The Arrival of Someday

by Jen Malone

  So what’s changed now? Is this what the new coffee order was all about?

  We turn into our driveway and both my parents unbuckle, but I don’t make any moves to get out.

  “Why are you going to Weight Watchers meetings?” I ask.

  My dad lifts his eyebrows and says, “Love you, ladies, but that sounds like my cue to leave. If you two need me, I’ll be in my Fortress of Soli-Dude checking my March Madness brackets.”

  He disappears inside and my mother turns in her seat so she’s half facing me. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. I just thought it was time.”

  “Time for what? You’ve never wanted to lose weight before. And how come it’s some secret between you and Dad?” I hear how accusatory I sound, but I can’t help it. First Sibby went soft on me in the middle of a rally and now Mom’s dieting? What is happening to regular world order?

  “I didn’t tell you because I wanted to avoid this discussion.” My mother glances at me, then drops her gaze to her hands, which are fiddling with her car keys. “The truth is, I need to lose at least thirty pounds to qualify as your potential living donor.”

  Oh.

  Oh no. No, no, no. My heart cracks in two.

  “Mom,” I say as gently as possible, “you know Dr. Wah doesn’t support that in my case.”

  Some patients with liver disease can accept a partial liver from a living donor. In a side-by-side operation, a chunk of the healthy person’s liver is sliced off and inserted into the sick person. Within a matter of months after the surgery, both the donor’s liver and the recipient’s will have grown back to a whole size. It’s pretty cool actually. But it only makes up one half of one percent of all liver transplants.

  “Yes, well, Dr. Wah’s not the only hepatologist in Boston.”

  “Mom.”

  Her shoulders drop. “I know. It’s a long shot. But I’m the only one of us who matches your blood type and she may not recommend the surgery but I can’t support simply sitting around waiting for my daughter to get sicker and sicker while hoping, by the grace of god, some stranger with a heart symbol on his license decides to text while driving? Shit, Lia. I don’t know how to do that.”

  I choke back a gasp. My mother never curses. And I don’t remember ever hearing her voice tinged with despair, the way it is now. My mother is a force; I study at her feet. She has a long history of activism herself, and her work as an immigration lawyer is her way of turning that passion for bettering the world into something that can also sustain our family. Mom cares deeply, but she’s got hard edges, honed by years of fighting to keep her clients from being deported. Sure, I’ve seen her emotional over losing particularly brutal cases, but on those occasions she’s been angry or resigned or pragmatic . . . not despairing.

  Tears press at my chest and I shove them back down. I don’t know how to feel these emotions and stay upright. If I allow them to burrow in, I won’t recognize myself anymore.

  My mother clears her throat and reaches through the opening between our seats to tug lightly on a chunk of my hair. She’s been doing that since I was a little kid, our private code for “I love you.”

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry or think I was doing it because I felt obligated,” she says. “This weight loss thing is something that’s helping me feel like I have some measure of control over things, so I’m hoping we can leave it at that, okay?” She finishes with a heavy sigh.

  I wrap my arms around my backpack and draw it to my chest. “Okay.”

  “Would it help if I promised not to force any green smoothies on you?”

  She smiles and I know my cue here is to smile back, so I do.

  But it doesn’t reach my eyes.

  5

  ONCE INSIDE, I HEAD STRAIGHT FOR MY BEDROOM AND DUMP MY backpack on the floor before curling up among the throw pillows on my window seat. My room has a turret window that is life itself. It’s home base.

  I feel that way about our whole house. We’re the third generation of Linehans to live here, which is the only reason we can afford a three-story behemoth on a tree-lined street in one of the most exclusive zip codes in Massachusetts, only a short walk from Harvard’s famous ivy-covered campus. (Although in truth my parents still probably sink the equivalent of a hefty monthly mortgage payment into heating all the drafty nooks and crannies of this place.)

  Dad grew up here and we moved back in when I was six, to help my grandmother, Babi, after my grandfather died. Within two years Babi ran off with a visiting professor from Lesley and now she traipses around the world with him, coordinating his lecture tours. So we’ve slowly claimed the house as our own, although none of us wants to test what would happen if we were to disrespect her one rule: the quirks stay . . . every last one of them.

  This house has plenty.

  Some are amazing, like my turret or the secret drawer in the elaborate fireplace surround where several stock certificates of my great-grandfather’s are still tucked away (unfortunately, they’re from a company that went out of business sixty years ago; I checked).

  And some are annoying: the loose wooden staircase spindle that falls out if you clomp past too heavily, the wide gaps between the floorboards in the kitchen where decades’ worth of crumbs that even the strongest vacuum can’t dislodge have fallen, the fact that the floors slope so much we have to screw some of our furniture to the wall to keep it from sliding away.

  The giant irony is that my father supplies contractors all day long, and he’s not exactly helpless with a hammer himself. Some of these “quirks” could be fixed in a matter of minutes. But we all accept that Babi would somehow just know. This theory has been supported countless times, most recently last year, when Dad thought he’d drywall over the weird telephone alcove in the front hallway so my mom would have a wall wide enough to hang the antique map of Budapest she’d found at a yard sale. He was literally holding the first panel of drywall in place with one hand and reaching for his nail gun with the other when the phone rang. Three guesses who it was. Not the first time that’s happened either. And yes, all logic says the calls were just coincidences, but we’re too scared of Babi’s bark to test things again.

  To me, there’s a comfort in knowing nothing about this place will ever change. The oddities are what make it lovable and the constancy makes it safe. I’m totally up for adventure anytime, anyplace, but having somewhere familiar to curl up afterward is key.

  Like my turret window seat. After a minute, the quiet becomes too loud for me and I pull out my phone. One glance at the screen reminds me that I never switched my ringer back on after the assembly. Crap. Not the smartest move for someone waiting on an urgent lifesaving phone call, Amelia. But luckily, all I’ve missed are three texts from Sibby and a notification from Words With Friends that my brother has played his tiles. (We mostly ensure the other is alive and kicking via an epically long series of online Scrabble, because we’re nerds like that.)

  Sibby’s first text reads: Liaaaaaaa! We had heaps of sign-ups! I wish you could have stayed to see it. Plus I had THE BEST idea about how we can expand the campaign to catch the junior class too. Close your eyes and picture the posters for . . . PROM WITH A PURPOSE. Incredible, yeah?

  I swallow and move on to the next: Hello?!?

  Finally: Will try you after derby practice. I love you. XOXOXOXO.

  So much for saving my mood. I don’t even know the details on the prom idea she has, but already it sounds more than mildly horrifying. This is what I get for not being more honest about how today’s assembly went from my perspective. The last thing I need is the entire school looking at me the way KellyAnne Littlefair did.

  The casual mention of derby is also a stake in my side. I should be packing my skate bag and headed there right now too.

  I’m so tired of feeling.

  Screw it. The fastest path back to happiness has to be pajama bottoms and a decent Netflix binge. I text Sibby back a smiley-face emoji to avoid having to formulate actual words, play
the word MOROSE in response to Alex, then drop my phone on my quilt and rummage through my drawers for my rattiest flannel pj pants.

  I’m yanking them on when my screen lights up again, this time with my brother’s picture. He never calls me directly, but Mom and Dad have been talking to him a lot more than normal the last couple weeks and I suspect they filled him in about the assembly scheduled for today. They might have even urged him to check on me. I absolutely hate the idea of all of them talking about me behind my back.

  I push the FaceTime button and a giant chewing mouth greets me.

  “Should I be reading anything into your word choice just now?” he asks, without bothering to swallow.

  Gross.

  “You could have waited to press Call until after you’d eaten, you know,” I say, making a face as I pretend to be more disgusted than I actually am.

  He pulls his phone away so I can see the entirety of his shaking head. “Not true. Got nine minutes between class and work study at the library and I had to fit in a stop back at my dorm to swap out my flip-flops, dinner, and a check on my bratty sister’s day. How’d things go at school?”

  The question is caring and kind, but that’s sort of the problem. That’s not normal us. Obviously I love him—he’s my brother—but we’re not at all mushy with each other about stuff. We fought like animals when we were little, mostly because I was always trying to get into his room or tattling on him and his best friend, Will, or he was pissed I was taking advantage of my “baby in the family” status to get away with something he’d never have been able to at my age. Now we either pretend we still can’t stand each other or he tries to play the role of mature, protective older sibling, offering valuable life advice from on high to helpless little me. Too bad I’m not remotely helpless and that his version of mature includes showing me the contents of his mouth.

  I raise an eyebrow. “You know, you could just carry your other shoes with you in your bag and shave off at least three minutes, dork.”

  He pushes the last bit of his sub into his mouth with his free hand, the middle finger of which looks suspiciously like it might be forming a rude gesture aimed at me. “I sense diversionary tactics.”

  I sigh and sink onto my bed, lying on my back with my phone held above me.

  “It was . . . okay,” I say. “A little different than I expected, but . . .”

  “Whaddya mean? Different how?”

  “Just . . . I don’t know.” I really don’t want to get into all of this, not right now and not with Alex. Or anyone, for that matter. “More intense, I guess. It doesn’t matter. At least there’s a whole weekend before I have to go back there.”

  Alex makes a face. “If anyone’s giving you crap and you need me to deliver sucker punches, I’m here for you.”

  “Oh yeah? Did you suddenly grow some muscles I don’t know about?” I raise an eyebrow in challenge.

  His eyes narrow. “Really? You wanna go there? Because I don’t recall your muscles getting in the way of any of my wet willies, did they, baby sister?”

  “Bring it, big brother,” I reply, making air quotes around the word big as best I can while still holding my phone in place.

  “Think long and hard on issuing challenges, Lia. I’ll be done with classes in something like six weeks, which doesn’t give you much time to bulk up.”

  “Maybe done in six weeks, but not home in six weeks,” I say. “Believe me, I’d like to see you try to take me down, but attempting it from a boat in the middle of the Chesapeake adds a whole other obstacle to the mix, doesn’t it?”

  My brother is staying down in Maryland to spend the months of June and July helping with an environmental survey of the Chesapeake Bay. Not only is it his big passion, but it will look amazing on his eventual grad school applications, something Mom and Dad keep proudly harping on.

  His eyes drift from mine and they don’t return when he says, “Yeah, well. I’m thinking about bailing on that.”

  “What?” I bolt upright on my bed. “You’ve applied for that internship four semesters in a row! Why would you ever—”

  I don’t need to finish, though, nor do I need him to answer, because it’s suddenly crystal clear.

  “It’s not that big a deal,” he murmurs. “It’ll still be there next summer.”

  And you might not be.

  The unspoken words hang in the air between us.

  Why did I answer the phone?

  But just like I don’t plan to live my life under this big cloud of what-ifs, I refuse to let anyone else around me do so either. What would he do here in Cambridge? Bite at my heels all summer, trying to soak up every second? Please. He’d be restless within the first two days and he’d drive me up a wall long before that. I don’t predict any Hallmark moments worth savoring for a lifetime would come out of that scenario.

  “You should stay there, T-rex,” I state, as emphatically as I can, employing his childhood nickname (given by a kindergarten classmate who connected the last two letters in Alex’s name with the dinosaurs they were both obsessed with at the time). Alex only barely tolerates it, which is precisely why I adore using it. Maybe the subtle reminder of what a pain in the ass I can be will keep him away. But just in case it doesn’t do the trick on its own, I add, “I don’t want you to come home.”

  I wasn’t trying to hurt him, only to let him off the hook, but he winces. Shit.

  I try to backpedal. “I didn’t mean it like that—it’s not like I wouldn’t welcome the opportunity to wake you up every morning with my off-key renditions of the High School Musical soundtrack. I remember how much you loved me doing that in elementary school. Or maybe I’d be sweet and let you sleep in. Since that would give me ample opportunity to sneak your fake ID out of your wallet and introduce Mom and Dad to Finn Tucker of Bartimis Lane, Timonium, MD. I’m curious—did you actually choose the name Finn Tucker?”

  His response is part growl, part appreciative laugh, and I smile, relieved.

  “Maybe you should come here for a visit, then,” he says. “What about Preakness in May, if we can get Mom and Dad to sign off? The infield party’s ridiculous—you’d love it.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I need to stick within a certain radius of Mass General, in case the call for a liver comes in. But I don’t want to introduce any more reminders of my BA now that we’re back on safe ground, so close it and nod instead. “Sure, maybe.”

  His head bobs too, but I think it has more to do with him trying to hold his phone steady while walking fast.

  “What time do you have to work till tonight?” I ask.

  He shrugs, which makes the camera bounce more. “Nine. But nothing really happens around here before then anyway, so it’s no biggie. What about you? Got big Friday night plans?”

  I move my phone to show off my flannel pajamas. “Oh, definitely. Me, a box of cereal, and a full season of something trashy.”

  Alex gives me a look somewhere between pity and amusement.

  “What?” I answer. “I haven’t figured out a new hobby yet to take the place of my derby practices until I can get back to them. I was contemplating underwater basket weaving—what do you think?”

  “Sounds wet.”

  I groan. “Dude, you’re too young to be turning into Dad.”

  “What about that mural thing you won?”

  I make a face. “I would love to be working on that, but the design’s done and approved. Not much I can do now until it gets warm enough for the paint to adhere to the wall. Dad says it needs to be at least fifty degrees for a few days in a row—not finding a lot of those temps in Boston in March.”

  “Another reason to come to Maryland; we hit near seventy today. Some warm front passing through . . .”

  “And now the flip-flops make sense. Oh, please let that be coming here. I need spring in the worst way.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t suck. But seriously, you should call Sibby to hang out with you tonight.” Alex’s voice is slightly breathless as he hikes up a stee
p hill. I’ve visited with my parents enough times to gauge his spot on campus, and I like knowing exactly where he fits in time and space as we talk.

  “Uh, yeah, except that she’s at derby practice.” I punctuate this by making a face.

  Alex grimaces. “Right. I forgot she did it too.”

  I can never tell Sibby this; she prides herself on being absolutely unforgettable.

  Catching my image in the small square at the bottom of my screen, I tuck a stray hair back into place before answering. “It’s not like I don’t have other friends. I’m not the weirdo you were in high school, glued to one person morning to night.”

  Not totally accurate. I have other friends, sure, but they’re casual . . . nothing on the level of me and Sibby.

  “Hey! I resent that,” Alex says. “Will and I weren’t that pathetic.” He pauses, considering. “Okay, you might have a point. We are pretty tight. Anyway, listen, big brother advice—you ready? Whatever you do, do not let Dad talk you into picking up hours at the store. You’ve been officially warned.”

  Dad goes into a funk whenever we drop Alex back at school. I’m convinced it’s got as much to do with losing Alex’s college-boy strength in the stockroom as with missing his child. (I’d never admit this in front of my brother, but Alex actually does have a couple muscles.) Advil’s stock probably goes up every September, when Dad has to resume inventory duties.

  The hilarious thing is that I’m not far behind Alex in the strength department, but I’m more than willing to let down all of womankind in this particular instance by neglecting to point that out to my father.

  And though I really didn’t want to revisit the subject of my BA, I can’t resist saying, “At least there’s one advantage to all of this—no heavy lifting.”