Saturday when Casey and my mom went to a gallery showing in Evanston, I babysat Allie and took her to her swim lesson at the Willow Grove pool. Her teacher was a cute, shy guy named Otis. He was a swimmer in college and, boy, did it show: his tanned body was a work of staggering beauty. I lounged under an umbrella in a sundress and dark glasses, watching Allie try to do what Otis was so patiently teaching her.

  As I ogled Otis from behind the safety of my glasses, I couldn’t help comparing him to Luke. Like Luke, Otis wasn’t just hot, although he was definitely that. He was also adorable. Sweet. Someone I could imagine dating. But unlike Luke, Otis was not my sort-of brother. As with the guitar-playing hottie at Beloit, I felt a glimmer of hope at feeling that way about someone — someone who was not Luke.

  When her lesson was over, Allie dragged Otis over to me. “Otis says I’m doing really good,” she told me. “Tell her, Otis.”

  “Right!” He nodded and tipped his sunglasses up on his head. I’m pretty sure he was blushing. “Yeah, she’s doing great.” He had light brown eyes and a really sweet smile.

  “So tell my dad, okay?” Allie said to me, making her eyes big.

  I handed Allie her glasses, trying not to laugh. “I will tell him.”

  “Can I have money for a snow cone?” she asked, putting her glasses on.

  I pulled a couple dollars out of my bag and handed them to her. She took off, her feet slapping wet footprints onto the concrete. Otis was still standing there, smiling at her, his arms crossed. The smell of sunscreen and chlorine emanated off him, not unpleasantly.

  “She’s a character, eh?” I smiled at him.

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “She’s teaching me a lot.”

  I laughed, and he did, too. He had a great laugh.

  He lifted his chin, spotting someone in the distance, then raised a hand in that direction. He turned back to me. “My next lesson is here. See you later?”

  I nodded, although I had no idea if I’d see him later. I wouldn’t have minded, though.

  I watched him walk off.

  He looked as good going as coming.

  “This color is puce.”

  I looked up. Allie stood beside me, sucking on the top of her snow cone, making loud slurping noises. An anxious, sad feeling washed over me as I glanced at her snow cone, recalling the color of Luke’s ridiculous ramen abomination.

  “I asked for a mix of all the flavors,” Allie explained. “That’s why it’s puce.”

  “How’s it taste?”

  “Good! Want to try it?”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s the same price even if you get all the flavors. So it’s a good value.”

  I smiled. I thought, Enjoy the illusion of having it all, kid. Someday you’ll discover that puce is not actually better than the color red or the taste of lemon.

  I hoped, for Allie’s sake, that this lesson was a long time in coming.

  She sat down next to me. “I saw Otis talking to you. Are you going to go out with him?”

  “Ha. I don’t think so.”

  “He’s pretty cute.” She side-eyed me like a know-it-all.

  “Yeah, he’s not hard to look at.”

  She laughed and slapped her leg. “Not hard to look at! That’s funny. Did you make that up?”

  “No.” I laughed.

  “I wonder if he’s smart,” she said, gnawing on the ice with her front teeth. “Brains are more important than looks. Do you think he has a girlfriend?”

  I leaned back on the chaise. “Probably.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I only hesitated for a moment. “No.”

  “Do you think your mom will marry my dad?”

  Her question jarred me. I didn’t know much about her mother — I didn’t even know if she had remarried. I knew she and Casey divorced when Allie was just two.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”

  She nodded. “I hope so.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “You do? Why?”

  She tipped the snow cone and slurped the liquid. “He’s always in a really good mood now. He likes her a lot.”

  “Do you like her?” I asked, tilting my head.

  She nodded. “She’s really nice. She cleans the kitchen and she talks him into letting me have Cocoa Puffs.”

  I laughed. I guessed my mom was trying with Allie like Casey was trying with me.

  “Plus her name sounds like mine. Abby and Allie.”

  “That’s true!”

  She grinned at me. Her teeth were turning puce. “And also, then you’d be my sister!”

  Something shifted in my chest. I sat back in my lounge chair, watching her. She tipped the snow cone back, drinking the liquid, some of which spilled down her chin. “Oops,” she mumbled, dabbing at it with
her towel.

  I couldn’t help smiling at her. She was way ahead of me, thinking about our parents marrying, but the idea of a sister . . . I had never considered something like this. I could be a big sister. And Allie — she was so special. I could make sure she knew how special she was. I could send her letters from college. I could introduce her to all my friends as my sister. And she would look up to me. I would love her, and she’d love me back.

  “That could be pretty cool,” I said, reaching over to flick an ant off her leg. “Being your sister.”

  “Yeah. Hey, Jules?” she said without looking up from her snow cone.

  “Hey, Allie?”

  “Can you make that macaroni-and-cheese ramen-noodle thing?”

  I laughed. “Again?” I had made it for her before her lesson, just a few hours ago.

  She nodded. “It’s so good. I never knew you could do so much stuff with ramen noodles. How’d you learn that?”

  “I don’t know. Trial and error, mostly.” I looked away. It was impossible not to think about Luke when I thought of ramen.

  “Well, you’re an awesome cook.”

  Iron Chef Ramen.

  I lowered my sunglasses before Allie could see me tearing up.

  Gab’s remark about not being a good correspondent proved prophetic, because by mid-July I’d only heard from her a few times. I actually heard more frequently from Eli as the weeks wore on. He had met someone at a writing workshop, and he sometimes sent me random brief texts about how hot/smart/cute/talented this guy was. I hoped he was falling madly in love. But I hoped even more that he wouldn’t get his heart broken. I worried about that, especially when he sent this message:

  Jules? If anything ever happens to me, I want you to write my obituary. You have to promise. Make it really good, okay?

  I was so alarmed that I wrote back: WE ARE NOT TALKING ABOUT YOUR DEATH AND YOU’D BETTER NOT DIE ANYTIME SOON OR I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU. ARE YOU OKAY?

  And he wrote back, Never better, Drools, no worries. Swearsies. Just thinking about the (very very very) faraway future. And wanting to make sure you’d be the one to write it.

  It was so dumb, but tears stung my eyes, although whether it was more the idea of his dying someday or the idea that he wanted me to write the obituary, I wasn’t even sure. I wrote, I promise.

  And then came something truly unexpected. On a rainy day at the end of July, I found a package at the front door when I got home from work. The return address was Milwaukee. Luke’s house. My stomach clenched up instantly — I had no idea what it might be.

  I was covered in dust from unpacking countless boxes of old books at Tina’s, so I paused to wash up before getting out a knife and cutting through the brown tape that sealed the box closed.

  At the very top of the box, there was a folded note. From Buddy.

  Dear Jules,

  I hope this note finds you well.

  In this box are things Sarah wanted you to have. She set them aside in the weeks before she passed and asked me to get them to you. Mostly they are family heirlooms, passed down to Sarah from her mother or grandmother. She labeled them so you’d know what they are, where they came from, that sort of thing. After meeting you, she was more certain than ever that these things would mean something to you, and I can’t tell you how much that pleased her. There are, she said, some things a woman wants to pass on to her daughter. These are those things.

  I paused to blink back tears. Just when I had begun to accept that maybe I didn’t mean as much to this family as I’d hoped . . . this.

  I read the rest of his note:

  Sarah always felt you were a gift. Knowing you’re okay brought closure that she’d always needed. Seeing you again meant the world to her. To both of us. To all of us. Thank you for that.

  I wish this note were coming to you sooner, and I hope you’ll forgive me. Although Sarah’s passing wasn’t unexpected, it was somehow no less a shock. Growing old together was always the plan, and I’m still struggling to understand a life without her.

  Please keep in touch, and perhaps soon we can see one another again. Luke tells me you’re going to Beloit. I think that’s wonderful. Perhaps sometime I could visit you, maybe take you out to lunch?

  With much love,

  Buddy

  I set the paper down and cried. The note itself was so overwhelming that I needed a moment before I explored the contents of the box.

  That she felt I was a gift . . . she was the gift. They were the gift. How lucky I had been — in so many countless, immeasurable ways. And how close I’d come to losing everything. I still had Buddy, and with each day that passed, I hoped I could still have Luke, too — and not the fantasy Luke, but the real one. The lasting one.

  When I had steadied myself, I began going through the contents of the box, entranced by the treasures within. I never imagined family heirlooms being passed down to me, but here they were. Mima’s mother’s jewelry. Candlesticks from Poland. A brass mortar and pestle from Russia. Some handwritten Jewish recipes with words I didn’t even know. Kreplach. Gribenes. Schmaltz.

  I couldn’t wait to learn what they were.

  In the very bottom of the box, wrapped in layers and layers of tissue, I discovered an old, darkened silver mezuzah. Warmth tingled through me as I removed it with trembling hands. In Mima’s spidery pen, a note wrapped around it said, From the Belarus home of Leon Faigen, my maternal grandfather.

  I pressed it to my heart. A world was opening up to me — a world I hadn’t quite felt was really mine to claim. But if Mima had mothered me, even only for a while, and wanted to pass down to me these precious family heirlooms, then perhaps I was entitled to some small sliver of that history?

  I sat on my bed, my chest so full I didn’t know how to bear it. Finally, I picked up my phone and sent a photo of my new treasures to Gab. I wrote, Look what Mima left me. #MOT

  Relentless heat pushed July into August, when Leila went to France with her family. Around the same time, my mom got a painting — the one I had been thinking of as The Fucked-Up Sky — into a juried art competition. Casey was beside himself with pride. He brought sparkling cider over to celebrate and surprised her with an invitation to a weekend away in New York, where there was a gallery walk. She glanced at me, hesitating. I laughed and shook my head, like You don’t have to check with me, silly. Go to New York.

  But her first thoughts were of me. Somehow I had become the center of her universe.

  Also in New York now was Luke. Bard had offered him a fellowship, and he didn’t hesitate.

  I had begun to accept that Luke and I would never be Gab and Daniel; I understood that now. And it wasn’t just because I’d crossed a line with Luke. The reason Gab and Daniel were Gab and Daniel was that they grew up together. They shared parents; they shared relatives; they shared memories. And, yes, they shared genes, but it was their sprawling, detailed history that truly made them siblings. Luke and I would never have that.

  But I would always hope for — work toward — the possibility of our being something. I wasn’t over him, not by a long stretch, but my love for him was real. I hoped that, in time, that love would reconfigure itself into something good, something workable. Something sustainable and enduring.

  Love was worth fighting for.

  Late one steamy mid-August evening, I sat on the screened porch, drinking crimson hibiscus iced tea and drafting an e-mail I’d been mentally composing for months. The call of crickets rose high and loud, and the heavy scent of late summer roses drifted up as I read what I’d written.

  Dear Carol,

  I understand that you would be open to meeting me, and I would like that very much. I’d be happy to drive up to Milwaukee, or if you’d prefer you could come see us in Maplebrook. I’m free the next couple of weekends, and then I’ll be at Beloit as a new student, which also isn’t too terribly far from you. Let me know what might work?

  Looking forward to meeting you!

  Love,

  Jules

/>   With a deep breath, I set it in motion. I watched until the “sending” alert changed to “sent,” marveling at the way the fraction of a moment has the potential to change a life forever.

  A warm breeze lifted my hair as I set my phone down. Fireflies flickered over the grass, winking in and out as twilight edged toward dusk. I sipped my iced tea, then picked up my yearbook. In the waning light, I again paged through the senior baby pictures, endlessly fascinated by trying to guess who was who. Gab I would have known anywhere, despite the eye patch and costume. Even as a toddler pirate, she had the countenance of someone who knew she owned the room.

  Leila’s picture was tougher to look at. We don’t know how old she was — maybe a year? A little younger? — but her expression had a blankness that caused a terrible squeeze in my heart.

  The photo of me, nearby on the same page, stood in sharp relief. A silly, giggling, chubby, overjoyed child. Each time I looked at it, I felt at once enormous gratitude and unbearable sorrow. I loved the photo, loved how happy I looked, loved that it captured a time that had almost been lost to me, a time that I knew informed who I was today. But I couldn’t look at it without thinking of my mother, and what that day, that time, must have been like for her. And of course Mima, the woman who had stepped in and saved my life when it most needed saving. Gratitude and sorrow. Rich and sweet and bitter.

  As I set the yearbook down, my phone alerted me to a message. I picked it up from the table and glanced at the screen, eager to see if it was an email from Carol.

  But it was a text from Luke.

  My heart did its familiar dance, but instead of trying to repress my natural reaction, I opened myself to it, trying to observe it as honestly and clearly as I could — something I learned from Gab’s mom. And while there was an undercurrent of that old, inappropriate excitement — I was only human, after all — the dominant feeling was purer than that. It was similar to the pleasure I felt in getting a rare message from Gab at summer camp or a postcard from Leila from Provence. Or a text from Eli about his workshop or boyfriend. It was the happiness I felt in knowing that people I loved were thinking of me.