by Lindy Zart
I lower my face so that we are at eye level. “The next time you decide to end your unwanted life, swallow some pills. Make it easier on all of us. Only make sure you do it when I'm not around so I don't have to try to save your ass again.” I stomp away, water trailing down my head to my legs as I move, leaving puddles in my wake.
I don't expect him to answer and his low words halt my footsteps. Not just his words, but the fact that he's actually speaking to me. Shock goes through me at the sound of his rough voice. It is the uneven timbre of a voice grainy with disuse.
“No one asked you to save me.”
Anger spins me around and I stare at him for a long time. I think about the gift he has; the gift he is willing to throw away, and the unfairness of it burns through me in shades of black. There are so many people who have no choice in whether or not they live—he was given another chance when he was pulled from the destructive clutches of the river, and yet here he is, not grateful for it. That sickens me in ways that make my stomach roil.
“I didn't do it for you,” I finally say.
His dark eyebrows lower and he looks away.
I pass by EMTs and a harried-looking Thomas as I decide my best exit route so that I do not get water all over the floors of their home. I can just imagine what nice things he'll have to say to his son—any time I've witnessed him talking to Rivers his words were clipped, his expression something close to disgust. The thought that maybe I'm supposed to hang around and give a statement or something goes through my mind, but no one stops me, so I keep moving, intent on getting out of here while I still have some form of control over my mouth. I'm thinking if I suddenly went on a screaming binge I might worry some of the people within the near vicinity and get hauled off instead of possibly Rivers. I hop from the deck and head for the gate of the wooden fence that surrounds the backyard.
“Delilah, wait!” Monica calls.
As I turn back around, I notice Rivers is staring at me, a flash of something in his eyes before he looks away. It almost looked like longing. For what? I know it wasn't for me personally. Maybe it was for my ability to walk without limits, or maybe it was for my ability to walk away from here.
Thomas stops beside him and Rivers immediately freezes, all expression wiped from his face. It is like witnessing a flower wither away to nothing as I watch. He looks down as his father says words I cannot hear, words I am sure I do not want to hear.
I turn to Monica. “I'm going to head home. You two should rest."
She looks away from her husband and son, wrapping her arms around herself as she shivers. Her face tells me she is worried about their exchange, but the smoothing of her features says she will pretend that isn't so. With her hair slicked back she looks young and vulnerable. Not surprisingly, her makeup is still in place. She must buy the good kind.
She says, “Thank you. If you hadn't asked about him...if you hadn't been here...”
“Lots of ifs there, Monica. I try not to think about those too often. It's the equivalent of giving power to something that you shouldn't. Doubts suck ass enough on their own without tossing ifs into the mix.”
A wobbly smile takes over her mouth. “You're right. How did you get to be so sensible?”
I shrug. “I grew up fast.” With a small wave, I open the gate and resume my walk home.
I've lived in the same house my whole life. It's dark blue with white shutters and a small porch—nothing outstanding about it, nothing to make it shine anymore than the houses surrounding it. Well, except for the flowers. They abound in all colors and varieties, lining the structure and haphazardly sprouting up throughout the yard like a minefield of blossoms. The house is worn down, but the natural beauty of the flowers pretties it up. I don't understand my aversion to it. Maybe it isn't so much the actual structure as the memories inside it.
I just know that, as I stare at it now, I don't want to enter it. My chest is tight and I am finding it hard to breathe. Once I cross the threshold it isn't so bad. It's just getting there. Quite possibly it is due to the image of a smiling dark-haired boy with golden eyes playing with trucks on the porch that freezes me in place, piercing my heart with overwhelming sorrow. A memory, but potent enough to shred my insides with loss. It doesn't happen all the time; these memories I want to forget at the same time that I never want to forget. I wonder how my mother does it, day after day. If I were her, I don't think I could.
My mom isn't home, but I didn't expect her to be, and I am actually glad for it. Things are more tense when she's home—I'm more tense. Not because of anything she says or does; Janet Bana is so purely sweet and I love her with every fiber that makes me who I am. I just, I don't know, put up so many invisible walls between us when I was younger that it seems impossible to tear them down now. And I don't understand that. How can something you can't even see, have the power to stop your tongue, turn your eyes away, and keep you from reaching out to the one person you should?
She's at her floral shop most waking hours. My mother lives and breathes her flowers, and I get why. They remind her that even in a world of pain and ugliness, cruelty and loss, there are still amazing things to cling to, to tell us not to give up, not to lose hope, and continue on to another day. There is life in death, always.
Sometimes I hang out with her there, cleaning and whatnot. Other times, like now, I want to be alone. I make myself a peanut butter, jelly, and honey sandwich and pour a large glass of milk. Sitting at the kitchen table with my snack, the sun heats my back through the window, drying my damp clothes. I tug the ponytail holder from my short locks and mess them up so they don't dry flat against my head.
I pull my sandwich apart as I eat, popping chunks in my mouth and chewing. The kitchen is painted a light shade of teal with yellows and creams added in the form of cabinets, furniture, and framed pictures. The trim along the windows and walls is white, as are the cabinets and appliances. My mother loves to decorate with light colors, as do I. They are like the sun shining in the form of hues, brightening the world, giving it a softer look. Green ivy plants hang from the ceiling by hooks, their vines trailing down in a waterfall of leaves. The room is smallish, and yet endless in its serenity.
I helped renovate it last year. We repainted the walls and furniture, added and removed decorative pieces, and rearranged where things sat. It was our summer project. It was also the first time in a long time that we worked side by side with nothing but the present in the room with us. I miss last summer in a way I do not feel comfortable examining. Lately, I long for it. Last summer was the final one spent untouchable by the past or the future. This summer I am suffocating in it. Everything is about time, and what I need to do with it.
The refrigerator hums and I focus on that as I eat my comfort food, feeling my body unwind and relax. I don't think about anything, because thinking about things makes me feels things, and right now, I want to be numb.
“WHAT?” I GRUMBLE INTO THE phone. My eyes are closed and I'm lying on my back, pretending I am still sleeping like I want to be.
“Delilah?”
I sit up and squint at the name and number on the phone. “Monica?”
“Yes. I'm sorry to call you so early and also on your day off, but...” She pauses and then says the rest in a rush. “Thomas' mother is ill. She has terminal cancer. She's been diagnosed for a while now, but it's rapidly progressing and they don't know if she's going to make it through the week. I have no one else to ask and, well, I would feel more comfortable leaving knowing you're around. I'm sure he'd be okay on his own, but just in case, I mean, with what happened yesterday—it should only be for a day or two and—”
“What is it?” I interrupt.
“Can you stay at the house with Rivers?”
“What?” I tell myself I misheard her, but then she continues and I know I didn't.
“We're trying to catch a plane immediately and Rivers can't travel like he is. I mean, he could, but it would be difficult. I need someone to watch over him, especially with the poo
l incident yesterday. I would feel better knowing he isn't alone.”
“I'm sure Rivers is all for that.”
“It doesn't matter what he wants,” she says sharply. Apparently they've already had a conversation regarding this. “It's for his best interest that someone be around while we're away and I trust you. All of our family is in California. We have some friends in town, but no one we consider close. I don't have anyone else to ask.” Her voice has taken on a pleading note and I am not immune to it. In fact, I already see myself weakening and saying yes.
“What about his girlfriend?” I ask in a last effort to keep from agreeing to her proposition.
“Rivers and Riley broke up before his accident. I think she was hoping he would want to date again, but...she came by yesterday and...it didn't go well. He finally talked to her. What he said...” She inhales deeply. “I don't think she'll be visiting anymore.”
“Oh.” Not really sure how I feel about this. Sort of sorry for Riley, but sort of indifferent as well.
“I'll pay you.”
The selfish part of me wants to ask how much, but I can't do that without guilt eating at me, so I tell her, “I'll do it. For free. Well, I mean, I'll still be doing my normal job, so count it as part of that.”
“Of course. Help yourself to whatever you want. The fridge is fully stocked. The couch in the sun room pulls out into a bed, if that's comfortable for you. There is a spare bedroom upstairs too, but I would feel better if you were on the same floor as Rivers. Can you come over now?”
“Yeah. How long should I plan on being there?”
She pauses. “I'm not sure. A few days, at least, maybe a week. You can use the washer and dryer while you're here and anything else you want or need. If you need to go home, of course you can. I don't want you to think I expect you to be caged in here while we're gone. I appreciate this so much, Delilah. I know this isn't part of your job description, but I am grateful. Thank you.”
I end the phone call after telling her I'll be over in twenty minutes and flop onto my back to stare at the room enshrouded in the shadows of sunrise. I think I should have made a list of what my job duties were and were not, but I know it wouldn't have mattered. I would still be here, just like I am, saying yes all over again. The sun isn't even fully up yet. It is just wrong to be up before the sun says hello. Sighing, I blink my tired eyes and sit on the edge of the bed. There is no point wasting time grumbling about things. I could have said no. I didn't.
I heave myself from the bed and find my hot pink tote bag in the back of my closet. My bedroom always looks like a tornado has recently been through. I keep the butter-toned room clean with sweeping and dusting, but for whatever reason, I have a hard time keeping my clothes in the dresser drawers and hung up. I have piles of folded clothes on the wood floor, in laundry baskets, and on the foot of my cream and black swirled bedspread. It seems like such a waste of time to put all the many articles of clothing in their proper spots when there are better ways to spend the same amount of time. Or it could be I simply have too many clothes—or I'm lazy. I quickly toss that description away.
As I dig through my dresser drawers, the coolness of the wood seeps into my knees where I kneel. I think about spending multiple days and nights in the same house as Rivers. I'm sure we will talk so much we'll run out of things to say. We can discuss in great detail his total shun of me throughout the history of our association. It'll be fun. And him smiling at me all the time? I'll probably faint from the sheer wattage of it. I toss my lime green two-piece in the bag and grab random articles of clothing to shove in the bag as well. I decide I don't need to bring makeup or jewelry because there will be no reason to get glammed up while babysitting the former football star of Prairie du Chien High.
After a quick stop in the bathroom to take care of necessities and grab what I'll need for the duration of my stay at the Young residence, I follow the scent of coffee into the kitchen. My mom is standing at the counter near the coffee pot with her back to me. I take in her light pink top and white lounge pants and the way her long hair is pulled up in a perfectly symmetrical ponytail.
I'm five and a half feet tall, but my mom is closer to five feet eight inches. I'm naturally a brunette where my mom's hair is blonde—so blonde it seems silver in certain lighting. Her eyes are large and blue while mine are some strange mix between yellow and gold. In the summertime her skin bronzes to an attractive shade of creamy tan—I burn and go back to white. There is an overall kindness to my mother that is harder to find in me. Sure, I have a big heart, but I keep it hidden. Hers is bright enough for all to see.
“Janet,” I greet when she turns in surprise. I started the first name basis bit when I was six. Life happened and I thought I needed to act and think like an adult from that moment on, so in my mind she went from mom to Janet. At first she was upset, but she learned to adapt. I know it bothers her though, and yet, I cannot get that three-lettered—or six-lettered—word to form on my lips.
“You're up early.” Her voice is soft and lyrical, as is everything about her. My mom makes me think of a hummingbird—dainty, beautiful, and fragile. She's taller than me, so that brand doesn't really fit, except she is fine-boned and seems smaller than she really is. I think it's because of her bearing more than her physical appearance. And no one can argue that she is visually breathtaking.
“Yeah. You know me—early to bed, early to rise.” Except I wish I was still in bed.
I swipe hair behind my ear and reach for a mug above her head. She moves out of the way and sits down at the cream-painted table with its mismatched chairs of blue and green. My mother's decorating sense leans toward the antiquated, worn look. Nothing has to match; it just has to have character. My tastes tend to go the same way. I like the serene, vintage feel of it, almost like we are in another era where life was simpler and less hectic.
I pour steaming black coffee into the white mug with red lips on it. “Monica asked me to stay at the house for a few days or so. They have a family emergency and she doesn't want to leave Rivers alone.”
Her coffee cup thumps against the table. “You aren't trained to take care of an invalid.”
“He's not an invalid. He's just...semi-restricted.” I sit down at the table and blow on the coffee.
“Still. Why don't they hire a nurse? And how well do you know him?”
“He doesn't need a nurse. He just needs someone to keep an eye on him—a babysitter.” Two pale eyebrows lift at this. “I went to school with him. It isn't like we were friends or anything, but there's nothing to worry about. He's harmless.”
“Bring your can of mace.”
“No.”
“Then carry Raid around with you. It's just as effective.”
I take a sip of strong coffee, feeling my brainwaves accelerate. I don't particularly like coffee, but on my tired days, I give in to the pull of its caffeine. Otherwise, I'm more of a juice and water kind of girl. “I would look pretty dumb with a can of Raid clipped to my waist on a hip holster.”
She blinks. “That's a great idea! Easy access.”
“No,” I repeat.
The sigh that leaves her is the sound of her giving in. “You're an adult. I can't tell you what to do. But please be safe. And please call me every day, okay?”
She probably could tell me what to do, adult or not. This is her house, her rules. I am grateful to her for not pushing the issue. I grab an orange from the chipped white bowl in the middle of the table and toss it from hand to hand, not sure if I should ask the question foremost on my mind. I do anyway, because I have to prepare her. She has to be ready.
A chill goes through me at the thought of the future, but I keep my tone merely curious as I ask, “What are you going to do when I'm not here?”
"What do you mean?"
I shrug, keeping my gaze averted. "You know, move out...pretend to be an adult, stuff like that."
She stiffens, her knuckles turning white around the mug she clutches within her calloused hands. Tr
ue, wrinkles don't even think of marring her skin, but callouses do not have the same view. I think the rough patches of skin only make her more beautiful, really. “You don't have to move out.”
“Right. I get that.” I knew she was going to say that. I set the orange down and stand up, dumping the remainder of the coffee down the sink and setting the mug on the counter. I turn to face her with my hands on the edge of the counter top behind me. “But I am, hopefully by this fall.”
“There's no hurry, Del. Really. I like having you here. I mean, do you have any plans once summer's over? I know you aren't interested in college right now. Are you going to keep cleaning the Young family's house indefinitely?”
“It's just a summer job. They have a full-time cleaning lady, but she stays with her family in North Carolina for the summer. She'll be back in a few months. After that...” I shrug. “I don't know yet.”
“You can stay here for as long as you like. This is your home. It wouldn't feel the same with you gone. I realize you're eighteen and impatient to start life on your own, but you don't have to rush it. Life, adulthood, and responsibilities will still be waiting for you in a few months.” She doesn't know that, not for a fact. No one knows that.
I study my mom's pinched features and the strain around her mouth. I'm trying to help her here, but of course she doesn't see it that way. She sees it as her last child abandoning her. The thought of me not being in the same home as her really upsets her, but I am me, not the ghost of someone, and because of that, I need to not be in this house for any longer than is necessary. But on the other hand, how can I leave her, knowing what I now know? My insides twist up thinking about it all. I face the sink and quickly wash the cup, setting it in the strainer to dry.
“I'll be in touch.” I grab the orange, hoist the tote bag to my shoulder, and offer a weak smile. Hers is just as listless. With a small wave, I head outside.
