Capture the World

by R. K. Ryals

  Stepping back, Aunt Trish checks the earring and smiles at me. “For what?”

  “I don’t know. For everything, I guess.”

  Gaze boring into mine, she fluffs my hair. “Reagan—”

  “This doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind,” I rush to say. “I still feel the same way about … you know. I just … I know it hasn’t been easy.” A tear is born in my eye, grows old, and then dies, slipping down my cheek, its entire lifespan no longer than a few seconds. “Thanks for stepping up, for letting us be here.”

  My mom and I are a team. Before, when the incident happened, the rest of my family scoffed at the responsibility of caring for us while Aunt Trish opened her doors, placed her hands on her wide hips—the women in my family are not curvaceously challenged—and said, “Let’s do this.”

  I haven’t made it easy on her.

  Aunt Trish’s eyes redden. “I’m wearing mascara, Reagan Reneè,” she warns, stern, the fierceness of it ruined by the smile playing hide and seek with her lips. “Things are working out with Matthew, huh?”

  “No!” I protest, baring my teeth at her, all animal. “Nope, so not ready to concede that victory.”

  She cocks her head. “Enjoy your denial. I see it in your eyes. A woman always knows.”

  “Whatever. Now you’re just being weird.” I laugh, think about what Matthew suggested I do with Mom, and then sober again. “What was Mom like as a kid?”

  The question is out before I have a chance to snatch it back.

  Trish freezes, her gaze sliding to the stairs. A beat of silence, and then, “Precocious,” she answers. “She was brilliant. Patient. A really good big sister.” Her lips tremble, threatening her mascara.

  My fingers draw figure eights on the kitchen counter. “You don’t have to say anything else. Save it for later. I just have this project I’m supposed to do for history. I have to study my parents, or something like that, and apply what I learn about them to myself. Not so much a family tree thing as a personal study.”

  Trish goes quiet, brows furrowed, her gaze examining the kitchen floor. We have random, mismatched, square tiles, tan on brown on cream. A spot near the stove is damaged, curling up. The house, like my aunt, is growing old and trying too hard not to show it.

  “I have something that might help you.” She disappears into the living room.

  The kitchen hugs me, the room’s warmth comforting. It’s my favorite spot, besides my bedroom, in the house. The walls are cream, the cabinets stained dark. Roosters glare at me from everywhere: windowsills, cabinets, and walls. Even the trashcan, a wooden wastebasket my aunt bought and had painted. She has a thing for chickens and apples. Red accents play off the cream and wood, and it always smells like the stove has just been used, like ghosts are cooking even when Trish isn’t.

  My aunt returns holding a large, clasped box. She offers it to me. “Don’t open it until you’re ready, okay?”

  Carefully, I accept it. “What is it?”

  “Memories.” She smiles softly. “Which doesn’t sound scary, but I personally think memories are the most terrifying thing in the world. They make us want things we can’t have.” Leaning forward, she captures my gaze with hers and holds it there. “A memory is a memory because the time for it has passed, captured or not. We can’t go back and change history. We can learn from old stories, maybe grow from the lessons they teach, but we can’t change them.”

  Her gaze narrows, widens, and then narrows again, as if she’s trying to find the best way to say the next words. “You can’t change her,” she whispers. “You just can’t, Reagan.”

  “I know.” I choke on the response. “I don’t want to.”

  She doesn’t say it aloud, but I see the contradictory ‘yes, you do’ in her eyes.

  The front door opens, Uncle Bobby’s voice filling the front hall. “How’s that beautiful wife of mine? Ready to go out?”

  He sounds young, carefree, and I suddenly realize how little I hear that from him. It only ever happens on nights like this, when he and Aunt Trish get dressed up to go do their thing. It’s their time, away from the worry, fear, and financial burdens.

  Bobby pops into the kitchen, stroking his beard. He’s wearing a plaid shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. He’s a tall man, broad and naturally loud. His voice booms even when he’s whispering. The beard ages him, but he keeps it because of his skin condition. The flaky flesh and the redness are trademarks of psoriasis, and while it doesn’t bother my aunt and I, he doesn’t like the stares when it flares up.

  Aunt Trish hugs him, grinning. “My pick tonight.”

  He groans.

  I fight a smile. Uncle Bobby’s idea of a good time is a thick, medium-well steak and a football game. A date with my aunt, however, could include anything from bagpipes and Thai food to spaghetti and line dancing.

  I used to wonder how my aunt and uncle made it work, how they could be in love with each other when they are so different. Now, I know it’s love because of their differences. It takes so much extra work, and a ton of compromises, for them to work. That’s like being forced to do homework every night for an eternity. No one signs up for that shit unless it’s love.

  “I don’t think you’re going to have to do much tonight,” Aunt Trish tells me, her voice breaking me out of my reverie. Snatching a purse off the counter, she glances at the stairs. “Your mom has been pretty content reading today.”

  She hesitates, and I wave them toward the door. “Go!” We do this every single time.

  Every third Friday of every month is date night for my aunt and uncle. I mean, they can go on a date anytime, but that particular night is religion, a permanent commandment in the Aunt Trish and Uncle Bobby Bible.

  They are barely out the door when I hear it, a tap,tap,tap coming from the back of the house.

  I stiffen. “Mom?”

  My mother doesn’t leave her room very often, preferring to take her meals upstairs and using the restroom across the hall for personal purposes, but there have been exceptions.

  Tap,tap,tap.

  There is nothing worse than hearing a sound in the house when home alone because, no matter how small it is, its suddenly this really huge thing. Like someone is coming to murder me, an earthquake is about to destroy the world, or—wonder of wonders—there’s been a zombie outbreak in the neighborhood.

  The hallway becomes something out of Stephen King’s The Shining.

  It’s dark outside, and I squint at the window next to the back door, jumping back on a scream when a face pops up.

  Yanking open the door, I pummel the perpetrator, open fists hammering his arms. “Damn it, you scared the shit out of me!”

  Laughing, Matthew Moretti stands on the back patio, taking the beating. “Not literally I hope.”

  I keep striking him.

  “He doesn’t have much sense, my nipote,” an amused voice offers.

  Oh my God! I drop my hands, my face so hot I know the blush is obvious.

  Matthew’s grin widens. “Nonna was over for dinner, and since you and I seem to be a recreational pastime for her, she wanted to come say hi.” He steps aside. “Say hi, Nonna.”

  An elderly woman with surprisingly few wrinkles and mostly black hair, the long strands hanging loose around her shoulders, steps free of the shadows. Her skin is as pretty as her grandson’s, the deep red blouse and cotton pants she wears emphasizing the olive tone. She smiles, and the corners of her eyes shatter like broken glass.

  “He thinks he’s amusing.” She has a beautiful voice and an even lovelier accent.

  “I didn’t mean to … I didn’t know—”

  “Matthew is to blame,” she says, waving off my stumbling words. “You were too easy on him.” She offers me her hand. “Perlita Moretti.”

  My palm meets hers in a handshake that’s both soft and firm.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I manage, releasing her hand to step back. “Would you like to come in?”

  I lead them to the kitche
n. “My aunt and uncle are out, but I can make some tea or coffee. That’s about the extent of my culinary skills.”

  Perlita studies the space, her dark eyes settling on the crowing roosters and soft light. Matthew leans against the counter, at ease, and I envy how he can do that, how he can just make himself at home.

  “Please don’t go to the trouble.” Sucking in a breath, Perlita releases it on a sigh. “It’s quiet and clean here.”

  Matthew laughs. “Don’t let Ma hear you say that.”

  His grandmother raises a wry brow. “She has an excuse.”

  And they’re all named after saints.

  She looks at me. “You won’t remember, but I used to help watch you when you were a baby.”

  She drops the revelation so quickly, it takes a moment for me to register her words. “I never—”

  “It was before you came to live with your Aunt Trish. I kept your sister, too.”

  Matthew stands at attention, the easy slouch he’d adopted gone. “Sister?”

  Perlita watches me, ignoring her grandson, and unease settles like a fist in the pit of my stomach.

  Realization dawns. “This was planned, wasn’t it?” I ask. “Is that why you came tonight? On date night?”

  My gaze falls to the box my aunt brought from the living room. What are you doing, Aunt Trish?

  Matthew steps away from the bar. “Nonna?”

  She doesn’t flinch. “I’ve been friends with your aunt for a long time, Reagan. Your mother, too. When your father and sister died, I invited Trish and Georgia to a grief group I became a part of after I lost my Ralph. Your aunt came. Still does occasionally. Your mother—”

  My hands fly to my mouth, my head shaking, begging her to stop. I don’t know how much the kids at school know about my history, what they know beyond my mother’s nervous breakdown, and I don’t want them to know.

  Approaching me, Perlita touches my shoulder, squeezing. “Your aunt brags on you all of the time. You’re a good girl, Reagan.” Her gaze catches mine. “Trish visited me twice a week for three months after my husband died. She’s a special woman, and I think a good deal of her.”

  We have a silent conversation with our eyes.

  “Give this a chance,” her gaze says.

  “I don’t want her sent away,” mine replies.

  Perlita nods. “If I overstepped my bounds asking my grandson to talk to you, I apologize. Truth is, I thought you two might be good for each other. Like your aunt has been for me.” She glances at Matthew. “You needed to be brought down a peg or two. All that attention you’ve been getting at school because of the team, and,” her gaze returns to me, “you needed some lifting.”

  Matthew looks angry, which surprises me. “I don’t mind being nice to people, Nonna, even without you asking me to, but maybe we should let Reagan work this out with—”

  “I’m going to do it,” I interrupt suddenly.

  Matthew pauses, glances at me, and frowns. “Excuse me?”

  It was the way he looked at his grandmother that settled it for me, the way he’d gotten angry on my behalf. Not only is it unexpected, it’s the push I need.

  “The video project,” I say. “I’m going to do it.”

  Matthew gawks, mouth open, at a complete loss of words. “Uh … okay?”

  “Because, you know,” I grin, “phones.”

  He laughs. “You’re weird, Lawson.”

  “You like weird,” I remind him.

  Perlita watches us, her dark eyes filling with amusement.

  Matthew stares daggers at her. “Don’t,” he warns.

  “I’m going to do this,” I repeat, awed, obviously talking to myself. “God, help me, I’m going to do this.” Distracted, I begin ushering my guests toward the back door. “I’m really not trying to get rid of you,” I explain, “but I think I need some time.”

  “We’re being dismissed,” Matthew tells his grandmother, stunned.

  She smiles in my direction. “About damn time someone did that to you, nipote.”

  They’re still arguing when I shut the door in their faces. Not rude, I tell myself, but necessary.

  FOURTEEN

  The real world

  The videos

  MY PHONE IS fully charged, turned on, and I can’t think of a damn thing to say to it.

  Pacing my room, I lift it, lower it, and lift it again.

  I pace the night into nonexistence.

  I’m not sure what intimidates me more—the idea of ‘traveling’ with my mother under the watchful eye of my mobile device, or me.

  Blowing my cheeks out, I march to my bedroom closet, pull the door open, and step in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the other side.

  It’s me. All of me.

  “I’m short,” I mutter.

  No shit, Sherlock.

  Okay, I can do this.

  Spinning slowly, I grimace at my rear end. Lift my shirt. Pinch my love handles. Flick my nose. Stretch my massive lips. Pretend to pop a pimple. Smile.

  Close my eyes.

  Open them.

  Stare at myself, really stare. Like I’m not me, but someone else looking at me.

  “Hashtag not bad,” I admit, out loud, because Matthew isn’t here to groan. “Keep it real,” I add in a manly voice, and then scrunch my nose. “Meh.”

  Am I really doing this to myself? Being a girl?

  I look again.

  I am pretty. Not stunning, but pretty. My hair is too straight, the kind of hair that literally does not hold a curl. At all. The kind of hair perms laugh at and curlers spit out. It’s long, hitting the middle of my back.

  Gathering it up, I pile it on top of my head, suck in my cheeks, and cross my eyes.

  My mouth really is spectacular, and I don’t feel bad for appreciating it because it’s my mouth. They’re my lips. They’re not my mother’s or my father’s. They’re a feature that just happened. Maybe they came from some distant caveman ancestor, the trait so far down the line no one else in the family can claim the kind of lips I have.

  So, they’re mine. Uniquely mine.

  For some reason this strengthens my resolve, and I leave the mirror, pick up my phone, click the camera button, and switch it to video.

  It’s me on the screen, and it makes me nervous.

  I talk into the phone once, twice, immediately hating how I look and sound. Delete. Try again.

  My gaze falls to the paper art surrounding me, and I think about Matthew, the ‘paper’ text messages we’d sent to each other when he couldn’t get in touch with my cell.

  That’s the girl I need to be.

  Press record.

  “Hi!” I wave at the phone, grimace. “This feels really stupid, like I’m trying to put myself somewhere that I don’t belong. I guess I am, you know? Putting myself in that place.”

  This isn’t making sense. I’m not making any kind of sense.

  Swallowing hard, I gulp in air, and barrel on. “I’m Reagan Lawson, a seventeen-year-old student at Heart Bay high school, and I’m the daughter of a woman with mental illness.”

  That wasn’t so bad. A little pathetic, but honest.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I glare at the screen, realize I look like the bitch people probably think I am, and switch to a smile.

  Too big. Tone it down.

  I dial it back. “I don’t really know how to go about doing this. I guess I’ll do it in parts so the videos are easy to upload. Not that you need to know that part. Anyway, um, I think I’ll start with who my mother is.”

  Standing, I walk to my bedroom wall, press my hand to it. “This is the wall between my mother’s bedroom and mine. I’m showing you this because that’s what my relationship with her feels like. A wall.” My fingers walk the green paint. “There are all kinds of mental illnesses. I mean, I guess. I don’t really know all that much about how the human brain works. I know it’s pretty complicated, though, because if the doctors can be believed, they don’t seem to know why my mother is th
e way she is.”

  Suddenly, it feels like a dam inside my body breaks, spilling forth a mouthful of words that drown me.

  “Actually, do you want to know what I think? I think she’s coping the only way she knows how.” I laugh, and the sound is sad. “Once upon a time, I had a whole family. A father, a mother, and a brand new baby sister that I never got past hating a little. Until she was born, I was it for my parents. Doted on. Spoiled. A princess. Then suddenly, I was someone’s big sister, and it was new and too real. Like I was Lady in Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. Wow, did I really just reference that film and compare myself to a dog?”