by Dyan Sheldon
When Celeste arrives home she finds Astra stretched out on the sofa, watching a movie and texting. A plate, a glass and a bottle of soda are scattered across the coffee table. “I thought you had homework,” says Celeste. Astra ignores her. There is an opened loaf of bread, an opened jar of peanut butter and quite a few crumbs on the kitchen counter. It’s as she’s looking at the debris on the counter that Celeste starts shaking so much she has to sit down. She closes her eyes and feels the cars going by; hears the horns and swoosh-whoosh of tyres and people shouting out of their windows; imagines Sorrel’s last seconds of life. Celeste has been her usual practical, competent self today. Unsinkable and unflappable. A very large and sturdy rock. It is when she remembers the plastic bottle bouncing off her head that the rock begins to crumble and the tears start to fall.
“There’s no point crying now. It’s all over.” Sorrel laughs. “At least nobody mowed you down. You can be grateful for that. Where does the cereal go?”
Celeste opens her eyes.
Sorrel is standing by the counter with a box of cornflakes in her hand.
Celeste points. “Up there.”
“Shouldn’t Astra be doing this?” asks Sorrel. “You did the shopping.”
Because asking Astra to do anything is counterproductive (you spend half an hour nagging her and then do it yourself anyway), Celeste says, “She’s busy.”
“It’s not like she’s building shelters for the homeless,” says Sorrel. “She’s just warming up the couch.”
Celeste wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t have the energy to fight with her right now. You know what she’s like.”
Sorrel makes an I-sure-do face. “You know what the problem with Astra is, don’t you?” Sorrel opens the cupboard and slips the cornflakes onto a shelf. “She knows what you’re like, that’s the problem. You let her walk all over you.”
“No I don’t.” Celeste says this with conviction, as if she doesn’t know she’s lying.
But Sorrel isn’t fooled. “Oh, sure you don’t. You’re practically a human carpet, and you know it. You wait on Astra. You always let her have her own way. For God’s sake, Cel, you even do her homework for her.”
“Only when it’s really hard.”
“Oh, puh-lease… She’s thirteen, not three.” Sorrel sighs in a way Celeste doesn’t remember her sighing before; as if she’s a wooden bridge that is about to collapse. “If Astra murdered someone, you’d take the blame.”
“No I wouldn’t.” She would; her mother would expect her to.
“And these?” Sorrel holds up two tins of beans in a questioning way.
“On the left.”
Sorrel opens the cupboard on the left. She puts the beans on the shelf with the other tins. “You should’ve gone to your dad’s in the Summer like he wanted.”
“I couldn’t. My mom—”
“Your mom would’ve acted like you’d stabbed her in the back if you’d gone to your dad’s. Just like you’d be ripping out her heart if you turn out to be like him – and not like she wants you to be.”
Celeste doesn’t want to think that she and Sorrel ever argued, but they did, of course. And this is one they’ve had before.
“That’s not what I was going to say. My mom wouldn’t have been able to cope by herself.” She can’t expect Sorrel to understand. Sorrel was opposed to doing anything to help her mother or make her happy. The only reason she went along with the modelling was because she figured it would let her leave home faster. Maybe let them both leave. “She needs me.”
Sorrel pretends to gag. “And what about you? What do you need?” She puts the milk and juice in the fridge. “You would’ve had a real vacation if you’d gone to Tylor’s. He and Jake would’ve made sure of that. But oh no, not our Celeste. She can’t do anything just for herself or because it’s what she wants to do. She has to take care of everybody else.”
“That’s not true. I do plenty of things for myself.”
Sorrel puts her elbows behind her on the counter, which makes her body look like a question mark. “Like what? Eat? Sleep? Brush your teeth? Because I don’t notice you doing much. And nothing that Lilah doesn’t approve of.”
This is a dig; and another old argument.
Celeste rises to her own defence. “It wasn’t that she wouldn’t approve—” She breaks off when she sees the expression on Sorrel’s face. She seems to have become something of a stickler for the truth.
“Give me a break, okay? Lilah doesn’t approve of a music career. She wants you to be a teacher. So you’re going to be a teacher. Lilah doesn’t approve of same-sex relationships. She wants you to marry a doctor or a banker or some guy like that and be an important figure in your community. Is that what you’re going to do, Celeste? You going to marry some guy because your mother wants you to?”
Celeste looks away. “I don’t know. I— That’s years away. I—”
“You don’t know?” Sorrel crackles with indignation. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You told me you wouldn’t. You told me—”
“I know what I told you. And I meant it. But that was when you were alive.” For all her wishing that Sorrel was with her earlier, she now wishes that she wasn’t. Celeste may start crying again. “You’re not here any more.”
“I’m here now. But what matters is that you’re here!” Suddenly Sorrel’s sitting right beside her, leaning close. “You’re here, Celeste. You don’t need me to live the way you want. You just need you.”
Celeste’s voice is a mumble. “It’s different now.”
“No it isn’t. You have to believe that. And you have to start doing things for yourself.”
“But I do. I have my music. I do that for myself.”
“Your music? You do your music for yourself?” Sorrel smirks. “Then why didn’t you go to orchestra today? If you keep missing practice you’re not going to be able to play in the big Christmas concert. And I bet if you talked to her, Ms Santos would give you a solo. You could do that song you wrote last year. Remember? About stars.”
Of course she remembers. It was a present for Sorrel, that and the star earrings. “I love that song.” She’s hoping Sorrel will say that she loves it, too, but it isn’t Sorrel who speaks next.
“Who are you talking to?” asks Astra.
“No one,” says Celeste.
Which, of course, is now true.
Ruben leaves his last class to find Orlando waiting in the hallway for him. Orlando’s had an idea. Since it’s such a beautiful day, why don’t they take a hike along the river trail? They used to hike a lot together (they used to do a lot together, come to that), walking all day, sometimes camping overnight. It’d be like old times. But that, of course, was before. Before Ruben’s mother got weird; before Orlando started giving ever more of himself to his secret life.
“What do you say?” Orlando fiddles with the strap on his book bag. “Practice’ll be starting soon. I thought it’d be nice for us to have a little time together while we can.”
“I don’t know, man. I’d really like to.” Ruben would really like to. He’d give anything to have the “before” time again – when he often didn’t get back to Garibaldi Drive until it was time for supper, if not much later – even for a day. “But…”
“But what? You have to mop out the Augean stables before supper?”
Ruben winks. “Good guess.”
“Come on. I’m not saying we should trek the Himalayas. Just a walk by the river. Just for an hour or two. We hardly ever hang out like we used to.” Making it sound as if Ruben is the only one who’s always busy. Orlando shifts his bag to his other shoulder, banging it against the wall in the process. “And, you know … it hasn’t exactly been a good year.”
Tell me about it, thinks Ruben. And immediately feels bad. Orlando means because of Sorrel. First she breaks up with him, and then she dies. It’s only now, watching Orlando pull at the strap of his bag, seeing the unhappy smile he’s forced on his face, that Ruben realize
s he’s been so wound up in his own worries that he really hasn’t stopped to think how Orlando must feel. On the other hand, how could he, when Ruben hardly knows how he feels from one day to the next?
“Oh, man, I really wish I could. I really do. But…”
But this is the after part, the “now”. The days of self-absorption and let’s-have-fun have gone the way of the raucous foosball and ping-pong tournaments, the late-night film marathons and Sylvia Rossi’s famous lasagne dinners. Now he never loses track of time or forgets there was something he was meant to do; never does whatever he feels like on the spur of the moment. In the now, Ruben is arguably one of the most reliable and dependable teenagers in the Western world. He comes straight home unless he’s told his mother he’ll be late because he has something to do after school, and then he tells her exactly how late. He has no room for spontaneity.
“But I have a super full schedule this term. I’m out a lot of afternoons with extracurricular stuff. I really have to get home today. I promised my mom—”
Orlando nods. “Yeah, sure. I get it. I’m pretty overloaded, too. I just thought—”
Terrified that Orlando might suggest coming home with him instead, Ruben says, “Another time. Maybe next week.” He punches him in the arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll make a plan. I have to hurry.” And starts to run down the hall. Even though running in the corridors is against school rules.
The truth is that even if Sylvia weren’t expecting him, he wouldn’t have gone for a walk, not even with the protection of Orlando. As if he’s morphing into his mother, Ruben is spending even less time away from home. Inside the house is the only place he feels safe. Outside he’s afraid Sorrel will appear again. The last thing his mother needs is for him to be picked up by the police for yelling at someone who isn’t there. What if they decide that he’s mad and send him away? How would she ever be able to cope with that? And the last thing he needs is to see Sorrel when he’s with Orlando, someone who knows him so well. Ruben would never be able to hide it from Orlando if he saw Sorrel while they were together.
Ruben arrives home and steps inside, locking the front door behind him. He dumps his jacket and books on the sofa and takes the stairs two at a time. He’s always anxious to make certain that Sylvia’s there; and equally relieved that he is, too.
His mother is in her office, reading over what she wrote yesterday. She says her day, which, since she’s still in her pyjamas, he guesses only started an hour or two ago, is going well. She’s made some important changes, some significant decisions. She now realizes that Princess Mei can only escape the destruction of the city by pretending to be a boy. And that the great warrior Tatoka must risk being ostracized by betraying the king if he is to survive himself.
“What about Kia?” The mind is an amazing thing. Ruben may forget to pick up coffee or buy a birthday card for his uncle or where he put his keys, but he never forgets the details of whatever book his mother is working on at the moment. “Is she still locked in the dungeon?”
“She is,” says Sylvia, “but you know how resilient she is. She’s a fighter. She doesn’t let things defeat her.” Unlike some people. “She’s going to find a way out soon. And then there’ll be hell to pay.”
His mother’s novels are full of passion and destruction. Full of death and delusion; full of treachery and thwarted dreams. Which, he supposes, makes them fairly realistic. He’s never actually read one himself, but he doesn’t have to. She shares each chapter with him as it’s written so that he knows each story by heart. She talks about her characters and what’s happening in their lives the way she once talked about her family and friends. With enthusiasm and affection. With compassion and involvement. These days she’s a lot more interested in the people of her imagination than she is in people of flesh and blood (even her own); possibly because they only die if she wants them to.
“I was thinking of adding a ghost,” says Sylvia. “Sort of a spirit guide. What do you think? Do you think that’s too far-fetched?”
She writes fantasy. Among many other things, there have been magic rings, shells, stones and daggers; monsters, demons and wizards; flying ships and disappearing mountains; talking animals and talking trees; fantastical creatures and fantastical worlds. What could she possibly mean by “far-fetched”?
“No,” says Ruben. “Not at all.”
Which he sees, as soon as he opens the door to his own room, was the right response. Not far-fetched in the least. Apparently, the Rossi house is no longer off limits. Sorrel is standing on a chair in front of his closet, rummaging through the boxes on the shelf over the clothes rail. Today she’s wearing army fatigues and combat boots; she means business.
“Sorrel?” It isn’t a question.
She doesn’t turn around. “Hi, Ruben.”
He wasn’t expecting to find her in his room, but he also feels no real surprise. What he feels is a sense of acceptance (or, possibly, resignation). Which is an example (if an unusual one) of how adaptable humans are. A person really can get used to anything if they have to. Walking ten miles for water. Coping with deafness. Living in a windowless cell. Not eating meat. Sleeping in a doorway. Living with a visitor from the spirit world.
Because there’s no one else in earshot, he can speak in a normal voice without any fear of being locked away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m looking for something.”
In his closet? What could she possibly be looking for in his closet?
“What? No, never mind what. Get down from there.”
She finally glances over her shoulder. Smirking. “Why? You afraid I’ll fall and break my neck?”
“You’re hilarious,” says Ruben. “Now get down. You have no business going through my things.”
“I’ll get down if you tell me what’s going on.”
From his online research into paranormal experiences Ruben knows that most spirits are silent and remote – a figure walking the same path or hallway, or a face peering out of the same window or doorway at the same time every night. Not mouthy, interfering and keeping irregular hours.
“You want me to tell you what’s going on? Excuse me, but I’m not the one who broke into your room. I’m not the one who shouldn’t be here.”
If he expected her to apologize, he has set himself up for another disappointment. She is now facing him, full on, one hand on the shelf and one on her hip – and is as apologetic as a tornado. “I didn’t break in, Ruben. I walked in.” He seems to be trying her patience. “You don’t exactly have a padlock on the door.”
As if that would do him any good.
“I didn’t think I needed one. This is my personal space. I didn’t invite you in, and now I’m asking you to leave.”
“You don’t have to invite me in. I’m not a vampire, I’m a ghost.” She makes a face; he’s being irritating and unreasonable. “And I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on. I’ve looked all over and everything’s gone. All your sketchbooks. All your canvases. Every last brush and piece of charcoal. I couldn’t find even a crayon at the back of your desk.”
Sorrel Groober, the spook that sleuths.
“That’s why you’re ransacking my room? You’re looking for my art things?”
“What else would I be looking for? This isn’t one of your mom’s novels. There isn’t any hidden treasure or a magic medallion or some warrior princess turned into a rock.”
“Well you can stop right now. I got rid of everything. All gone. Nothing to find. Zilch. Nada. Cupboard bare. So get down.”
“Really? Everything? I mean, I know you have this dumb idea to study business or law, but I didn’t think that meant you were totally giving up art.” She soundlessly jumps to the ground, standing so close he can tell she’s not breathing. “If that’s true, then, I think we need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” He steps back, putting an extra few inches between them. “What we need is for you to get out of here. I have stuff to do.�
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She steps forward, closing the gap. “So why did you dump everything? You were always sketching or painting something. Remember that watercolour you did of all of us trying to get Mrs Lancey’s cat down from that tree?” Which was when they discovered that although a cat can climb a tree easily, getting back down can be a little more of a challenge. “Remember? Orlando’s mom came running out with her phone and took the picture. And you turned it into a painting and gave us each a copy for Christmas? It was one of my favourite things ever. That and the one you did of me when I jumped in the lake.” They were? Things he made were special to Sorrel? “But the one with the cat was the best. You got everybody perfect.” She laughs, and it sounds the way sunshine feels.
He’d forgotten that day, forgotten the painting, but he remembers both of them now. It was a good day with a lot of laughter; and it was a good picture, Orlando standing on Ruben’s shoulders, earnestly talking to Ruby, the cat, trying to calm her. Sorrel and Celeste holding on to each other, they were laughing so much. He has to wrench himself out of the memory. “I just lost interest, that’s all.” He shrugs. “It happens. You know. You grow up and you put away your toys.”
“Toys?” This laugh is different, not sunshine but sleet. “What’s that supposed to mean? We’re not talking about a Star Wars lightsabre. We’re talking about your heart and soul.”
Since she obviously has no intention of moving away, he does, walking past her and sitting on the bed to take off his shoes.
“What about all your plans?” She follows and stands looking down at him. “You were going to travel all over, and live in houseboats and garrets and beach shacks. Remember? You were going to paint the world.”
