Who I Kissed

by Janet Gurtler

“And that’s great too. You have to deal with everything as it comes. Head on. And I’m sure he’s a great help. But guess what? I’m here to help too. Twenty-four seven. Any way I can. I’m not going to trivialize what happened or your right to be upset, but you need to learn how to go on with your life as well.”

  “Allie. Really. Do we have to talk about this now?” Dad says. “We’re not professionals.”

  “Yes, Jonathan. We do have to talk about it now. No. We’re not professionals. But we love her. This is one of the reasons I came. Sam needs to talk about it. Now.”

  I don’t say anything. I stare at the table. My mind is fogged up.

  “Her aura is very disturbed. I think we could do a few Reiki sessions. I want to consult with her angels.”

  “Her aura is fine,” Dad says and stands up, smacking his hands on the table. “Don’t start with the woo-woo stuff already, Allie. You just got here.”

  “Um. Hello? I’m sitting right here,” I remind them.

  Suddenly I’m not so sure her visit was a good idea either. The air in the room seems darker. For a moment I picture myself under water. Getting pushed down without being able to fight back or move my arms. I’m struggling not to drown.

  “Your aura is very dark too, Jonathan. There’s a lot of repressed emotion in this room.”

  “There’s a lot of bullshit in this room.” He stomps out of the kitchen toward the back stairs that lead to the basement. I watch him disappear into his man cave with the big-screen TV and La-Z-Boy chair. I kind of want to follow, run behind him, away from things I don’t want to deal with either. But I’m pinned to the spot. Saturated with emotions I’ve been stuffing down and unable to move under the weight of them.

  Aunt Allie breathes out loudly. “I’m sorry, Sam. Your dad and I are not always good at communicating.” She sips at her wine. “Well. He is good at storming out on me. I’ll give him that. But he’ll come around. I know him better than I know myself sometimes.”

  She lifts Fredrick up to look at me. “Nosotros tenemos que ayudar a,” she says in her Fredrick voice. “We have to help.” She places him back on the floor, reaches over the table, and places her large hand over mine. Her skin is thin and spotty. Older than it used to look. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that repressing feelings only makes them come out in other ways. And I don’t mean healthy ways.”

  She pats my hand and then lifts it and places my palm in hers. She studies the lines and clicks her tongue. I want to ask her what she sees, but I’m afraid of what it might be. What my destiny has become. She traces her finger over my palm and presses her lips tighter. Her hand twitches slightly.

  “We need to do a proper reading,” she says.

  “How about now?” I offer, focusing on her hands, with mine tucked inside.

  “First we need to cleanse your essence. Things need to be done on this plane before we look to the next.” She squeezes my hand and then lets it go. “Before we speak with your angels, before they will be willing to reveal anything, you’ll need to confront your feelings. You need to look deep in your heart. There are things you need to do.”

  I pull my hand away and twist my braid around my finger. “I don’t know what you mean. I just want a reading.”

  “I’m going to have to cleanse this house too,” she announces as if I hadn’t even spoken. “Clean out the bad vibes. It’s time to start healing. To begin, we’ll purify the air in this home.”

  Aunt Allie purses her lips together and smiles at me. “You have to deal. Starting with the boy. You have to tell him how you feel.”

  “Aunt Allie, I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s dead.” My attempt at a joke falls flat. I stare at the kitchen table.

  She reaches over and pats my hand again. “Talk to him. No. Write him a letter. You don’t have to show it to me. You don’t have to show it to anyone. But it must be done. It’s part of your healing.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side and staring off as if listening to someone or something.

  “I don’t want to write him a letter. It’s not like he’ll be able to read it.”

  “No. But you will. It will help.” She lowers her head. “And so it is,” she says. To someone. Or something.

  I glance around the room. But there’s only me, her. And Fredrick at her feet.

  “This is necessary. Can you do it?”

  I shrug. I don’t want to lie to her, but I can’t do what she asks.

  “Do you want to get better?” she asks.

  I can’t honestly answer that question with a yes.

  “Please?” she asks. “Can you do it for me? Your kooky old aunt?”

  “Let me think about it,” I tell her. Maybe I don’t need a reading after all.

  “Good.” She sips her wine and makes a face. “We also need you to talk about your mother.”

  My mouth drops open, but nothing comes out.

  “She’s been gone a long time,” she says, her voice lowered but loving. “But you two still haven’t dealt with it as a family.”

  She takes another sip of wine. “Your mom watches over you, Sam. She always will. But she’s not an angel. There’s a difference. Angels guide. Your mom can’t do that anymore.” She stands and walks to the sink and pours out the rest of her wine. “The energy in this house is affecting the taste of the wine.”

  “If there are angels, then why did Alex have to die?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Angels don’t control destiny.”

  She leans against the counter and puts down the empty glass. “Sometimes a tragedy opens more old wounds. You have a door opened to you now, Samantha. The healing’s been put off for long enough. You have a chance to heal more than one wound.”

  I close my eyes and inhale deeply. “I would like to know more about my mom.”

  “And you will. I promise you that. She’s been a silent ghost for years. I can show you parts of her. And so can your father. It’s time you got to know her. And what you lost.”

  I frown, wanting to believe she’s just a fake. A flake. But in my heart, I believe in Aunt Allie. I always have.

  “Start with the letter,” she says. “And then we’ll go further.”

  I can pretend I don’t, but I want a reading. So much. Aunt Allie’s contact with angels always gives me tremendous relief that there is something bigger out there. That there is someone or something on my side. I believe in her angels. And I need them. For me and for Alex. I want to know that he is okay too.

  The problem is I can’t imagine what I could write to Alex on this level. What would I possibly say? It’s too scary to face what I did to him.

  Aunt Allie presses her lips together and sighs, about to say something, when we’re interrupted.

  Boom!

  We both jump at an unexpected loud noise outside. It almost sounded like a gunshot.

  chapter nine

  “What the hell was that?” Dad yells, as his footsteps tromp up the stairs. We all reach the front door at the same time. Fredrick growls low in his throat but doesn’t bark, as if he’s wary too.

  Dad puts up his hand, motioning for us to get behind him. Aunt Allie tries to step in front, but he gently moves her back. “This is my home,” he reminds her.

  He presses his eye to the peephole in the door. “I don’t see anything.”

  He unlocks the deadbolt and turns back to us. “Stay there.” He pushes the door open and steps out on the porch, pulling the door, but it stays open just an inch.

  “Son of a bitch,” he mumbles.

  I flinch at his words. “What? What is it?”

  “What, Jonathan?” Aunt Allie asks. “What’s going on?”

  “Stay there, stay inside,” he says instead of answering.

  A moment later, the door reopens. He’s holding something behind his back. He won
’t look at me.

  “What is it?” I repeat.

  His lips press tight, and he glances at Aunt Allie and then at me. I almost see actual wheels turning inside his head as he tries to think of something to say. “Stupid kids,” he mutters. “Just stupid kids.”

  Invisible spiders race up and down my arms, leaving shivery bumps behind them. I wrap my arms around myself. “Tell me what you saw.”

  Slowly, shaking his head and mumbling, Dad pulls his hand out from behind his back. His hand grips a small jar of peanut butter. Red lid. Extra crunchy, extra peanuts.

  Icicles crystalize my veins.

  “Oh.” The sound comes out in a puff as my mouth forms the shape of the word.

  “Take that shit outside and throw it in the garbage,” Aunt Allie says, in a fierce voice so unlike her that my eyes open wider.

  I don’t know that I’ve ever heard her swear before. Dad stands in place, holding the jar.

  “Go on, Jonathan, get rid of it. It’s covered in bad karma. Get it out of the house.”

  For once, Dad doesn’t argue with her. He snaps to action and hurries back out the front door, holding the peanut butter in front of him as if it is deadly poison. Which, as a matter of fact, it is. To some people.

  My stomach presses in, and I bend over as if I’ve been punched.

  “No,” Aunt Allie snaps. “No.” She puts an arm around me and pulls me tight beside her. “We will not let this harm you.”

  My shoulders shake with the effort of holding in sobs trapped in my core. Breathing like a woman in labor, I force it all down, fighting the pain. As I try to calm myself, Aunt Allie directs me to the kitchen, pushing me toward a kitchen chair.

  “We start with peppermint tea.” She gets the kettle from the stove, takes it to the sink, fills it with water, and places it on a burner. “Too much negativity. It’s hard to breathe.”

  Dad walks back into the kitchen, his hands empty and his face full. Our equally weary gazes meet.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I lift a shoulder with effort, too weak to do more.

  “That was a really sick thing for someone to do,” he says. “Do you want me to call Bob?”

  I nod. Fredrick trots over to me and jumps up, pawing at my legs, so I lift him to my lap. He circles around, digging his little nails into my legs.

  “This is a sign of Mercury in retrograde,” Aunt Allie says. “Tricksters abound. Unresolved issues come to light. Things are in flux.”

  Fredrick jumps up, licking at my face, chasing at my closed mouth with his tiny tongue. I move away, but he tries to make out with me. As if that might help.

  “No se preocupen. Yo te protegeré,” Aunt Allie says in her Fredrick voice. “Do not worry, my butterfly. I will protect you.”

  I scratch his tiny head, wishing it were true. That he could protect me.

  Dad watches, not moving, not saying anything until the whistle on the kettle starts singing. “When does this retrograde thing end?” he asks Aunt Allie.

  “Not soon enough.” Aunt Allie pours water into the teapot. “Sit, Jonathan. I’ll pour you a cup of tea and explain the basics.”

  Later, after I have a lengthy conversation with Bob on the phone, they quiz me to make sure I’m not going to off myself. Finally, they leave me alone, and I go to my room and log on to the computer. My Facebook page is filled with comments, but one stands out.

  Samantha Waxman sat on a railroad track, her heart was all a flutter. A boy came along so she kissed him. TOOT TOOT Peanut Butter.

  chapter ten

  The next day, I wake early and open my bedroom door and tiptoe down the hallway. Aunt Allie and Dad are talking in hushed voices in the kitchen. I stop and tune my ears in to what they’re saying.

  “She says she’s fine, but that’s all she ever says. She’s not fine. This is not a fine situation. She keeps everything inside, just like you. I’m worried about her. She needs to get some of it out.”

  “I’m worried about her too, Allie. Sam is my baby. I’d do anything if I could change what happened. Anything.”

  My eyes water at the concern in his voice. His baby?

  “Of course you would. But you can’t. You can’t protect her from this forever.”

  “Bob said she’s handling things okay.”

  “Bob didn’t know her before this happened.”

  I clear my throat and take loud steps in the hallway, and they stop talking.

  “Morning! Breakfast is almost ready,” Aunt Allie calls

  “Lord save us all,” Dad says. He’s in a dark shirt and dark pants. The accountant uniform.

  Aunt Allie smacks him with the spatula in her hand. With an apron over her clothes, she looks practically maternal.

  “I can handle adding water to pancake mix.”

  “But can you flip them before they burn?”

  She smacks him again, and he holds his hands up in self-defense. The truth is she’s far from a natural chef, but when she visits she likes to take over for us in the kitchen, and we both let her. Familiar roles. Anyhow it’s not like we’d complain about anyone cooking for us.

  “Did my mom like to cook?” I ask as I take a spot at the kitchen table across from Dad. The table’s loaded with flavored syrups and jams Aunt Allie picked up on shopping trips in town.

  They look at each other and then back at me.

  “She was okay,” Dad says, lifting a shoulder, grabbing an empty glass on the table, and filling it with orange juice.

  Aunt Allie snorts as she flips a pancake over in the pan. “She was a terrible cook.”

  Dad looks shocked for a second and then pushes the full glass at me and laughs. “You’re right, she was. She would have said the same thing.” Dad chuckles. “She had a good sense of humor.”

  “She had to, being married to you,” Aunt Allie says as she flips a pancake.

  They laugh, and Aunt Allie gets into a story about my mom making dinner for her and almost burning down the kitchen. She’d turned on the wrong burner and started the grease for gravy on fire. The microwave melted, the curtains burned, and two fire trucks arrived at the house before Dad even got home from work.

  I smile as Dad adds to the story, and before long he has tears rolling down his cheeks, he’s laughing so hard. It’s music I haven’t heard in a long time. Aunt Allie puts a plate in front of me. I choose plain syrup and dig in.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her. She rumples my hair and smiles.

  Dad sips at his coffee and glances up. “I am too, Allie.”

  ***

  That night after school I have a session with Bob. I’m feeling a little more peaceful by the time I get home. I’m at the kitchen table doing math homework when the doorbell rings. The droning sound of the vacuum cleaner doesn’t stop from downstairs. For the past few days, Aunt Allie has been cleaning everything in our house, scrubbing down walls with lemon juice, vacuuming, leaving every single window wide open despite the crisp fall air. She’s working on a full-house cleanse to rid us of negative energy. Dad’s been holding his tongue about it, mainly because I think he appreciates the free cleaning. We haven’t lived in the house long enough for it to be really dirty, but he and I aren’t exactly clean freaks, so her efforts can’t hurt.

  The other thing Aunt Allie seems intent on doing is buying up most of the fresh flowers left in town. She’s got them sticking out of vases in every room, and she even put them in juice jugs and old milk cartons when the vases were all used up. She tells me the flowers negate bad energy.

  Dad bugs her about the money she’s wasting on things that die in a week, but she explains that they have a purpose that lingers long after they’re gone. Besides, she adds, material things never last. Anyhow she’s got more than enough money from her settlement when she was let go from
her corporate job, and she does well on the psychic circuit.

  The scent in the house is fresh and soothing. The bell rings again, and it’s polite and less threatening than a thunk, but I flinch anyway. When the bell rings a third time, I glance around for someone to save me from answering it. Even Fredrick is downstairs, deafened by the vacuum and not curious enough to come up and check out the visitor for me.

  Sighing, I walk to the door and slowly open it.

  Coach Clair is on the porch.

  “Samantha,” she says and steps forward and hugs me. I lose my ability to speak for a second, I’m so surprised to see her. “I’ve missed you,” she says.

  Even though we’ve only been training together for a couple of months, I realize how much I’ve missed her too. My relationship with my coach in Orlie was so different, more formal. I can’t even imagine her ever coming to my home. She hasn’t been in touch since this whole mess blew up. I know from emails from Gillian that my Orlie swim club knows I am the girl from the news, so my old coach must know too. Clair lets me go and hands me an envelope with my name on the front. “Can I come in?”

  “Sorry, of course. Come in.” I hold the door for her, and she steps into the house. “Come inside and sit.” I hold out my hand and point, gesturing for her to go forward to the living room.

  “Open it,” she commands, nodding at the card in my hand. I follow her to the living room.

  It’s a miss-you card, signed by my team. The vacuum cleaner drones on downstairs. I scan the signatures but don’t see Zee’s.

  My heart sinks, but I sit on the loveseat across from her and smile. “Thanks.”

  “We need you back, Sam,” she says.

  All I can do is press my lips tight, hold in my fear, and shake my head. She’s here to take me back. I need to stay strong.

  “Yes, we do. I do. And you need us, Sam. Swimming is who you are. I know what that’s like. You’ll wilt without it.”

  I pretend to listen to her as she presents positive affirmations. I notice the vacuum shut off downstairs. “Remember what you said when I agreed to coach you, bring you on with the Titans? You said that nothing would stop you from trying to be the best.”