Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  “Unknown,” she says. “I think you have to maintain it. Maybe we should each have assigned chores. I know. We can make a chart.”

  “Don’t say chart,” I tell her.

  “Sorry.”

  On the Saturday Mom and Dad are to arrive, Ramie gets stuck in Manhattan to meet with that Marguerite girl about some “unbelievably wicked” opportunity, which she doesn’t want to jinx by describing. This is probably for the best, as there remains a deep reservoir of mal feelings between Ramie and my mom. I understand this now as essentially a competition over influence on my life. I understand a lot of things now, possibly because the loss of the wig is allowing my brain to breathe better.

  I get to work doing some “maintenance” on the apartment to make sure it’s perfectly spick-and-span. Believe me, nothing would make Mom happier than to find me starving, infested, and sleeping in a cardboard box. But I intend to show both of my parents that I can take care of myself.

  When they finally buzz, I’m so nervous my stomach is flipping over. I can’t believe I’m this eager to see my parents. I check my hair one last time in the mirror, straighten my red corset belt, and prepare to wow them with the new Amazing and Wonderful me.

  When I open the door, my mom’s smiling this big, beautiful smile, which collapses the second she sees me.

  “Oh, dear God,” she says.

  “What?”

  She puts her hand to her heart. “For a second I thought you were Jack.”

  “What!” I run from the front door, letting it slam right in her face. “Sorry!” I say. I run to the bathroom and turn on the light.

  Mom opens the door and creeps in, with Dad behind her. I hear them whispering as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.

  “Do I really look like Jack?” I call out.

  “What did you expect, sweetie?”

  I don’t know what I expected, but none of my memories of Jack involve him looking in the mirror. I have no idea what he looks like. I run into Ramie’s room and dig through her underwear drawer, where she keeps her digital camera. On it are some horrifying photos of the two them doing stuff you really don’t want to know about. Eventually I find a close-up of Jack’s face and compare it with my own in the mirror.

  “Oh mal,” I say.

  “He’s a good-looking kid!” Dad calls out from the living room.

  Mom shushes him.

  Whether or not Jack is a “good-looking kid” is beside the point. The important thing is that he looks just like me, especially now that we have the same hair. How could I have been so stupid?

  I brush my micro bangs from one side to the other, but it’s no use. There’s not enough hair to work with.

  “Honey!” Mom calls out from the living room. “Why don’t you just put the wig back on? It’s a quality wig. It cost us a fortune.”

  “It’s too late,” I say. “I’ve already been spotted without it.”

  I can hear Mom sigh. “Was this Ramie’s idea? I can smell Ramie all over this.”

  She’s right, of course. This was all Ramie’s idea. I could kill her right now, but I don’t want to give Mom the satisfaction of being right. I put Ramie’s camera back in her underwear drawer and return to the living room.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Dad says. “I think you look terrific.”

  As soon as I see him, I freeze. The man standing before me is not my father. He can’t be.

  “Dad?”

  He laughs. “That’s my name.”

  “But—”

  His hair is short. His face is shaved. And he’s wearing normal khakis, a normal blue sweater, and a normal gray fleece.

  “What happened to you?” I say.

  “It’s a long story,” he says. “Do I get a hug? Are we still doing hugs? You’re not too old for that, are you?”

  I walk over and give him a hug. He smells clean, like shaving cream, which I’m pretty sure is the official smell of normal fathers.

  I look to my mom in hope of an explanation, but she is single-mindedly focused on my head, which seems to offend her on a profound level.

  “Mom, forget it, okay? The wig’s a goner. You’re going to have to cope somehow.”

  Mom nods, but it’s more to convince herself than me. “Fine,” she says. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

  “So fine, then?” I say. “We’re going with fine? Good.” I look at my father. “I don’t even know what to say, Dad. You look like … like the old Dad.”

  He smiles.

  “Way to upstage me,” I tell him. “I was hoping to wow you with the new me.”

  “We are wowed,” he says. “You look beautiful, honey.” He grabs my chin and wiggles it back and forth. “Doesn’t she look beautiful, Helen?”

  “You’re going to need more makeup,” Mom says. “Some blush. Maybe some eyeliner. Come here.” She opens her arms, and I give her a hug.

  “What’s that?” I say. “You think I should buy these incredibly sexy and deeply feminine boots I saw at Filene’s Basement? And you want to pay for them yourself?”

  Mom pulls away and looks at me. “Fine.” She looks around the living room. “So this is it?”

  “It’s cute,” Dad says. “Very tidy.”

  Mom nods suspiciously. “Did you hire a maid?”

  “What! No. Ramie and I are very tidy. Our apartment is always this clean.”

  She nods, but she doesn’t believe a word of it.

  When I take my parents for a mini-tour of Williamsburg, they seem cautiously enchanted by the place. Dad can’t seem to get over how many of the “younger generation” are wearing beards, a disturbing fact I hadn’t noticed until now. Mom seems impressed with the general “energy” but skeptical of the actual inhabitants, whom she deems “unkempt.”

  What’s strange to me is the way Mom and Dad look like a married couple again. At one point, while we’re waiting for a table at this Japanese restaurant in Manhattan that Natalie recommended, Dad’s hand touches hers and she doesn’t swat it away.

  My parents don’t eat sushi, so I have to guide them through the menu. After a few brave but tentative bites, they both decide that raw fish is probably “an acquired taste.”

  Honestly, my parents can be so provincial. And now that I have the rest of New York City to compare them with, I can’t help but notice how unstylish they are. My mom looks like she stepped straight out of a JCPenney catalog, and my dad’s wearing fleece. I don’t think anyone outside of New England wears fleece unless they’re climbing a mountain or something. I don’t hate my parents for this, though. It’s what happens when you live in suburbia for too long, a fate I am already avoiding.

  When we’ve finished eating and the waitress has taken our plates, my mom puts her chopsticks down with mathematical precision. “So,” she says. “Let’s talk about the plan.”

  “Well.” I put my chopsticks down too. “I was thinking brunch around ten tomorrow and then shopping, and then there’s this—”

  “Honey,” she says. “I’m not talking about tomorrow.” She looks at my dad, who presses his lips together seriously. “I’m talking about your future,” she says.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?” Mom says. She faces my father. “Does that sound like a plan to you, Richard?”

  Dad laughs and looks at me. “We just want you to be happy.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “Are you?” Mom says.

  The waitress comes by to refill our water glasses, and we all sit in uncomfortable silence until she leaves.

  “You don’t think I’m happy?” I ask.

  “I don’t think you will be for long,” Mom says. “Jill, your future doesn’t just happen. You have to make it happen. Now listen, I’ve already spoken to the dean at Groton College. He’s willing to enroll you next semester. You don’t even have to reapply.”

  “You’re not serious,” I say.

  “I had to fake another doctor’s note,” she says. “Sweetheart, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be in
jail for forgery soon.”

  “I’m not going to Groton.”

  Dad cocks his head at me sympathetically. “You don’t like Groton?”

  “It’s in Winterhead,” I say.

  “Honey,” Mom says. “You can’t avoid Winterhead forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “People have moved on. It’s time you did too. It’s time to kick-start your future.” She accentuates the word “kick” with a gentle punch in the air.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not going to Groton, so forget it. And anyway, I promised Ramie I’d live with her for at least a year.”

  Dad puts his hand on mine. “We just want you to be happy, sweetheart.”

  “I am happy,” I say.

  The middle-aged couple eavesdropping at the next table look over.

  I lower my voice. “I’ll go to college. I promise.”

  “When?” Mom says.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What’s to know?” she says. “Just pick a semester. Spring or fall.”

  “Okay. Fall.”

  “Great,” Mom says. “That takes care of when. How about where?”

  My shoulders slump. I realize that this is going to be the only topic of conversation between my mom and me until I come up with a satisfactory answer. But I don’t have a satisfactory answer.

  “Um,” I say. “NYU?”

  “NYU?” she says. “Do you have any idea how expensive NYU is?”

  “Columbia?” I say.

  Mom sighs in exasperation, then looks at my dad. He pats her hand to calm her down.

  “What about a safety school?” she says. “You know, in case you don’t win the lottery?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I have a safety school.”

  “Which one?” Mom says.

  I try to think of the lamest college I’ve heard of, but the only thing that comes to mind is the Barbizon School of Modeling, which Ramie and I laugh at every time we see it in the back of a magazine. “Oh, right,” I say. “Um, Esswich Agricultural Community College.”

  “Esswich Aggie?” Mom says. “You’re picking Esswich Aggie as your safety school?”

  “Mom,” I say. “Don’t be a snob. Just because it’s in Esswich doesn’t mean it’s a bad school.”

  Mom’s head makes these tiny shaky motions. She always does this when her frustration exceeds the boundaries of decorum. I’m not sure if she’s upset by the idea of my obtaining an associate’s degree in animal husbandry or by the fact that I’ve obviously given no serious thought to my academic future.

  But I don’t like thinking about my academic future. There are too many unknowns. Anyway, I’ve had a rough few months, what with my public undoing at the prom and my escape from Winterhead. I’ve got my hands full earning a living, taking care of Jack, and becoming Amazing and Wonderful. Shouldn’t we be focused on that?

  “I just don’t want to see you slipping behind,” she says.

  “Behind what?” I say.

  Mom sighs. It’s strange, but she seems to think I’m still in high school and that all of my friends have been promoted whereas I’ve been left back. But that’s not the way it is. I’m living on my own in New York City. That’s a kind of promotion, isn’t it? I mean, every time I go to the ATM and see my steadily increasing bank balance, I get a thrill. How many college students can say that?

  When the check comes, my mom grabs it. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say. But I know it won’t get us anywhere, because I don’t have a college plan and I don’t want to make one right now. Maybe I should, but I don’t.

  Mom’s face crinkles up as she looks at the bill. “That’s strange,” she says. “Over a hundred dollars, and I’m still hungry.”

  Welcome to New York, I think.

  Mom’s employer, Parson’s Placement Agency, finagled some massive corporate discount at this fancy midtown hotel in the theater district. While Mom checks them in at the reception desk, Dad and I wait beneath an enormous chandelier in the lobby. The place is abuzz with people returning from the theater, clutching programs.

  “Maybe we should have gotten tickets to something,” I say.

  “It’s enough just seeing you, kiddo,” he says. “Is there anything you need? Anything at all?”

  “Nope,” I say. “I’ve got it all under control.”

  Dad keeps smiling at me with glazed eyes.

  “Are you on Prozac?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Just happy to see you,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say.

  He keeps looking at me, and I realize his eyes aren’t glazed; they’re full of love. Pure, uncomplicated love. The old Dad used to look at me that way when I’d serve him tea with my Barbie tea set. Like I was this rare, precious flower and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to behold it. I never realized how much I missed that Dad.

  “Dad?” I ask. “Are you still living in the basement?”

  He shakes his head. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something; then he changes his mind and scruffs up my hair instead.

  “What?” I say. “What were you going to say?”

  He laughs. Then he takes a deep breath. “I was going to say I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For the way I bailed out on you and your mother,” he says.

  “And Jack?” I say.

  He nods. “And Jack. Of course.”

  “Why did you do it?” I say.

  He takes another deep breath and looks at the marble floor.

  “Go ahead, I can take it,” I say.

  He nods and wiggles my chin back and forth. “I know you can, honey.” He takes a breath. “It wasn’t one big mistake. It was a lot of small ones. Little truths I avoided because it was easier just to go along. Take the higher-paying job. Take the promotion. Switch to a field I didn’t care much about. It’s so easy to do. But then all those mistakes add up, and you find yourself on a precipice, staring into a future you don’t even want.”

  “Are you talking about when you were—”

  “On the eve of partnership,” he says. “Yes.”

  How many times did I hear my parents whisper that phrase in anger?

  “I hated what I’d become,” he says. “And I wasn’t even sure how I’d gotten there. It took a lot of time to figure it all out. I know it doesn’t justify things, honey. And believe me, I know how hard your mother worked to put me through law school. But—” His eyes flick to my mother, who’s making her way toward us with the room key.

  “Dad?” I say before she gets to us. “Was marrying Mom one of those mistakes?”

  “Oh, princess.” He pulls me close and gives me a big hug. “Don’t ever think that.”

  I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder, surprised at how relieved I am to hear this. I always suspected my parents would end up divorced. Despite the messed-up, frigid nature of their relationship, I think it would have killed me.

  When I pull away from Dad, Mom is staring at us in confusion. “What?” she says. “What’s going on?”

  Dad looks at me and winks. “Nothing,” he says. “Just a good-night hug.”

  She knows he’s lying, but she doesn’t push it.

  “Good night, honey.” She gives me a hug. “We’ll come and get you at ten.” She heads to the elevator with Dad.

  When they step inside, they both turn and wave at me. Dad grabs her hand, and she lets him hold it.

  As the doors close on this strange tableau, I can’t decide if my parents are becoming less insane or if, instead, their individual insanities have co-evolved to a state of harmonious symbiosis—like a caterpillar and the milkweed on which it grows.

  Either way, I like them a lot better like this.

  •

  As I’m walking home that night, my dad’s words keep running through my head. I wonder about all the potential mistakes I’ve made, like getting rid of my wig and not having sex with Tommy Kn
utson. Will these add up one day too? Will there be others? I deeply don’t want to find myself standing on a precipice staring into a future I don’t even want.

  Whose basement would I move into?

  The buzzer wakes me from a deep sleep. I don’t know what day it is, what time it is, or, at first anyway, where the heck I am. I stumble half blind to the intercom and press the talk button.

  “Hello?” I croak.

  “Hi, honey!” some woman says. “Can you let us in?”

  I step back from the buzzer and stare at it in horror. After a few seconds it buzzes again.

  I press the listen button.

  “Jill?” she says. “Are you up, honey? Can you let us in?”

  In the background, a familiar man’s voice says something unintelligible.

  I press the talk button. “Um …”

  “Honey?” she says. “What’s wrong?” The woman’s voice lowers as she turns away from the intercom. “She sounds ill.” Then it gets clear again. “Honey, are you ill?”

  I am now.

  It takes a moment to summon the relevant Jillmemories to explain my parents’ presence in Brooklyn. Critical highlights: they invited themselves for a visit, argued with Jill about her future, then offered to buy her some boots. I was not consulted.

  I call out Ramie’s name, but there’s no answer. When I check her bedroom, it’s empty.

  What am I supposed to say to my parents? I hate them. They locked me in a room, remember? But they keep buzzing, and I have a feeling if I don’t let them in, they’ll assume Jill’s been taken hostage and call the police. Simultaneously resigned to and regretting the decision, I buzz them in.

  While I’m staring at the door, Jillmemories begin to swirl around in my head. She had plans for today and for several days thereafter. I’ve come early again. I’ve come very early.

  It’s only when I hear their footsteps approaching that I look down and realize I’m wearing Jill’s pink Tinker Bell pajamas. They knock on the door and I open it.

  Mom and Dad look at me, then look at each other, then look at me again.

  “Jack?” Dad says.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “You’re wearing makeup,” he says. “That’s … new.”

  “Oh crap.” I grab the bottom of Jill’s shirt and start wiping it off, but it stings my eyes. “Hold on,” I say. I back away from the door and let Mom catch it. I run to the bathroom to wash the makeup off, then change into some jeans and a T-shirt.