Hello, I Must Be Going

by Dyan Sheldon

  Orlando kicks off his shoes and sits down in the chair at his desk. “Well maybe he’s right.”

  “How’s that? You mean you were the only player on the team?”

  “I mean maybe I should’ve been an inspiration and not a drag on them. Maybe I should’ve worked harder.” Instead of giving ninety-eight per cent, give a hundred and fifty per cent.

  Sorrel sits up. “Or maybe your dad should’ve been some big sports hero himself instead of making his kids do it for him. Like my mom should’ve been a supermodel instead of getting knocked up with the twins and getting married.”

  “Go away, Sorrel. I have enough on my mind right now. I don’t need you needling me.”

  “I’m not needling you. I’m trying to make you stop feeling like everything’s your fault. So you had a bad game. So what?”

  “So I shouldn’t’ve.”

  “Shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t…” She shakes her head back and forth. “You know what the Taoists say, don’t you?”

  The Taoists? Suddenly she’s quoting Taoist philosophy at him?

  “I’m guessing it has nothing to do with basketball.”

  She sticks her tongue out at him. “In basketball as in life, Orlando.” And then she just sits there, her head tilting to one side, staring at him with eyes that never blink.

  “Okay, I give up. What do the Taoists say?”

  “The Taoists say that shit happens.”

  “Well, there’s a revelation. How many centuries did it take them to work that one out?”

  “You’re missing the point as usual,” says Sorrel. “Shit happens. Things you can’t do anything about. Things that are out of your control.”

  “Now you’re missing the point! How can you not see that? This was in my control.”

  “I didn’t mean the game. I meant your brother.”

  “For the love of God, will you go away?” He seems to have moved from depression to anger. “Just go away and leave me alone!”

  The only answer is a very gentle knock on his door.

  “Orlando?” His mother is whispering. “Orlando, are you all right, honey?”

  He takes three deep breaths, gets up and opens the door so she can see that he’s all right. “I’m fine, Mom.” He’s whispering, too, now. “I was just, you know, talking to myself. You go back to bed.”

  When he turns to the room, Sorrel, of course, is gone.

  Proving that she can do as she’s told. When she wants to.

  After Sorrel reminded him about it, Ruben found himself constantly thinking about the painting he did of the four of them trying to get the Gwinnets’ neighbour’s cat out of that tree. What did he do with it? Where could it be? He’s looked everywhere possible, to the point where Sylvia was standing in the hallway outside his bedroom door wanting to know what he was doing, he was making such a racket – but, unlike Sorrel, it had disappeared without a trace.

  It’s only today, when he gets home from school, that Ruben remembers the closet at the top of the stairs. It’s where Sylvia keeps all the copies of her books – author’s copies, reprints, foreign editions – and he certainly has no memory of putting it in there, but that, of course, doesn’t mean that he didn’t. So, after he checks on his mother and grabs something to eat, he takes a torch and starts his search. He’s standing on a box of books, reaching for a stack of folders on the top shelf, when he loses his balance, drops the torch and stumbles to the floor. Disoriented and unable to tell where the floor ends and the staircase begins, he steps onto air and tumbles down the stairs, ending in a heap at the bottom.

  Ruben sits up – gingerly – not sure whether or not he is hurt or merely surprised.

  “What happened?” His mother is on the landing, lantern held high, peering down through the shadows. “Are you all right, honey?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I just kind of fell.” He rolls his shoulders, moves his hands, winces when he flexes his left foot.

  “You fell standing on the floor?”

  “Actually,” says Ruben, “I was standing on—”

  “You know, I’m a little worried about you.” She’s worried about him? “Always talking to yourself… Thumping around… Losing your balance like that… Are you having headaches? Dizzy spells?”

  “No, Mom, I was—”

  He breaks off from his second attempt to explain that he was standing on a box because, for the first time in nearly a year, Gaia Pendragon leaves the safety of the enchanted tower that is the second floor and comes down as far as the bottom of the stairs. Being Sylvia Rossi; being mom. Feeling his ankles. She looks around bewilderedly, as if only just noticing how dark it is. “There’s not much light here, is there?” Not much, as in none. “You could’ve broken your neck falling like that.” She carefully helps him stand, making him lean on her. “What on earth were you doing? Were you looking for something in the closet?”

  He and Sylvia don’t talk about the past. The past is always with them, of course – a herd of elephants crowded into their little house, crapping all over and almost heroically ignored – but there’s no Remember that time… Remember when Dad… As if touching the wound will make it bleed.

  But it’s so unusual for her to be looking after him – for her to be worried about him – that when she asks what he was doing he tells her the truth. Searching for the past.

  To his surprise, rather than recoil in horror, she smiles. “Of course I know where that painting is. It’s in my office.”

  Ruben hobbles back upstairs to her room with her, bruised but definitely not broken. She swings the lantern towards the far wall. “It’s right there.”

  Ruben looks where she’s pointing, and there it is, right there in plain sight, but disguised by the general gloom as just another picture handed down through the family with nowhere else to go – like the paint-by-numbers boat at sunset he did when he was three and the cover of his mother’s first published novel. Right there all the time, the one place he never thought of looking. Orlando, Sorrel, Celeste and him, caught for ever as they were right then – never to change, never to disappear, never to grow old and never to die. But the image is more than just a copy of that moment. Ruben isn’t a camera, freezing time. His painting has added something to the photograph. It’s added him, how he saw them all, how he felt about them, how they actually were.

  “I love that painting. It always cheers me up.” The lantern light falls on the four friends, the cat and the tree. “Look how happy you all are.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “We were all pretty happy.”

  She doesn’t turn to him, but says, “Don’t you miss them, Ruben? They never come over any more. Not even Orlando.”

  “I see them at school. Well, you know, not Sorrel…” Which is truer than his mother can possibly imagine. “But everybody else. So, no, I don’t miss them. I see them all the time.”

  “I miss them,” says Sylvia. “They were always laughing and fooling around. Full of life.”

  “Yeah, well, you know… It’s a busy year.”

  And then, still gazing at that moment – Orlando telling Ruby not to worry; Ruben telling Orlando to for God’s sake hurry up before he drops him; Sorrel and Celeste laughing too much to speak – Sylvia says, “Are you going to paint another picture this year?”

  Ruben continues looking at the picture on the wall, but suddenly his mind’s eye is seeing the photo of them all at Sorrel’s birthday party, long ago last June.

  “You mean for Christmas?” Not only has he given less than no thought to doing another painting, it never occurred to him they’d be celebrating Christmas. In the dark? “Are we doing Christmas this year?”

  “Of course we are.” She sounds as if he’s the one who’s consistently unreasonable and out of touch with reality. She turns from the painting to the painter. “When did we decide not to celebrate Christmas this year?”

  When you took all the light bulbs out of their sockets and cancelled it last year.

  “I hadn’t thought about an
other painting.” Why would he? He was under the impression that they’d given up Christmas as totally as he’s given up art. Although perhaps he hasn’t given it up that totally; it isn’t true that he threw everything out. He’d sooner cut off his ear. His paints and crayons, chalks and brushes are all in the attic. “Maybe,” says Ruben. “Maybe I’ll do another one.”

  For most people, the word “maybe” means possibly. Perhaps. It could happen, but, then again, it might not. I’ll think about it and see what I decide. Watch this space. Sorrel Groober used to be one of those people, but now, of course, she isn’t. Ruben wasn’t aware of her presence when he and Sylvia were looking at his painting, but she must have been lurking in the shadows because when he gets to his room, there she is, going through the photos he’s put on his computer.

  “Your mother’s a genius,” she says, knowing he’s there without having to bother looking around. “This is such a great idea. Look, here are the pictures from the party. One of them would be perfect. I mean, it’s sad, too, of course. You know, my last birthday and everything, but that day wasn’t sad. That day was awesome.”

  She’s worn him down so much by now that Ruben doesn’t even think of telling her to get off his computer, or to go away, or to for-the-love-of-God leave him alone. He doesn’t even ask how she knows what he was thinking. He says, “I didn’t say I was going to do it. I said I’d think about it.”

  “And disappoint your mom? Now? When she’s starting to loosen up? Are you crazy?”

  Yes, he may very well be crazy, but that’s turning out to be the least of his problems.

  “Loosen up?” His efforts to control his life – to be completely responsible, to make safe, sure choices, to live by plan not whim or intuition – seem to be going the way of the dodo and the dinosaur. “What are you talking about – loosen up?”

  “You heard her.” Sorrel clicks the mouse, and the printer hums. “She noticed how dark it is. You can start putting lights on now, she’s not going to freak out.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “Yes you do.” As the pictures she’s chosen begin to print, Sorrel looks around at him. “She’s worried about you. Don’t you get it? She’s worried about you, not about herself.” Sorrel grins. “Because you’re talking to yourself and being weird falling down the stairs and stuff! How fantastic is that?”

  “I’ve been trying not to worry her. I—”

  “And that’s worked just brilliantly, hasn’t it?” Her voice and expression are in perfect harmony: withering contempt. “That’s really ripped the space blankets off the windows. Instead of involving her you’ve let her slip away.” She stands up. “Come on, you have to get your painting gear so you can get started.”

  “I thought I told you. I got rid of it all.”

  “No you didn’t. You’re not that big a jerk.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m waiting, Ruben.” Because she’s folded her arms in front of her she looks as if she’s tapping her foot. Impatiently. “So where’d you stash it? Basement? Attic? Garage?”

  You can fight City Hall. You can fight a parking ticket. You can fight an unfair grade. But you can’t fight someone who isn’t there.

  “Attic.”

  “Bring a bulb for the landing light,” Sorrel orders. “We don’t want you falling down the stairs again.”

  The two of them are in the attic, searching among the boxes for the one that holds all his tools and materials when he hears his mother in the hallway below, calling his name.

  “Ruben? Ruben, honey? Are you up there?”

  He gives Sorrel a now-you’ve-done-it look. He knew it. Why does he listen to someone who got herself run over? His mother’s upset that the light is on in the hall.

  “Yeah, Mom.” He goes to the opening and looks down, Sorrel beside him, looking down, too. His mother’s at the bottom of the folding ladder, her trusty lantern hanging unneeded from her hand. “I thought I might do that picture like you suggested. I stored all my art stuff up here.”

  “Oh, that’s what you’re doing.” She nods. “I wasn’t sure. But I was thinking, while you’re there, maybe you could find those lights your dad used to put up every Christmas. The red and green ones? I’m pretty sure they’re up there somewhere.”

  “I’ll have a look,” says Ruben.

  When he turns back to Sorrel she couldn’t look more supercilious if she were a Divine Right King. “I should’ve bet you she wouldn’t be freaked. Maybe from now on you’ll actually listen to me.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” says Ruben.

  There’s a large tree decorated with white lights and silver balls in one corner of the room and Christmas songs playing on the sound system. Orlando is also in one corner of the room, talking to a girl named Shannon who is someone’s cousin from out of town. Shannon is smart, interesting and attractive. And she makes it clear that she thinks he’s all those things, too; he’s made no joke that isn’t hilarious, said nothing that isn’t amazing. Which makes a pleasant change.

  It’s two weeks before Christmas, and this is Coach Mena’s annual party for the basketball squad. Orlando is here because he had to come (there would have been two more weeks of silence from his father if he didn’t show some team spirit), and because he thought the party would cheer him up. This isn’t the unhappiest day in an unhappy year, but it is definitely in the line-up. Exactly twelve months ago, while he was driving himself crazy trying to find the perfect gift for her, Sorrel broke up with him. They’d had three amazing weeks together when, his hormones having the time of their lives, he’d never felt better – like he was the coolest, greatest, nicest, best-looking guy who had ever lived – and then, without so much as a ten-minute warning, it was all over. Just like that. Here today and gone tomorrow. Big winner one minute; loser the next. was all she wrote.

  The party hasn’t stopped him from remembering what day this is, but it is making him feel slightly less bad about it. Shannon’s attention, although largely unwanted, is nonetheless appreciated. He’s not a complete waste of space; some girls like him.

  But somewhere around the fifth time Bing Crosby sings “White Christmas”, Orlando has an overwhelming desire to be home. “You know,” he says, as Bing wishes once again that they have snow on the twenty-fifth, “I think I’m going to get going. I feel like I’m getting a headache. There’s so much noise.”

  “That’s perfect. I’m pretty done here, too. I’ll get my coat.” She has a really nice smile. “You can walk me home.”

  This was so not in his plans that he misunderstands her. “I thought you live in Chester.”

  Her look says he’s hopeless, but endearing. “Not tonight, I don’t.” She gives him an affectionate punch in the arm. “Tonight I live a few blocks away. Remember? I’m Selby Rider’s cousin?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

  It’s a cold, star-bright night. Shannon puts her arm through his, and they walk slowly, looking at the decorations on the houses – Santa and his elves on porches and in windows, reindeer on the rooftops, a bedazzle of lights across windows and lawns – Shannon doing a good job of holding up both sides of the conversation. When they get to the Riders’ she says, “I’m here all weekend. If you want to do something.” She’s standing so close he can make a pretty good guess at what she’s been eating. “Maybe you could show me the town.”

  “Yeah, I – I could do that.” She’s nice, she’s pretty, she likes him, he likes her – and she is very definitely waiting to be kissed. What could make him feel better than that? He leans towards her.

  And there, standing in the driveway smiling at them, is Sorrel, all dressed up for a winter night in a plaid jacket and matching hat. He jumps back so fast he hits the giant illuminated candy cane behind him.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing I—” It’s just that I can’t kiss you with my dead girlfriend watching. “My head.” And now it really is starting to throb. �
�I really have to go.”

  “But—”

  “I have your number, Shannon. I’ll ring you. I’ll show you the town.”

  And he is off the stoop and on the front path as fast as possible without running. He turns when he reaches the pavement. Shannon is standing staring after him. He waves. “I’ll give you a call!”

  “So she seems nice.” Sorrel is right beside him as he starts down the street.

  “You have to ruin everything, don’t you?” His breath makes tiny clouds in front of them. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why can’t you stay wherever it is you are when you aren’t hassling me?”

  “Me? What’d I do?”

  “You know damn well what you did. Nobody invited you to the party.”

  “I wasn’t at the party. That’s not really my scene any more.”

  “Oh, excuse me. You weren’t at the party. But you’re here now. So I guess your new scene is interfering in my life.”

  “You didn’t really want to kiss her. It was pretty obvious. Not to her, maybe, but to a casual observer.” Sorrel skips a few steps to keep up with him. “So, really, you should be thanking me. I did you a favour.”

  He refuses to look at her. “You never do me any favours. All you do is mess everything up.”

  Suddenly she’s in front of him, walking backwards. “Oh, I get it. You’re still sore at me, aren’t you? Because I dumped you. That’s why you’re mad at me. Not because I interrupted your big kiss.”

  “Don’t be so full of yourself. That isn’t why I’m pissed off. I’m pissed off because for some reason now that you’re dead you won’t stop bothering me.”

  “I knew it. I always knew it. You never really got over me. You always thought we’d get back together, didn’t you?”

  “No, of course not.” He didn’t think, he hoped. “But it would’ve been nice if you’d told me why we broke up. If you’d had the decency to let me in on the story instead of acting like I wasn’t involved.”

  “I did tell you.”

  “No you didn’t. You said it wasn’t me, it was you. Which is like the oldest phoney line in the book. Everybody says that so they spare your feelings and don’t have to get into a big argument.”