Standing Sideways

by J. Lynn Bailey

  I was worried about coming back to work because of the Have-Nots. I don’t want to hear how sorry people are over and over and over again. How heartbroken they are for us. The if-there-is-anything-we-can-do people who say that just to say it. A check-off item.

  The Silvers walk in first—Annette and Rick. Dr. Silvers is the local OB/GYN. He’s probably delivered half of Belle’s Hollow, if not eighty-five percent of our population. Tracy works close with Dr. Silvers. He took her under his wing when she was just starting out in the field. They’ve been like grandparents to Jasper and me.

  Annette comes around the corner of the counter. She gives me a kiss on the side of my head and a weak bear hug. “I love you.” She brushes her thumb against my cheek.

  I don’t say anything, except for, “Thanks.”

  “Call me, you hear me? If you need anything, you’d better call. Or I’m coming over.”

  Rick reaches over Annette and also gives me a kiss on the temple.

  They set up a scholarship in Jasper’s name at the local university, I think—or something like that. I heard Tracy rattling on about it one night. The scholarship covers four years of tuition.

  They place their order and then walk to Jasper’s small plaque in his spot.

  “Order up,” I say, putting the order in. I walk back to the counter.

  I know they came in just to see me.

  The Abbotts.

  Oh, God. Not the Abbotts.

  James and Annabelle. Nosy. Self-centered, egotistical, and greedy. They’re both real estate agents in Belle’s. “The Best,” according to their brand.

  Annabelle purses her lips together like she’s going to cry when she sees me at the counter.

  Before Annabelle can preach her fake words of condolences, Linda walks up behind me.

  “Annabelle, you feed Livia one line of bullshit, I’ll choke you with this spatula. You got me?” She points the spatula across the counter.

  “When are you going to sell this place, Linda?” Annabelle is cool, her demeanor changing instantly. “It has become more of an eyesore than anything.” Annabelle looks around the restaurant. “The upkeep must be hard for your age. See if this dive stays in business.” She pulls her left eyebrow up, staring at Linda, as if calculating her next words.

  James is nervously jiggling change in his pocket.

  The Abbotts are transplants from Sacramento. Moved here about three years ago. Their daughter, Alicia, is a junior, and she’s the opposite of her mom. Shy. Tends to hang out by herself. Smart, which her mother is clearly not because she wouldn’t have said that to Linda. Alicia is more on the techie side. She’s probably already been admitted to an Ivy League school or whatever for computer programming. Rumor is, she’s some sort of computer prodigy.

  “We don’t serve assholes. Get out!” Linda barks and walks back to the fryer.

  Annabelle laughs. “Let’s go, James,” she says but not before dropping her business card.

  But Linda is too red-faced to care. I push the business card off the counter and to the floor.

  But it’s the next bell that catches my attention. It’s eight ten p.m. It’s the red hair, the glassy clear-blue eyes that make their way up to the counter. It’s the dimple that appears just below his mouth when our eyes meet that makes my stomach flip.

  “Adrian,” I whisper.

  Jasper would have gotten it.

  Daniel cocks his head to the left. “Who’s Adrian?” Confidence follows his words.

  I try hard not to smile. “Nobody. What can I get you?” I put my pen to paper and push the nerves down.

  “What’s good here?” he asks, placing his injured hand on the counter.

  “Looks like it hurts,” I say, my eyes falling to his hand.

  “It will heal.”

  In this light, his hair looks different, as if the fluorescent overhead lighting has changed his hair color from a deep red to a dark brown. I watch as Daniel’s eyes scan the menu board in a way that makes me curious.

  “Cheese fries.” I write it down and walk it to Linda. “Order up. And a banana Oreo milkshake.” I meet Daniel’s eyes. “You’re welcome.”

  A puzzled look he’s giving me, not a oh-thank-you look.

  “Or whatever you want. I can change your order, if you want. But you’re going to want the cheese fries.” I pause.

  Don’t, Liv. Just shut up, and allow him to go sit down.

  But I can’t.

  “Here’s the deal. Let’s say you sit down. You’re waiting for your food, and you see several cheese fries go by—because that’s the popular thing to order here. And then you’ll second-guess yourself for not ordering the cheese fries. And you’ll probably have nightmares about not getting the cheese fries. Then, all you’ll eat is the cheese fries, and then you’ll get obese because you’ve eaten too many cheese fries due to your craving for them. And then your heart will stop, and you will die.” I take a breath and whisper, “Death by cheese fries.” I stop. “You can order something else, if you’d like.”

  Daniel’s face is stoic. But it softens slightly, as if he, too, is trying to hide the elusive smile. “Seriously?”

  No. You just make me talk too much, and then I can’t stop. Why do you do that? I want to say. It’s me not having the ability to control my mouth when you’re around.

  “I’ll get the cheese fries. And the banana Oreo milkshake.” He reaches into his front pocket for his wallet, and I can’t help but want to smile. “And I prefer you call me Mickey, not Adrian. She was a bit of a whine bag, if you ask me.” He pulls away from the counter and sits at a table in the corner. He pronounces ask like the word leads with an O instead of an A.

  I turn around to make the milkshake, and Brandon, Seaton, Lira, and even Linda are staring at me.

  “What?” I put the ice cream in the stainless steel cup.

  All four of them turn and go back to work.

  A few minutes later, I slide the tray onto the table that Daniel’s sitting at. “Death and a milkshake.”

  He stares down at the cheese fries. “These aren’t much different from cheesy chips that we have back home. Though the caliber of the potato might be different. I hear there are better potatoes in the United States than the UK.”

  I haven’t heard that. But I don’t study potatoes. Does he?

  “What happens if I have a heart attack?” he asks, staring at me as he takes a cheese fry and drops it into his mouth. His Adam’s apple slowly moves with the swallow. “And it’d be worth the heart attack because these are really good.” He puts another in his mouth.

  I’m staring, and I need to walk away. But I can’t.

  Think of something quickly, or he’ll think you’re a zombie, Liv.

  “I wonder if eating cheese fries will affect your health insurance. Like smoking.” I turn, kicking myself the whole way back to the milkshake machine, wondering why I have the keen ability to make an ass of myself.

  Slowly time passes and I watch Daniel as he walks to the trash receptor, dumps his trash, and brings the empty tray to the counter. “It seems I’m in quite a predicament.” He’s cautious with his words, even shy a little. Shaded behind the mask that he wears, that I see right through. “The cheesy chips were delicious. Though my heart seems to be acting a bit funny. Peculiar, I’d say. But I’d also add, certainly worth it. So, if I die from a heart attack tonight or obesity years down the road, please know it wasn’t the cheesy chips—or, as Americans call it, the cheese fries—that did it.” He slowly turns toward the front door. “It was the waitress who explained the ramifications that my life was at stake. Thank you, Livia, for saving my life.” He nods modestly. His dark flames of hair follow him out to his car.

  “Now, he’s a keeper,” Poppy whispers.

  Livia, Age Six

  “Daddy?

  What’s wrong with you?

  Why won’t you talk?

  Why are your pants off?

  Daddy?

  Wake up.”

  Present
Day

  Tracy’s home, her car in the circular driveway, pulled forward, allowing room for mine. I’m annoyed that she’s home. I shouldn’t be, but I am. Lately, when I look at her, which isn’t often, I’m reminded that I’m the wrong twin. The twin she adored was killed. This works against me because it only makes me miss Jasper more, because I adored Jasper, too. He was my favorite twin. I look at the clock—9:47 p.m.—and glance at the palm tree, looking for my brother. But, now, the palm tree has an imprint of my guilt, and it eats away the tiny layer of happiness that I had just moments before with Daniel.

  “Mom?” I quietly shut the door behind me.

  “In here, Mimi.”

  My stomach drops.

  Not because Tracy calls me Mimi, but because it isn’t her voice.

  It’s my dad’s.

  An electric shock shoots through my entire body and reaches my fingertips. I follow my eyes around the corner to see my mother and father in the same room—opposite sides but nonetheless in the same room.

  Sitting.

  Talking.

  Seemingly a simple task between a mother and father but not ours. I’m hit with the realization that I now have to deal with the two of them on my own.

  Tracy, her elbows resting on her knees, leans forward, and I slide down to the arm of her chair, showing my allegiance. Jasper would have sat in the middle because he was the good twin. The fair twin.

  I look at my dad across our large sitting room. The same room our parents sat Jasper and me down and explained the divorce. And co-parenting. All the bullshit lines parents feed kids when they separate. All that never comes to fruition.

  I wish Jasper were here. This takes me back to a memory.

  We’d been camping the whole weekend. While my father drank the weekend away, my mom nagged him, making the whole weekend almost unbearable. When we got home, she’d gotten so fed up with him. We had to help her get him to the bathtub. She turned on the cold water—and not just a slow trickle. Full blast.

  “Maybe you’ll sober up this way,” she said.

  Jasper grabbed me by the arm and pulled me outside to the palm, and we watched the world below us. Cars moved. Stoplights changed. People walked. Laughed. Life went on functionally without the Stones. Yet here we were, in this big, beautiful house on a hill, surviving.

  “What do we do?” I asked him.

  “We weather the storm, Mimi,” he said.

  “Mimi?” I hear my dad’s voice.

  There’s something in his tone? Reservation?

  I don’t speak. I just stare at the floor, attempting to pull together the pieces, the signs Tracy would have given that she was ready to call on my father for help. The last person on earth she could stand. The last person she’d ever call. Even if we’d received word that the end of the world was coming, she wouldn’t call my dad.

  I guess she’s more worried than I thought.

  “I’m here until your mom tells me to leave. I think you need me right now.”

  I laugh. “Need you? Jasper is dead because of you. I don’t need you. I need you to leave. That’s what I need,” I spit.

  My father eats my words, as if they are deserved.

  “And you aren’t allowed to call me Mimi anymore. You lost that luxury when you left for Los Angeles with what’s her face. Remember that? Leaving your family, Dad?” I stand.

  “Sis, where are you going?” Tracy gently puts her hand over mine. Her fingers linger, and it reminds me of the way we wake up in the morning, her arm around my middle. Deep down, I desperately need her, but up-front, I don’t want to tell her that.

  “To weather the storm,” I say and walk to the front door, slamming it behind me.

  I take in the cool Northern California air.

  Tracy isn’t in my bed this morning.

  The pills stare back at me from my nightstand. Maybe I should count them, see how many I have left.

  It’s 5:05 a.m., and I can’t sleep.

  My dad is back after his three-year hiatus.

  I lost my virginity to a boy I’m not sure I like in that way. I can’t stop sleeping with him.

  Mr. Joe has faith in me, and I don’t want to let him down.

  School sucks.

  And Whitney is nice when she should really hate me.

  And my brother is still dead.

  But, through this, there’s a boy, Daniel, who seems to smooth out some of the wrinkles, making life a little more bearable.

  I turn the bottle of pills again. And stare at its silhouette. What would it feel like to take three this time? Two is good, but three might be better, right?

  The dread of a new day. The anxiety that exists in my veins, turning on me. The dread pumps through my body and makes my hands sweat, my body hot. And my stomach turns to a bed of knots, making me want to throw up.

  Poppy: “What about Dr. Elizabeth?”

  “Mole? No,” I whisper.

  “Why not?”

  “She doesn’t get it, Poppy.”

  “My dear, nobody will. Ninety percent of the population have not experienced what you’ve experienced. But she does have the education to be able to give you some direction, some advice perhaps.” Poppy is sitting on the side of my bed. Her bright-colored housecoat shimmers, just like in the movies when ghosts come out of doors, chandeliers, windows even.

  “I feel like I’m going crazy. Am I crazy?” I whisper.

  “Oh, my dear girl.” She shakes her head, and I feel the warm rush of her hand slip right through mine, just like the Santa Ana winds. “Grief is colored in so many different ways.”

  Poppy used to have big brown spots on her hands. They’re gone now. But she used to have the softest hands. Big hands. We used to cuddle in her chair on Friday nights and watch reruns of The Golden Girls—her, me, and Jasper.

  I remember, one night, I thought I was going to die.

  While I was lying next to Poppy, she snored like she was screaming. I swallowed a penny. I must have been about nine years old at the time. Jasper was out on the couch in the living room. Though I could breathe through the whole ordeal, I thought it might have gotten lodged in an organ. What about the coming-out part? The penny would eventually have to exit my body since it went in through my mouth. Surely, it wasn’t good. Panic set in. I snuck out of bed and went to Jasper.

  “Jasper?”

  He didn’t budge.

  “Jas?” I shook him.

  “What? What’s wrong? Are you all right?” He stirred, his eyes sleepy, hair in disarray.

  “I swallowed a penny.”

  He blinked. Stared at me. A smile crept into the corners of his mouth. “You swallowed a penny?”

  “It’s not funny. Will the copper kill me? Will it get lodged somewhere in my lungs or something?”

  “It’s going to take a lot more to kill you than a copper penny. You’re fine. Now, go back to bed.”

  A creak in our old house brings me back to the present moment. Poppy is nowhere in sight.

  I pop three white pills into my mouth and creep out of bed. Jasper’s AC/DC shirt dangles at my mid-thigh. Quietly, I open his bedroom door, and everything is in its place. I go to his closet with his shirts hanging, clean, waiting to be worn. And a cold, lonely feeling enters my body. With an ache I’ve felt far too many times, I sit down in his closet, on top of his nine thousand pairs of immaculate Vans he took excellent care of. Surrounded by him, I close my eyes and hug my knees in the secret spot that seems to make the grief a little less heavy.

  It’s Tracy’s sobs I hear that wake me up. I must have fallen back asleep. The familiar early morning sobs from the shower.

  Tracy.

  I want to go to her. Hug her. Tell her my pain matches hers. But I don’t because my body is shaking, too weak to move.

  I think fear keeps us from a lot of good.

  The sobs grow silent. The water is turned off. And, slowly, I creep out of Jasper’s closet but not before I see my father, which makes my insides instantly freeze.

&
nbsp; My silent breath grows even quieter, and the swoosh of my blood pumping in my ears becomes faster and louder.

  Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

  My left eye peeks through the crack in the door, and I try to swallow, but there’s nothing to swallow.

  My dad is sitting on Jasper’s bed, holding his football jersey.

  I’ve never seen my father cry. At six foot four, he was always a giant to me.

  He had a full ride out of Belle’s Hollow on a basketball scholarship. But he decided to stay back because Tracy had gotten pregnant. And it wasn’t with us. Before us. Instead, he went to Skagit Community College, just twenty minutes up the road. Worked during the day as a cashier at Hollow’s Grocery and went to school at night. Finished his bachelor’s degree and Juris Doctor online.

  The baby before us didn’t make it. I think that attributed to the demise of their relationship with my father going to school at night and my mother holding down her CNA job at Redwood Memorial Hospital—she’d done a nine-month LVN certificate to help offset some of the living costs. Jas and I didn’t come along until after my dad finished law school. Tracy went back and got her RN degree after we went to kindergarten, as she didn’t have to work anymore because Dad could provide for us and then some.

  There’s a stifled cry that makes me look up. Hunched over my brother’s football jersey, my father is shaking like a toddler. His tears, unmasked, fall at an uncontrollable rate of speed, yet there’s no sound.

  And what comes to my mind is a memory that is seared so deep, it makes me fly out of the closet.

  My dad was in a drunken stupor that night. Punched Jasper in the face for sticking up for Tracy. Yet Jasper made excuses.

  “I should have left him alone,” he told me as I held an ice pack over his right eye that night.

  I’m staring at my dad, who looks like a lost little boy right now, all seventy-six inches of him.

  “Why are you crying?” It’s more of a rhetorical question. What I should have said was, You don’t get to cry.