10 Things I Can See from Here

by Carrie Mac

  “I saw you looking,” Jessica said.

  I was going to deny it, but I stammered an apology instead. “S-s-s-s-sorry.”

  Jessica laughed. “No problem.” She grabbed her bag and closed the locker with one finger, which she then dragged lightly across my locker, the one next to hers. “I like to look too.” She patted my head, as if I were a little pet. Which was kind of how it played out, in the end.

  A ponytail. A headband. Hair down. Hair up. Skirt. Shorts. A dress. Tank top and jeans. No. What the hell. Earrings? No earrings. Small earrings? Or a cute T-shirt? No. Tank for sure. Too hot for a T-shirt. Shorts to be casual. It was casual, right? Mom’s scarf as a belt. Nice touch. Too bohemian? What did it matter. Did it matter? What did bohemian even mean? What the hell.

  Tank top.

  Shorts with the scarf belt.

  Done.

  By then I had to leave, so there was no more changing my mind unless I wanted to be late. On my way out, I found Claire leaning against the kitchen counter, wincing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She let out a breath. “Braxton Hicks.”

  “Who?”

  “Braxton Hicks contractions.” Claire straightened and smiled. “That’s better. Practice contractions. That’s all. Baby’s fine.”

  “It’s way too early.”

  “Absolutely.” She reached for my hand and placed it against her ribs. “That’s a kick. Feel it?”

  Nothing. Nothing. But then I did feel it! It was like a kick, and then a push, like the baby was stretching.

  And then I was going to be late, so I hurried out of the house and up the street without thinking about what I was wearing at all.

  I slowed to a stop about a block away from Continental.

  Was I wearing totally the wrong thing?

  I should’ve worn a dress. I looked down at myself. Too casual. I looked like a slob. And had I even put on deodorant? I closed my eyes and tried to think. That morning? No. The text from Salix had thrown me off. Squeezing my eyes shut tighter, I cringed. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t.

  “Hey.” A hand on my shoulder. When I recovered from the surprise, Salix was laughing. “What’re you doing?”

  “I was j-j-just thinking.”

  “What about?” Salix was as cute as I remembered. Maybe even more so. She was wearing skinny pin-striped pants folded up to her calves, and red suspenders and red Converse sneakers and a tight black tank top with the word almost printed on it in big white letters.

  “Nothing, really. Almost what?”

  “Just ‘almost.’ ” She started walking. “Come on. That’s our table.”

  Our table? Outside tables were highly coveted at Continental. People came in the morning and set up to stay for hours, with newspapers and knitting and friends and books and computers. And when they did finally decide it was time to leave, there were always people hovering nearby.

  But there it was. An empty table with a coffee cup holding down a piece of paper with Salix’s name on it and Reserved scrawled above a skull and crossbones and signed, “Evil Pirate Overlords of Management.”

  I reached for a chair, but she beat me to it and pulled it out for me.

  “Thanks.”

  The sidewalks were crowded with couples and old men and children and dogs and all the bustle that came with a Friday afternoon on the Drive. A bus pulled up and emptied, and a little old lady struggled to get her shopping cart off. Salix ran to help, and when the woman turned, her smile was wide and her eyes were pinched at the corners and she was wearing a pink cardigan. Instead of asking about the table, I heard Mrs. Patel, loud and clear.

  Come over tomorrow.

  She gave me a peck on the cheek.

  I will deal the cards for rummy.

  But I hadn’t gone. I hadn’t even thought about it. We went to visit Grandma. So the cards ended up on the floor instead.

  I didn’t want to think about her.

  I’d spent so much time thinking about her. Surely that was enough?

  I could think of her later.

  But images kept pushing in. An ace of hearts by her limp hand. The old pink cardigan. And the TV with the soap opera blaring. The broom and the dustpan. The walls with the shadows where frames had hung.

  Salix took the seat across from me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” The paramedics and the firefighters and the police, all just standing around her dead body. I knew there was nothing they could do, but still, they should’ve done something. I sat up and smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “I used to work here,” Salix said. “For about three weeks. I broke seven glasses and three mugs and got a third-degree burn on my wrist. I was fired, thank God. But they still love me. So they saved me a table, in case you were wondering about the miracle.”

  “I was wondering, I just…got lost in my thoughts for a moment. So awesome about the table.” Nothing in my voice conveyed awesome or miracle or even interesting person.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Oh. I don’t know—”

  How would this go? Should I get up and go inside with her? Or should I let Salix order and then give her money? Was this her treat?

  “My treat,” Salix said.

  Had I said that out loud?

  “What do you—what’s something that—” I stammered. “I d-d-don’t…” I took a breath and tried again. “What’s good?”

  “The mochas. Iced or hot.”

  “Sure. That sounds good. I’ve got money.” I dug in my bag for my wallet, but it wasn’t there. I pulled out my sketchbook and pencil case before finally finding a handful of coins at the bottom. I stared into my bag, horrified. My cheeks were suddenly hot. Should I go back home to get it?

  “It’s on me, Maeve.” Salix put a hand on my wrist. “Don’t worry about it. Iced or hot?”

  “Iced, I guess. Thank you.”

  “Done.”

  She held the door open for a mom with a baby on her hip—that made three people she’d helped so far, if the baby counted too—and then followed her inside and up to the counter, where she leaned on her elbows and chatted with the boy working the espresso machine. She looked out the window and saw me watching her. I quickly looked away and flipped through my sketchbook.

  Salix returned with four glasses: two big ones—the iced mochas with chocolate whipped cream—and two little ones filled with water. She set them down. “It’s amazing that I did that without dropping one.” She pulled a wax paper bag out of her pocket and lifted out a big cookie. “Gingersnap.” She broke it in two and then set the pieces on top of the bag in the middle of the table. “You pick. The person who breaks it gets second dibs. That’s how it goes.”

  “You’re obviously not an only child.”

  “I have an older sister.” She pushed the cookie my way. “Take your pick.”

  “Thank you.” I took half. I broke off a corner. My mouth was dry. I chewed and chewed. When I swallowed, I reached for the water. My hand was shaking, and the water sloshed in the glass as I brought it to my lips.

  “So, hi.”

  “What?”

  “We never said hi.”

  “Hi.” I laughed, and the knot in my stomach began to loosen. “How was fiddle camp?”

  “Great. I had the little kids. They’re so funny. It’s like a bunch of feral cats trying to sing in tune, only it’s fifteen violins. There was a lot of screeching and yowling.”

  Salix’s violin case sat at her feet, along with the same beat-up backpack. “Who’s the guy on your backpack?”

  “Beethoven,” Salix said.

  “The blind guy?”

  “That’s Bach.”

  “Ah.” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  “What kind of music are you into?”

  “I like to listen to it. Does that count?”

  “Depends on what kinds.”

  “Pretty much anything except country and soapy jazz.”

  “Soapy jazz?” Salix laughed. “What�
��s soapy jazz?”

  “Sleepy and slippery and oozy. My dad calls it soapy jazz.” My throat was dry again. I took a sip of my mocha, but there was so much whipped cream that I had to tip the glass way up before the coffee made its way to my lips. And then it was in a rush, and it sloshed down my chin. I pulled the cup away, ending up with a sizeable whipped-cream mustache.

  “I asked for extra whipped cream.” Salix offered me a napkin, and I wiped it away. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Elevator music.”

  “What?”

  “Soapy jazz.”

  “Okay, sure. I know what you mean. But what about real jazz?”

  “I like real jazz.” Was that the right answer? “My dad has a huge collection of great jazz.”

  “Good, because I don’t know if we could continue sharing this table if you didn’t like real jazz.”

  “Define ‘real jazz.’ ”

  “I like the old stuff. Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke. Django Reinhardt. That kind of thing.”

  “Never heard of Bix Blahblahbeck, but everyone knows Louis Armstrong. Who doesn’t love ‘What a Wonderful World’?”

  “It’s not my favorite.”

  “Blasphemy.” This was feeling easier now. “And I know Django Reinhardt. My dad loves him. Can you play his stuff?”

  “I can. Want me to play a bit for you?”

  “Sure.” A cute girl playing the violin for me at a sidewalk café? I wouldn’t have been surprised if a Tyrannosaurus rex had lurched down the street and swallowed me whole. It was about as likely.

  When Salix stood up and began to play, everyone turned to listen. All the people at the other tables, people walking by with their groceries and dogs and toddlers and cell phones in hand. The guy who ran the used-book store next door came out, and so did his customers. Salix played for about five minutes, and when she stopped, everyone cheered.

  “Where do I put the money?” one woman said.

  “That was a freebie. By request.”

  “That was amazing,” I said. The people hung around for a long moment, but when she put her violin back in its case, they slowly drifted away.

  “Thanks.” Salix took a drink of her coffee. “You said you don’t play an instrument?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the school band?”

  “No.” Speaking of school: “Do you go to Brit?”

  “Windsor House.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Strathcona. It’s a democratic school, which basically means we can do whatever we want whenever we want and go whenever we want.”

  “I’m registered at Brit.”

  “Change that. Windsor. Definitely Windsor. We even have a carnival band, which I think you should join.”

  “But I don’t know how to play anything.”

  “That’s the beauty of a carnival band. No one will notice.” She shook her head, marveling. “I can’t believe that Billy Glover is your dad and you don’t play an instrument. You have to in my family. It’s a rule.”

  “Not many rules in my house.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’re an awesome violin player. Would you have learned it if your parents didn’t push you to?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I kind of wish my dad had kept trying to teach me to play the guitar.”

  “There’s still time.”

  Neither of us said anything for a beat too long, and then I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything, hoping that Salix would say something first. And then she did.

  “How was your week?”

  Not a hard question.

  I could’ve come up with something. But actually, I couldn’t. I should’ve known she’d ask that. What have you been up to? Do anything interesting since I saw you? How was your week?

  “M-m-my week?” Mrs. Patel’s legs sticking out. Samosas and French fries spilled on the carpet. A queen of spades. A bloody splotch of ketchup. “It was f-f-fine.”

  “Really?”

  I blinked.

  “Your face says it wasn’t fine.” Salix looked genuinely worried. Which made it even worse. “What happened?”

  “It was j-j-just that…” But there was nothing just about it, and all of a sudden I was telling her about finding Mrs. Patel in her pink cardigan, and the paramedics and the police and the soap opera blaring on the TV, and the movers. Salix listened, her face shifting from worried to curious to horrified to sympathetic.

  “Oh, I…that’s horrible,” Salix said. “Absolutely horrible. I don’t even know what else to say.”

  And just like that, I wrecked the date. Why would Salix want to hang out with someone who could recite the entire soap-opera conversation that was happening in the background while she knelt beside her dead neighbor?

  “I should go.” I stared at my drink. I couldn’t look at her eyes, kind and inquiring. If I did, I might cry.

  “Are you going to go to her funeral?”

  “It was yesterday.” I was nearly breathless. I didn’t want to tell her that we walked out of Mrs. Patel’s service. I didn’t want to tell her about driving around and looking for Dad. I didn’t want to tell her that we didn’t find him. “Look, I’m really sorry. I have to get going.”

  “Already?”

  I nodded quickly. “I have to look after my little brothers.”

  “Oh.” Salix stood up. “Uh. Okay. Maybe we could—”

  But I had already stuffed my sketchbook into my bag and was gone, stuttering a goodbye over my shoulder as I resisted the urge to run down the sidewalk. I paused after a few steps. I should say something. I should make it less weird. I should let her know that it had nothing to do with her. It was all me. All the weird was all me. I turned, and there was Salix staring at me, and she looked so confused, and I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I turned again and bumped into a spinner of books. It tipped over, scattering cheap paperbacks onto the sidewalk. I tripped on one and then broke my fall by reaching for the produce display in front of the Persian market. A cascade of oranges fell, rolling into the street. The next car ran over them, bright little explosions against the hot black asphalt.

  “Maeve!” It was Salix, coming to help. Of course she would come to help. But I didn’t want her to. I leapt up and took off at a run. I kept running. “Maeve! Stop!” But I didn’t stop, and I didn’t look back. I ran all the way to the park and turned the corner and caught my toe on a split in the sidewalk. There was nothing to break my fall this time, and so I ended up on my hands and knees.

  Whatever Hope died suddenly today, surprising no one in particular. Survived by Salix Unknown-Last-Name-Because-It-Didn’t-Even-Get-That-Far, who narrowly escaped the mess that is Maeve “Stupidity” Glover. Donations can be made to Whatever Hope’s future that wasn’t: “Two Girls in Love.” There will be no service, because there wasn’t anything in the first place to have a service about.

  Salix texted seven times from when I got back onto my feet to when I stumbled through the courtyard.

  Hey.

  Are you okay?

  What happened?

  You didn’t finish your half of the cookie. It’s very sad about that.

  Then a picture of the cookie sitting on the paper bag, with a sad face drawn on with marker.

  I’ll save it for you.

  Hello?

  As if we’d see each other again. Because I’d genuinely blown it this time, no mistaking. She was just being nice. I did not text back. I sat on the curb and cried, so thankful that no one was in the courtyard. Why are you crying, Maeve? Oh, I don’t know. No reason. I just found my lovely neighbor’s dead body. That’s all. And I messed up a date with a girl I really liked. Or I was crying about all the other things. It’s not always obvious, Nancy said about crying. Sometimes you’re sure it’s one thing, but it’s something else. I didn’t want to think of all the things it could be. I wanted it to be about the date. This was ab
out screwing up with a really cute girl. A girl who helped little old ladies off the bus. A girl who could make an entire city block of people stop what they were doing to listen to her play her violin. The girl I wanted to hold hands with. The girl I wanted to kiss.

  Which would not be happening now.

  I rooted in my bag for my keys but couldn’t find them. I tipped my bag out and sifted through the pencils and sketchbook and erasers and coins and there was my wallet, jammed under a water bottle. It had been there all along. And my keys, too.

  I let myself in with an enormous sigh. I flopped onto my back and lay splayed on the dingy carpet, staring at the dust motes in the sunshine, the silence echoing with all the wrong and the stupid and the regret. I tried to see each particle, forcing my eyes to focus on the impossible, if only to distract me from thinking about anything else that had happened. Or hadn’t happened. Or was happening, even now. A hierarchy of happenings.

  A game of rummy that never happened

  A date that only halfway happened.

  Mom and Raymond happening and happening and happening.

  Whatever was happening with Dad.

  The baby who was happening, at a home birth that shouldn’t be happening.

  Mrs. Patel’s place so empty next door, and the images of her dead body that just kept happening.

  Ruthie and Jessica and everything that happened. And didn’t happen.

  Ruthie, and the friendship, not happening.

  Ruthie translated the world through Doctor Who episodes and intricate plotlines from obscure Japanese video games. She saw numbers and formulas in the same way that I could see lines and shapes of objects and draw them to life. Ruthie, who lumbered up and down the locker-lined hallways at school, awkward in her broad-shouldered body, her big feet shoved into gigantic sneakers with Daleks on the sides, her Tardis-shaped backpack snugged to her back with both straps. Nobody used both straps. No one at all. All the other students hung their backpacks on one shoulder, with one strap. Not two. I tried to explain this to Ruthie once, but she only shrugged and said what did it matter how she carried her backpack. But it did matter. These little things mattered a lot.