I stopped at a red light and listened to the engine idle in the quiet. “Do you hate him?” I asked her. “Is he mean to you?”
She growled. And then after a long pause said, “There are no other cars. Just go.”
“I’m not running a red light.”
“It’s taking forever. There is not another car on this street.”
“I’m not running a red light.”
She kicked one foot against the floorboard. “There’s something wrong with you.”
The light flashed to green and I eased on the gas. “Do you hate him?”
She wrapped her hair around one of her hands and I envied the weight of it. “No,” she mumbled.
“You act like you hate him.”
“I hate the idea of him. He’s fine. I hate that he’s fine.” She let go of her hair as she threw her hands up and the strands dropped and scattered over her shoulders.
We drove in silence for a few blocks. I kept trying to formulate a new question, but whatever I thought to say sounded too rehearsed, too clinical, too old.
“Does he have kids?” I finally decided that question was safe.
“Yup.” She popped the word out and I realized I would always feel like she was making fun of me. Even the way she said yes had a sticky residue of sarcasm all over it. “He has a ten-year-old son. So now I have a brother. Ish.”
“Ish?”
“We don’t talk to each other or know each other, so he can’t exactly be a brother, can he? He’s annoying so he’s brother-ish.”
“Oh.” I pulled up to her house and we both stared at the pretty facade. It was large enough to be impressive, homey enough not to intimidate.
“I can’t do it, Megan. I can’t pretend I’m so happy it’s his birthday that I want to throw a party.” Her brown eyes met mine and I wondered if I would ever know how much hurt was behind them. I wondered if she would ever understand that I was in pain, too.
“Do you want to come inside?” she asked me. “My mom is still at work and Henry goes to basketball practice after school.”
“Henry is your stepbrother?”
“Ish,” she insisted. “That’s another thing. Doesn’t that tell you something about Doctor Dave that he named his kid Henry? I mean, doesn’t it?”
“I love the name Henry.”
Charlotte groaned. “That explains so much,” she grumbled. “Never mind the invite inside.”
I turned off the car and stepped outside with her. “No take-backs,” I insisted. “I’m coming in.”
“I invited you before I knew you liked the name Henry.” She stomped over to the garage and punched in the code to open the door.
“And I accepted.” My smile was more confident than I felt. I followed Charlotte with a few nervous glances, my ears strained for the sound of another person. The thought of meeting Charlotte’s mother was terrifying. It was bad enough to take away a baby’s father, but Charlotte didn’t remember Bryon. Her mother remembered everything. If there was a person on earth who should hate me, it was her.
The house smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and was decorated beautifully, cheerfully. Decidedly un-Charlotte. Maybe if there was a big throw pillow that said “screw you” I would see her personality amidst the antique books and glossy wood tables.
“Want to see the most morbid thing in the world?” Charlotte asked.
“Not really,” I whispered but followed her anyway.
“This place is like a funeral home,” Charlotte said and pushed open the French doors that led into a study. On one wall were several framed pictures. I recognized the photos of Bryon immediately. He was smiling. He was squeezing Charlotte’s mother. He was holding baby Charlotte up to his chest and looking down at her once-unsurly face. I didn’t know the other people in the other pictures. A pretty blond woman, a little boy, a family.
“That’s Jessica, Dave’s dead wife, and my dad. All of our family pictures as if we somehow belong together. He forgets we wouldn’t be a new family if they hadn’t died. We were never meant to be a we. It all got messed up.”
“So that’s Henry?” I asked. I pointed to a picture of a little boy with curly brown hair and wide dark eyes. He was beautiful, despite being a boy. There was something in his face that made me want to wrap my arms around him.
“Jessica died of breast cancer when he was six,” Charlotte answered. “So there they are. Whenever my mom and Dave get sick of each other they can just come in here and wish they could have their real spouses back. That is so twisted!” she half-yelled. “I hate this room more than any place on the entire, freaking planet.”
“Maybe a surprise party isn’t the easiest one,” I admitted.
“Whatever. I’m throwing it for somebody if it kills me.” The way her eyes smoked with anger and determination I wondered if it just might.
“When is Henry’s birthday?” I asked her.
“How should I know?” she snapped back.
I looked at his photo again, wishing it was his birthday next week instead. “When’s your birthday?”
“December.” She sat down in a stiff, upholstered chair, her eyes not leaving the wall of photos.
“What does Doctor Dave like?” I asked her and then wrinkled my nose. “Do you really call him that?”
“Whataya suggest?” she snarled. “Daddy Dave?”
I blew out a breath so big my cheeks puffed. “Whatever,” was my masterful reply. “What does he like?”
“He’s a cyclist. He has some carbon space metal bike that he rides with other middle-aged doctors in spandex. It’s thrilling.”
“Like bicycle, not motorcycle, right?” I asked.
“I said spandex, not leather. Thanks for the image of Doctor Dave in a bike gang. That’s great.”
I was picking up a special technique with Charlotte. Basically, I refused to listen to her. That seemed to be the only way to actually communicate.
“So, what about a family bike ride for his party? Like you guys go on a ride with him on his birthday and you bike to a park and I could have the pavilion all decorated when you pull up.”
“How does your brain work? Do you just close your eyes and see rainbows and roses?” Her voice was soft, but the way she narrowed her eyes seemed as sad as it did angry.
“We could get a cake decorated with a bicycle. It might not be that hard.”
She grunted instead of saying anything and I pulled out my notebook. “What are his favorite colors?” I asked.
“I never asked him.”
“Guess.” I pushed back.
“Black and gray.” Her eyes looked flat, challenging.
“Gross. Let’s say blue,” I said and jotted it down. “Do you think next Saturday will work? What time?”
Again, she only grumbled.
“Charlotte, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it with you. If you want to fulfill your dad’s list then do it. If you don’t, just say so and we quit.”
At least that’s what I said out loud. I knew I would never quit. The list was inside me and however old I got or wherever I went I would be looking for chances to make Bryon’s dreams happen, even if he never knew, even if no one ever knew it but me.
“Two o’clock,” she answered without looking at me. And then in a voice so reluctant I knew she didn’t really want to hear her own words she added, “Blue and yellow.”
“Good,” I said in a clipped, business-like tone so she didn’t have time to get embarrassed. “I’ll get decorations in blue and yellow and figure out a cake. You are in charge of the presents. Are you going to tell your mom?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Maybe I’ll surprise all of them.”
“Good,” I repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I was anxious to leave before Charlotte’s mom came home. Melissa. That’s the name on the list, written in Bryon’s own hand, wishing he could buy her diamonds. Would she be wearing the earrings her new husband gave her instead? I couldn’t resist the temptation to look at her picture on
the wall, let my eyes rest to her empty earlobes.
My fault.
Next Saturday I would look Melissa in the face.
Charlotte has a bad habit of being right.
It was all twisted.
CHAPTER 9
Before I even got inside my house I heard Lauren’s music, so I instantly knew she was home alone. Mom hates anything that blares. I stepped into the living room, turned it down, and then found Lauren in the kitchen next to the stove, her face a mix of concern and amusement.
“Sissy!” She never would give up her baby names for me. “Is the marshmallow supposed to look like this?”
I nudged her willowy body out of the way and peered into the sauce pot.
“Don’t laugh at me!” she squealed as soon as I started. “I didn’t know when to stop cooking it.”
“As soon as it melts. When it’s stringy like this it’s dead.”
Her bottom lip pushed out and she pulled the pot off the burner. “Are you sure?” She stabbed it with the spatula as if looking for a pulse.
“I’m sure. You better just say your goodbyes.”
She looked at the empty marshmallow bag on the counter and started to moan. “We don’t have any more and I need some Rice Krispie Treats. Like need need.”
“Why?” I fished out one small marshmallow from the corner of the bag and offered it to her.
“Because I am a girl and my sugar needs are very specific,” she said with an irritated toss of her golden hair. “Help me.”
“Where’s mom?”
“Getting her hair cut. She thought you’d be here right after school.”
I turned off the burner. “I could go to the store and get another bag.”
At that she began her signature mix of laughing and crying. It is impossible to tell if she is genuinely upset or just teasing. She slumped onto the floor. “Why weren’t you here? You could have saved them.” She flashed me a smile while a tear rolled from her eye and I gave her exactly what she wanted. I started laughing. She knows she can always crack me.
“You are so abnormal,” I informed her.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
“I was at Charlotte’s house.”
Her face went from teasing to disbelief. “Charlotte Exby? You went to her house? What were you doing?”
I opened the refrigerator to see if we had enough butter for a second attempt at Lauren’s snack. The door conveniently hid my face so I wouldn’t have to look at her. “Before her dad died he left a list of things he wanted to do. Charlotte and I are going to do them together.” I peeked around the door and studied her expression as it wrinkled with worry. I wondered if it was a preview of my parents’ reaction.
Lauren scooted over and patted the wood floor next to her, inviting me to sit. I closed the fridge and lowered myself down, leaning against the oak island. Her mouth opened a few times before she actually spoke. “You and the girl who hates you are finishing her dad’s to-do-before-I-die list?”
“To-do list,” I mused. “I like that so much better than bucket list.”
“Oh yeah, bucket list. That’s what they call them. You’re doing his bucket list?” Lauren’s mouth stretched back into a strange grimace. “Creepy much?”
“Not creepy. Important. Closure.” I put the last marshmallow in my mouth as revenge for her creepy comment. “I never got to tell him thank you. I want to do this.”
Lauren looked contrite, nodded once. “I guess I get that. But I thought Charlotte hated you.”
“She mostly does,” I sighed. “But I think we can work around that.”
“Can I help?” she asked, her eyes bright with the prospect of a project.
“Yes,” I promised. “You can help me figure out how to tell Mom and Dad so they’ll let me take a fourteen year old backpacking and whitewater rafting.”
“Like in the wilderness?” Lauren used her fingers to mime a person walking up her leg to the top of her knee. “You and a younger girl are going hiking alone?” She paused, relishing, waiting for a punch line.
I flicked her finger person and watched him plummet off the cliff of her leg.
“They would never,” Lauren declared. “You can’t kill a spider. You are not exactly a roughing-it person.”
“And you are?” I shot back.
“I could fake it better than you. I would just pack sugar.” She started to moan again and I held up the empty bag, letting it swing from my fingers. She wrinkled her nose. “Deal,” she sighed unhappily. “For marshmallows. But I would have helped you anyway.”
“I know.” I stood and retrieved my keys. “I would have made you Rice Krispie Treats anyway. But you wash the pot.” I looked inside at the hardening, yellowed mess. “Good luck,” I wished her before the front door closed.
“You owe me,” she called loud enough for me to hear through the door.
“Take a number,” I whispered.
At the store I grabbed the marshmallows first and then went to the party aisle where I found blue crepe paper and yellow paper lanterns. I bought a pack of yellow plates and blue napkins and headed home to put Lauren out of her misery. While the butter melted I arranged my party supplies on the counter so my mother would see them when she got home. It seemed like an attractive way to introduce the topic.
“Are you doing a cake?” Lauren asked.
“I have some ideas. Maybe see if there are some bikes about the size of matchbox cars and put them on top.”
“You could make a road out of crushed cookies,” Lauren offered.
“I like that. Pour the entire bag in now,” I pointed to the saucepan with the spatula. Lauren popped one in her mouth first and poured as I stirred. “We could do rock candy for boulders and what for grass?” I asked.
“Dyed coconut always works.” My mother’s voice chirped right behind us. “What’s the project?”
“How long were you listening? I didn’t even hear you come in.” I reached out my free arm to give her a hug while my other kept stirring. “Get the cereal now,” I directed Lauren.
“I came in at cookie road. Are you making something for school?” Mom shook out her newly styled hair, the brown locks swooping under her chin.
“You look pretty,” I told her. “Nothing for school. The Rice Krispie Treats were a Lauren emergency.” Lauren nodded her head enthusiastically and grabbed a glass pan from the cupboard. “The other is for a surprise party a friend is throwing.”
“What friend?” my mom asked, sitting at the island while I spooned the dessert into the pan. Lauren kept pulling hot stringy chunks from the bowl until I smacked her with my spatula.
“Ow,” she squeaked. “That was very Italian of you.”
“Wait till it cools,” I said.
“I’d rather die.” She scooped up a corner and after several attempts got it to drop off her fingers into her mouth. “Hot. Very hot. Mom, Megan hit me with a spoon,” she said, with a pout that couldn’t hide her smiling dimples.
“I’ll punish her soundly,” my mother promised and turned back to me. “What friend? Is that what the party supplies are for?” she asked when she spotted the pile of paper goods.
“About that…” I stalled. “I kind of have some news for you and Dad.”
“Then kind of tell me.” She reached toward the pan and I pushed it to her so she could grab a bite.
“And you wonder where I get it,” Lauren said thickly through her full mouth.
“I wonder a great many things about you, my dear,” Mom retorted.
“Lauren, you’re on dish duty,” I reminded her as I sat next to Mom. “And don’t run cold water on it. Make sure it’s hot.”
I spread my hands on the countertop, pressing my nervousness through my fingertips into the cold granite. “It’s actually about Bryon Exby,” I said in my gentlest voice.
Mom’s head moved back in surprise, but she held her tongue, waiting.
“Do you remember that he had a daughter?” I asked.
She nodded
, anxiety making her hazel eyes flash strange colors. “Of course.”
“Her name was Charlotte,” I watched Lauren’s back as she stood at the sink. “Is Charlotte,” I corrected.
“I remember. Why are you bringing it up?” Mom asked through a stiff mouth.
“She just transferred to my school.”
My mother dropped her hands and pulled in a tight breath. “When?”
“I guess since the beginning of the year. Her mom remarried and they moved here.”
The words came clipped and agitated. “You knew this—”
“No. I had no idea. She’s only a freshman. We have two thousand people at school. She heard someone say my name and she figured out who I was. She came to me and told me.”
Lauren stopped the water and turned to watch my mother’s face. It moved from one expression to another too quickly to analyze. “What is she like?” Mom asked, barely above a whisper.
Because I have been trained in drama classes never to fill in time saying “um”, I sat motionless, silent, thinking. Best to skip over the hostility for now. “She wanted me to know that she forgave me,” I finally answered.
My mother exhaled in relief and then started firing questions. I held up a hand to fend them off. “She is doing a special project and I want to talk to you about it.” I filled her in on Bryon’s list and how much Charlotte wanted to cross off each item. “I know it’s kind of strange, but it bothers me that I never thanked him. I offered to help Charlotte with the list and it would mean a lot to do those things with her.”
My mother searched my face and I realized it was too smooth, too unreadable. I do that without meaning to. I pulled up a small, sad, smile.
“I guess it depends what’s on the list,” she said.
“Nothing bad, like objectionable. Some of it’s kind of more…involved.”
“Like?” Mom probed.
“Like river rafting.”
Mom’s forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows drew together so I continued quickly. “But the first one is to throw a surprise party. That’s easy. We want to do it this Saturday, for her stepdad.”
Mom drummed her manicured fingers on the counter and looked down at her feet. Her tapping nails made the only sound in the house. “How is Charlotte doing?”
The Truth About Fragile Things Page 5
