Jane In Bloom

by Deborah Lytton

  But I know where I can find something fabulous to wear.

  Lizzie’s room is dark. The shutters are closed. I open them and light floods into the room. I pull open the closet doors and scan my choices. Floral dresses, gypsy skirts, and countless pairs of jeans stare back at me. I pull out some of the jeans and shimmy out of my sweats. I choose one pair of strategically faded low-rise jeans with flap pockets on the rear. I don’t really expect them to fit. So I am shocked when I look at myself in the mirror. Other than the fact that they are so long they drag on the ground, I have to admit that they fit perfectly.

  Then I choose a loose white gauze peasant top with embroidered red and blue flowers.

  I decide to leave the shutters open as I cross through the bathroom and into my own room. I take a pen and my red-handled scissors out of my desk drawer and mark a spot on the jeans with the pen before I slip them off, laying them on the floor. With my scissors, I trim the jeans to a midcalf length. I put them back on, pull on the top, and twist my hair into a knot on top of my head. I check myself out in the mirror and I have to smile at myself.

  Ethel notices right away. And unlike my parents, who might notice something but never comment, Ethel doesn’t believe in hiding thoughts and feelings.

  She places her hands on her hips. A wide grin spreads across her face.

  “I should be taking pictures of you,” she announces. “You’re blooming.”

  Chapter 13

  I work all morning without seeing Hunter. Then, just before lunch, I hear someone next door. I glance over, but I can’t see anything.When I walk closer, I find Hunter painting the fence.

  “Hi,” I say. I suddenly feel embarrassed about my dressed up look. I hope he doesn’t notice. But he does.

  “You look nice,” he tells me.

  Now I’m really embarrassed. I have absolutely no idea what to say. I manage to mumble a thank you.

  Just then, Ethel pokes her head out the door and calls to me. “Jane, lunchtime. Come and take yourself a break.”

  Then she notices Hunter. “Oh, hi there, handsome,” she greets him. “Your grandma feed you lunch yet?”

  “No,” he says.

  Ethel waves her hand in a big open gesture. “Well, come on and join us, then.” Her smile is so inviting and her manner so confident. I want to be like her. I smile, too. At Hunter.

  “Okay, thanks,” he says, suddenly shy.

  Hunter comes around the fence and is attacked by Kona’s tongue. He laughs and picks her up. “I haven’t had a dog since I was a little kid,” he shares.

  “My dad got her for me. I think he thought it would help,” I tell him honestly. It’s weird, but I don’t feel any need to hide things with Hunter. I guess maybe it’s because I know he just gets it.

  He nods at me. “Even if it doesn’t. It’s still cool to have a dog.”

  I nod back. He’s right, I realize. Even if Kona can’t make missing Lizzie any easier. I do have a dog. And I have wanted one forever.

  “Life’s little blessings,” Ethel adds as we follow her to the sunporch. She lays out another place for Hunter and then we all munch peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, grapes, and snickerdoodle cookies. Ethel tells us funny stories about modeling and I tell a few about soccer matches. Hunter listens. And laughs. He doesn’t share much with us.

  After we clear the table, Ethel asks Hunter if he’d like to see some of the photos I’ve been shooting.When he says yes, she brings out the ones I printed that morning and lays them out all over the table. Normally, this would embarrass me immensely, but for some reason, I am okay with sharing the photos with Hunter.

  “These are amazing.” When he praises me, I think I must glow from the inside out.

  “Did you do these in Photoshop?” he asks.

  “I’m just learning,” I admit.

  “I could make some adjustments on my computer. If you want.”

  Ethel claps her hands. “Wonderful!”

  So I spend the afternoon with Hunter Baxley, sitting next to him at his desk, while he edits my photographs. He teaches me how to work magic in Photoshop, and I absorb every word he says. He teaches me how to crop the photos, how to brighten the colors, and even how to remove something from the photo—like a leaf or a thorn.

  Late in the afternoon, we sit cross-legged and facing each other in an old tree house Hunter’s dad built when he was a little boy. It smells dusty, but it’s cool and quiet inside. We toss a tennis ball back and forth. Hunter tells me about the night his parents died.

  “They were on their way home from a holiday party. It was snowing. The roads were icy and stuff. They say Dad had too much to drink, that he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel . . .”

  His voice trails off. I don’t speak. I imagine his parents on the icy road. Hunter at home, waiting for them.

  “Anyway, it happened really fast. And neither of them even made it to the hospital.”

  I feel the wetness on my cheeks before I realize I am crying. He leans forward and gently brushes away my tears with his fingertips. Our eyes meet. For a moment, we stay like that. Without speaking. It’s a silent moment. A moment of understanding. Of shared pain. A moment of the deepest connection.

  Then he speaks, almost in a whisper. Haltingly. “I’ve never talked about it before.”

  I understand.

  After dinner, I e-mail Zoe. And tell her about the photo job and seeing Hunter. I don’t tell her about his parents. Some things are meant to be private. I know she’s my best friend, but it’s wrong to expose something so personal and painful that is someone else’s to share when they’re ready.

  I’m just sending my e-mail when Ethel comes into my room carrying a vase of white roses.

  She sets the vase on my desk. “This is for you,” she says. “They reminded me of your family. Out of one stem, four white blossoms.” I see what she means. All four roses are growing from one stem. The largest is pure white, in full bloom. Ethel points to it.

  “That there’s your dad.” Then she points to the second largest rose. It is a bud halfway opened with some pink running through the petals. “And this one’s your mama.

  “That’s you, Jane.” Ethel indicates a tight bud with pink all around the outer petals and white on the inner petals. It is just beginning to flutter open on the edges. “Just beginning to bloom.”

  There is only one rose left. It’s a bloom in the early stages of opening, but it has already begun to die. The edges of the white rose have turned to parchment. It is frozen forever midbloom.

  I touch the rose gently. No fear of killing this flower. “Lizzie,” I whisper.

  Ethel nods. I reach out and wrap my arms around her generous frame. She smells like vanilla and whipped cream. My eyes fill with tears.

  “I miss my sister.”

  She holds me tight. “I know you do.”

  For some reason, it’s easier to cry with Ethel than it was to cry with Zoe, my best friend. She just lets me cry. Eventually, she draws back and tilts my chin up so that I can look her in the eye. I’m not embarrassed about the wetness on my cheeks.

  “Sisters are God’s greatest gift,” she tells me. “They know your strengths and your weaknesses. Your secrets and your fears. And even when it’s their time to depart from this earth, no one will ever take their place in your heart and in your memories. Lizzie will always be with you, darling.”

  She taps my chest lightly. “In here.You remember that.”

  I nod. Ethel wipes away a few of her own tears. “Now, I think I owe you some money.”

  I love the way Ethel can have a really deep moment with you one minute and then put on a cheerful face the next. It makes everything seem like it’s going to be okay.

  She takes a folded bill out of her pocket and hands it to me.

  “Congratulations on a job well done,” she says.

  I unfold the money and find a hundred-dollar bill in my hand. I look at the picture of Ben Franklin in awe. I just earned my first money as a photographer�
�and I loved every minute of it. That night, I go to sleep with a smile on my face.

  Dad arrives home the next day. He’s brought me a red T-shirt with white writing that reads SAN FRANCISCO. It’s a total airport gift, but I don’t tease him about it. Actually, I’m really happy to see him. But I know that Dad coming home means Ethel is leaving. I have to admit I am sad. But I’m also thrilled to have my freedom back.

  Ethel hugs me tight and tells me to keep my chin up. I nod and try not to cry.

  “You are a brave girl, Jane,” Ethel tells me. “Thank you for letting me share some of your summer.You let a lonely woman have a family for a few days.”

  I listen to her words, and I can’t believe Ethel is thanking me. I never thought about her life being lonely, or that she might have enjoyed our time together. I just thought about how it made me feel.

  I wave good-bye at the door. I know I will be seeing her soon. But the house feels sad and lonely again once she’s gone.

  Dad sits down at the table to eat, and I bring him a stack of my photographs. He takes his time and looks through every one. He’s really impressed.

  “We’re going to have to get you a portfolio to hold all your work,” he tells me.

  I tell him about Hunter teaching me how to use Photoshop. I try not to gush about Hunter and give away my feelings. Not that I have feelings for Hunter. I just like him, is all. But no one wants their dad to know what boys they like or don’t like. I think Dad sees through me anyway because he raises an eyebrow and gets a kind of I-know-something-that-you-don’t-want-me-to-know smirk around the corners of his mouth, but says nothing.

  I wonder why Dad and I are getting along so much better now than we used to. Maybe because it’s just the two of us now, I think. Like people stranded. Dad and I are the only ones left. We only have each other.

  And then a teeny, tiny thought creeps in. A putrid-green thought. It’s very, very small, but it won’t be ignored.

  Maybe, just maybe now, with Lizzie gone, Dad has to see me, Jane.

  It’s the kind of thought you want to pretend you never have and it makes me feel guilty, for being so selfish. And for being jealous of a ghost.

  I think of Lizzie and what she would say about this if I confessed it to her. If I shared my innermost feelings. The answer comes to me instantly, as though I can hear her speaking. She tells me that it’s okay. For once, I’m the one who needs to hear that. And it is okay. Because no matter how it’s happened, my life has changed, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Whether I like it or not, I am no longer invisible.

  Chapter 14

  The afternoon belongs to me. Dad heads off to run errands, and I am free to do anything I want. I kick around a soccer ball in the front yard. I have just started teaching Kona how to play the game when Hunter rides up on his bike.

  “Hi,” I say, surprised to see him.

  “Hi,” he says back.

  I think I am blushing. I know I am beaming. I don’t say anything else right away. I’m just happy to see him.

  “Did you ride your bike all the way over here?” I ask. “That’s really far.”

  Now he’s embarrassed. He looks down at his sneakers. His left hand brushes back his chin-length hair. I notice that the ends are slightly lighter in color, like the tip of a paintbrush. I wish I could touch it. Then I realize he’s caught me staring at his hair. I feel even my pinkie toes turn red as I quickly look away.

  “Are you practicing?” he asks.

  I can’t believe he would ride all this way just to see me. I wonder if he has something he needs to talk about.

  “No, just teaching Kona a few tricks. You wanna kick the ball around with us?”

  Hunter smiles then. He starts to look more at ease. “Sure.”

  We kick the ball back and forth, and Kona chases after it. Before long, all the awkwardness has disappeared.

  When we get hot, I grab some Popsicles from the freezer, and we both sit sideways across the hammock in the backyard. We let our feet dangle and we take turns pushing off the ground to keep us swinging back and forth. I lift Kona onto the hammock and she lies between us.

  “Do you believe in heaven?” I ask Hunter.

  “I think so,” he answers. “My parents talk to me in my dreams. And sometimes when I wake up, I feel like they’ve been there. Do you think that’s weird?”

  I shake my head no. “I wear Lizzie’s clothes sometimes. And most nights I sleep in her bed,” I confess.

  “Do you think she wanted to die?” Hunter asks me.

  If anyone else had asked me this, I would scream and yell at them and defend my sister’s honor and reputation. But with him, it’s different.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I want to believe it was an accident.”

  Hunter nods. He doesn’t speak. We push—back and forth, back and forth—both lost in our own thoughts.

  “Do you blame your dad for what happened?” I ask Hunter.

  His eyes widen slightly, and I see his face tense around the mouth. I suddenly wish I had thought about what I was going to say before I let the words out of my mouth. But it’s too late. Hunter looks down at his hands. He reaches out and strokes Kona around the ears. I don’t speak. I don’t even breathe. I think I’ve made a big mistake and now maybe he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.

  “It’s like what you just said about your sister. I want to believe it wasn’t his fault.”

  I know how that feels. There’s this part of me that tells myself Lizzie didn’t want to die, that she didn’t hurt herself on purpose. But there’s another part of me that knows that’s a lie.

  “But I hate him sometimes. For what he did to me. And my mom.”

  My heart aches for him. “I know how that feels,” I tell him honestly. “It’s this secret bad feeling that you have—but you can’t tell anyone about it because we’re not supposed to be angry.”

  Hunter nods. His eyes look large in his face. “Ethel would say that some things just can’t be helped,” I finish.

  “I like Ethel,” Hunter announces.

  “Me, too,” I agree.

  “Do you think you’ll ever forgive your dad?” I ask. I’m not sure if I’m really asking Hunter this question, or if I’m asking myself.

  He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

  I think it does matter. I think if we can’t forgive, we can never be free. “I think so,” I tell him honestly.

  “I don’t know,” is his answer. And the truth is, it’s mine as well.

  We’re silent then. All I can hear are the birds chirping in the trees, Kona breathing, the creaking of the hammock. I finish my Popsicle and resist the urge to chew on the stick. I’m certain Lizzie never would have chewed on a Popsicle stick in front of a boy.

  I have to say something that’s been on my mind. I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was rude that day under the bleachers. I just didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

  “I just wanted you to know you weren’t alone.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. Our eyes meet for a long moment. We say nothing, but just stare at each other. Then Hunter breaks the silence.

  “You know what you should do?” he says suddenly, his eyes twinkling. “You should make a memory box.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  Hunter sits up and faces me. “You take a box. A shoe box, wooden box, anything really. And you put things in it that remind you of the person you lost. Photos, ticket stubs from a movie you went to together, a T-shirt, their favorite book. And then you put it in a place you can find it whenever you need it. I have mine underneath my bed.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I tell him. I love the thought of this. I thank him for sharing it with me.

  “I’m really glad you came over to Ethel’s to take pictures,” Hunter blurts out. “I always wanted to talk to you at school. But you always seemed so busy with your friends.”

  I think this is incredibly ironic.That Mr. Popular thought I was too bus
y.

  Just then, Hunter leans over and presses his lips against mine. I have no idea what to do, so I press mine against his. Electricity shoots through my body, from my lips to my toes and back again. Hunter pulls away and looks at me with his chocolate eyes. I melt.

  And it dawns on me.

  I just had my first kiss.

  And my very next thought: I wish I could tell Lizzie.

  “I want to show you something,” I tell him. I jump off the hammock and run upstairs. I am breathing heavily as I pull out the photos of Lizzie lying in her coffin. I gather them tightly to my chest and take them back outside.

  I hand the photos to Hunter.

  He looks at them one by one. I see them again, as if for the first time. Lizzie’s hands. So white and still. Folded in a serene way that is so un-Lizzie. Lizzie’s mouth with the strings keeping her lips from opening. The coffin, like a prison enclosing her in white satin. The roses. Drooping heavy with the weight of their petals. She would have hated the pose they put her in, I think. It was so angelic. The type of pose that showed her the way people thought she was—or expected her to be—but wasn’t really her at all.

  Hunter finishes looking at all the photos.

  “Do you think it’s weird?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “Not at all.”

  I exhale then. And I realize that I have been so worried about myself. I thought I was losing my mind. Hunter telling me that it’s okay makes me feel better. I smile at him as I take the pictures from his hands.

  “She called me J,” I tell him. “No one else ever called me that.”

  Hunter considers this for a long moment. “Would you want someone else to call you J?”

  “I don’t think so,” I admit. I think I want that nickname to forever remind me of Lizzie. Even though I still feel the heavy rock of missing her pressing down in the middle of my chest, thinking of Lizzie calling me J spreads like warm lava flowing over the rock. I want to hold on to that feeling.