by Dyan Sheldon
Although Ruben isn’t a boy given to dramatic gestures, he yanks open the bathroom door, planning to storm from the room. And nearly collides with his mother, standing there with a lantern in her hand and all the worries of the world in her face. He never yells at her, but he yells at her now. “Christ, Mom, I have to get dressed!”
As he strides away he hears Sorrel say, “This isn’t over, Ruben.”
Of course is isn’t. She has all the time in the world.
It’s the day after Thanksgiving – the day when, having just celebrated all they’re grateful for, people flock to the nearest shopping centre or mall to buy more things to inspire their gratitude – and Lilah has taken Astra and Winnie shopping. Celeste has stayed home by herself. This time Lilah didn’t try to persuade her to come or argue that Celeste spends too much time on her own. Ever since Lilah found Celeste shouting in the kitchen, she’s been treating her with the careful good cheer you might show to someone who has no idea how ill she is. No subtle nagging. No I’m-only-thinking-of-you pep talks. No wouldn’t-it-be-fun pressure for Celeste to have a party, or at least go to one. No I’m-sure-I-told-you surprise guests with young men in tow. Lilah even turned down two Thanksgiving invitations to dinners that included several male members under twenty, instead making a meal for just the three of them and leaving the room when Tylor called.
And, although neither of them said sorry, things between Celeste and Sorrel quickly returned to normal – or what passes for normal when your best friend’s a ghost. The night after their fight, Celeste woke up as Sorrel slipped into bed beside her, whispering, “I promise I don’t snore any more.” It was the best Celeste has slept since June.
At the moment, she’s killing time until Ms Santos picks her up to take her to an orchestra rehearsal. Celeste (as predicted by Sorrel) has a solo in the upcoming concert, performing the song she wrote last year, and is also playing a set with The Blues Cousins, whose lead guitarist has one arm in a cast until the new year. While she waits, she and Sorrel sit on her bed, watching videos of Tylor Redwing and his band Timequake on YouTube.
“I can’t believe you never showed me any of these before.” Sorrel’s head sways to the music. “They’re really good. I mean like really good. No wonder he didn’t want to work in a bank.”
Celeste beams. “I told you they’re terrific.”
“So is this song they’re doing now an original or a cover?”
“My dad wrote it.” Her voice beams, too. “He writes all their songs.”
“Of course,” says Sorrel. “I should’ve known. That’s where you get your talent from. He must be really proud of you.”
“I guess.” Celeste’s voice loses some of its shine. “I mean, he is – but he hasn’t really heard me play. Not live. Just on a couple of videos I’ve sent him.”
“Really? Never? That’s kind of grim.” Sorrel looks over. “Hey, I know. Why don’t you invite him to the Christmas concert? I bet he’d love to come.”
As it happens, this is an idea that has passed through Celeste’s mind more than once in the past couple of months. Sorrel’s right, of course: her father would love to come. And because she knows how much he’d love it – although she talks to him about the orchestra – she never mentions the concert.
“So?” prompts Sorrel. “Why don’t you ask him? It’s a terrific idea.”
Celeste sighs. “You’re just saying that because it’s your idea.”
“No, I’m saying it because it is a really good idea. You know it is. It has to matter to you what your dad thinks of your music. You know, since he’s so good himself.” And, looking back at the screen, adds, “And since he cares.”
Of course it’s a good idea. It makes sense. Why shouldn’t Tylor be there? He’s not just her father, he’s a fellow musician, too. On both counts, he’d be as thrilled to see her play as she’d be to have him in the audience. And, considering all the money he’s spent on her instruments and lessons, he certainly deserves to be there.
“I mean, think how chuffed Tylor will be,” says Sorrel, reading her thoughts. “And he is the one who encourages you. He cares about your music. Doesn’t he deserve to see he’s right? Doesn’t he deserve to have people congratulate him on being your dad?”
Celeste makes an oh-come-on face. “And who’s going to know he’s my dad unless he holds up a sign?”
“Everybody. They’ll know because he’s the guy jumping to his feet to give you a standing ovation when you finish your solo, that’s how they’ll know.” Sorrel picks up Celeste’s phone from the bedside table and hands it to her. “Go on. Call him.”
“I don’t know.” Celeste stares at the phone, which, suddenly, isn’t a sophisticated means of communication but the serpent in the Garden of Eden – Go on, just take one bite. “I don’t think my mom’d be too happy if he says he can come.”
“What’s the big deal? You’re going to see him over Christmas anyway. So he comes before instead of after.” Maybe it isn’t the phone that’s the serpent. “And he’ll be happy even if Lilah won’t. Anyway, it’s a big auditorium. Maybe she won’t notice he’s there.”
“Ha!” Lilah would notice Tylor if he were wearing a disguise and the auditorium were the size of a football stadium. “What if he doesn’t answer?”
Sorrel groans. “Then you leave him a message. But hurry, Cel. Ms Santos will be here soon.”
Not three minutes after Tylor picks up, Astra and Winnie burst into the bedroom, loaded down with bags, as excited as hunters after a record kill. They dump the bags on Astra’s bed, then rush out again because shopping has made them ravenous. Celeste, deep in her conversation with her father, barely notices either their arrival or departure. Tylor, as predicted, is thrilled. Thrilled that he’s been invited to the concert. Thrilled that Celeste has a solo and a spot with the blues band.
“We’ll video the whole thing,” says Celeste’s father. “This is going to be a historic occasion. Your first official public appearance.”
And Celeste says, “We? You mean you and Jake?”
“Sure thing. He’s not going to want to miss this.”
“Oh,” says Celeste. She doesn’t remember Jake being part of the plan.
“Don’t worry about your mom,” says Tylor. “It’s been a long time now, and this is a special occasion. We’re coming to your graduation in June, so why shouldn’t we come to this?”
“I didn’t know that,” says Celeste. “About graduation.”
Her father laughs. “That’s because I just decided. In any case, I’m sure your mom’ll be fine with it. Like I said, it’s been a long time.”
It isn’t until she hangs up that Celeste realizes: probably the time hasn’t been long enough. Her mother is standing solidly in the doorway.
“Astra said you were on the phone. Who were you talking to?” It sounds like an innocent question, as if she has no idea who was on the other end, but her smile shines like a brand new trap.
“Don’t bother lying,” advises Sorrel. “She knows.”
“Dad,” says Celeste.
Lilah continues to smile and sound as if she was born only yesterday – possibly late in the afternoon. “Really? Again? You only just talked to him.”
“Yeah. But he forgot to tell me something.” Celeste chews on her bottom lip for a second. “He’s going to come to the Christmas concert.”
“Is he?” If Lilah’s smile were a balloon, it would burst. “And is he bringing that man with him?”
“Jake,” says Celeste. “His name’s Jake. I don’t know. I didn’t actually invite him.”
“You know how hurtful I find this, don’t you, darling? How difficult it is having your father in my world like that?” It would be impossible for an independent observer to judge how hurtful or difficult that is, as she keeps right on smiling. “You might at least have asked me first. Considered my feelings.”
“Here we go…” says Sorrel.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— It was just— I said I had
to go to rehearsal soon and he asked for what and I told him all about the concert and then he said he’d love to come, and I just couldn’t not invite him, could I? I mean, he was going to visit for Christmas anyway. This is just a little sooner.”
“Rehearsal?” repeats Lilah. “You have a rehearsal this evening?”
Celeste nods. “Yeah. I told you. We’re having a full rehearsal every weekend till the concert.”
“But not tonight,” and suddenly her smile is her professional one; there’s no way you’re breaking this lease.
Celeste must know what her mother is saying – she has heard it before – but somehow doesn’t understand. “Yes. Ms Santos is coming to get me. I told you.”
“Oh, but I need you to stay home tonight.”
She has heard this before, too.
“Why? I didn’t know.”
“I have plans for tonight,” says her mother. “I thought I told you.” Her sigh is the sigh of a woman who puts up with a lot. “Maybe I forgot. You know how busy I am. I’m only one person. I can’t always keep track of everything.”
“I’m sorry. But I don’t think you did tell me. I really don’t remember—”
“Well, I’m sorry if you don’t remember, Celeste, but I’m afraid you have to be here,” says Lilah. “Winnie’s spending the night. You know they’re too young to be left by themselves.”
“They’re not too young, they’re just too dangerous,” says Sorrel. “She doesn’t dare leave them alone.”
“But I have to go,” says Celeste. “It’s important. The concert—”
“Surely you can miss one rehearsal,” says Lilah. “It’s not like you’re going to forget how to play the violin in one week.”
“My solo’s on the piano,” says Celeste.
“You’re not going to forget how to play that either. I’ll tell you what.” Lilah has come up with the perfect solution. “Why don’t you order pizza for supper? So you don’t have to cook.”
“She wasn’t going to cook,” says Sorrel to the oblivious Lilah. “You were. Celeste was going out.”
“It’s too bad you haven’t made any new friends,” says Lilah, “or you could have one of them come over to keep you company.” She glances at her watch. “Will you look at the time? I have to get going.”
As soon as Lilah leaves the room Sorrel says, “I have another great idea. You want to hear it?”
“Not really.” Celeste is newly aware that what she used to think of as resilience in herself is simply resignation.
“Call Ruben.”
“Ruben? I don’t want company, Sorrel. Besides, I have to call Ms Santos. Tell her I can’t make it tonight.”
“No, you have to call Ruben. Ask him to come and stand guard over the gruesome twosome till you get back.”
“He won’t do it. He hasn’t been over here in a year. And he hardly ever leaves his house at night. And—”
“Maybe he’ll surprise you. It can’t hurt to ask.”
The contact picture for Ruben, put on before Celeste knew he’d given up on art, is a painting of Venice by John Singer Sargent. Celeste hits Call, and turns her back on Sorrel. “I have a problem,” she says when Ruben answers. “I have rehearsal tonight, for the concert, but my mom has to go out and Astra has Winnie staying over. And, you know, they can’t really be left alone. I mean, you know what Astra’s like. And Winnie’s even worse. They do whatever they get in their heads. Even when someone’s here they can get out of hand… Yeah, exactly, I forgot about that. Like the time they locked us all out of the house. But that was a while ago. Now they’re more likely to lock us in. Anyway, I was wondering if…”
As it happens, Celeste has caught Ruben in one of those moments when every thought seems to have some regret attached to it. Across the hall, his mother’s typewriter clatters on, and Ruben’s mind rolls on – thinking of his dad, thinking of Sylvia, thinking of his friends. Thinking of Paul Klee working despite the pain; of Van Gogh shooting himself in the chest. Remembering Sorrel saying that he’s running away from life. Thinking of ending up with nothing. And then his phone rings, and he looks down to see Celeste smiling back at him. He’s not the only one with problems. “So you want me to come over and watch them while you go to rehearsal?” asks Ruben.
Celeste stares at the phone. She definitely wasn’t expecting him to volunteer.
“For God’s sake,” hisses Sorrel. “Say yes!”
“Yes,” says Celeste. “That would be great. I know it’s short notice and everything. And it’s raining. And Astra and Winnie can be a real challenge. And—”
“Consider me on my way,” says Ruben.
When Celeste turns back to Sorrel, expecting to see an I-told-you-so look on her face, there is no one there.
Sorrel knows she told her so; she doesn’t need to say it again.
The Gwinnets’ car pulls into the drive; the engine cuts and the headlamps go off. Bernard Gwinnet climbs out of the driver’s seat and slams the door so that anyone hearing it will know that he’s not in a very good mood. His wife and son get out quickly, and follow him to the house in the silence you’d expect if the world had just ended. This post-apocalyptic absence of sound has been with them since they left the school, and, if experience is anything to go by, could last for several days. Officer Gwinnet is not a particularly generous man, but when he’s angry and unhappy he likes to make sure that everyone shares that rage and unhappiness with him.
Tonight was the first game of the season, and the Beacons didn’t win. Didn’t win in the way that the Axis countries in World War II didn’t win. Orlando took as long as he could to shower and change into his street clothes, but his parents didn’t give up and leave without him. They were waiting for him in the lobby as always. His mother was smiling hopefully, but without conviction. His father looked like a ticking bomb.
Orlando hurried up to them. “I’m sorry, Dad. I guess we had a bad night.”
Which was when his father spoke for the last time. “Is that what you think?” He spat the words from his mouth as if they were a bad piece of meat. “What I think is that you’re a disgrace to the memory of your brother. What I think is that God took the wrong son.”
Suzanne nervously patted his arm, as if he was the one who needed comforting, but he shook her off and strode out to the car, just as he shakes her off now when she offers him a nice hot drink, and marches upstairs, an unforgiving storm of a man still in his parka and baseball cap.
“He didn’t mean what he said,” Orlando’s mother whispers as they watch Bernard disappear around the landing. “He’s just upset.”
Of course he meant it. Orlando has always known that if his father had been asked which son he wanted taken from him he wouldn’t have chosen Raylan, but it’s never been said out loud before. Which makes a difference. Just as the parents of a missing child will never give up hope until they see the body, until his father said those words it was possible to pretend he never thought them.
“I know. It’s okay.” Orlando kisses his mother’s cheek. “I’m wiped out, Mom. I’m going to bed.”
But, as always, his mother hasn’t stopped trying to make things better. “And he knows you’re not to blame for losing the game. He knows that. He just cares so much.”
Cares so much about the game.
“Yeah, I know.” Of course it’s Orlando’s fault. The Beacons didn’t just lose against their arch-rivals, the Willes Wildcats, the county champs; they were decimated, humiliated and generally made to look as if a Brownie troop could have done better. Basketball may be a team sport, but Orlando is the Beacons’ star player, and the only way he could have played worse was if he’d actually managed to score points for the other side. The rest of the Beacons played badly, too, but he can’t help feeling that they were following his lead – a lead that led straight to defeat.
It’s either ironic or a further example of how unfair life can be that this has happened despite the fact that ever since that first practice, Orlando has been wor
king harder than ever. Determined. Focused. Single-minded. Disciplined. He’s managed a few dance practices and one meeting of the Peakston Players, but, that aside, has kept his mind and his energy on honing his skills getting that ball through that hoop, and making sure the other team doesn’t. And it worked. In practice games he’s never played better. Never played better, and has refused to think about Sorrel even for a second. Which has also worked. She’s stayed away. And she stayed away tonight. His fear that he would be out on the court and suddenly look over to see her sitting in the bleachers, cheering him on, was totally unfounded. No, in a further example of irony pushed to its limits, it wasn’t the sight of Sorrel smiling at him that ruined his game. It was the sight of his father – leaning forward, clenched and white with tension, looking as if the future of mankind depended on what happened that night in the Beaconspoint High School gym. Orlando didn’t just lose the will to win, he lost the will to play. He saw the intense expressions on the faces of the other players and the intense expressions on the faces of the spectators and the take-no-prisoners expression on the face of his father, and all he could think was: What am I doing here?
Orlando slowly climbs the stairs, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over his head and forget for a while that this night ever happened. But, of course, it isn’t over yet. He opens the door to his bedroom, and there is Sorrel, stretched out on his bed, wearing jeans and a Beaconsfield High sweatshirt, watching a film on his laptop.
“I take it you guys lost,” says Sorrel, hitting Pause.
Has the news of his defeat spread even to the spirit world? “What makes you say that?”
She looks amused; which makes one of them. “I have telepathic powers. And besides that, the temperature dropped like a hundred degrees when Officer Gwinnet came upstairs. So I’m guessing he’s blaming you.”
