Parallel

by Lauren Miller

  “So I have something to ask you,” Josh says as he’s walking me to my car, under the close watch of the two park rangers patrolling the parking lot. They showed up about an hour ago, when the sun disappeared behind the pine trees that line the riverbank. The picnic lasted way longer than anyone thought it would. It’d still be going if the park rangers hadn’t kicked us out. Josh and I are the very last to leave. We hung around under the guise of cleaning up, but really we wanted to watch the sunset through the pines. Just before the sun sank behind the horizon, he kissed me. Pressed up against him, I could feel his heart through his chest, beating as wildly as my own.

  “Uh-oh. Should I be nervous?”

  “Only if you say yes.” He smiles at my quizzical look. “Come over tomorrow,” he says. “For Thanksgiving. My mom is cooking enough food for a small army, mainly because she’s anxious about my brother being in town, and cooking keeps her busy.”

  “Your brother’s in town?” Josh has mentioned his brother only a handful of times and never by name. I didn’t quite envision him as the home-for-the-holidays type.

  “He will be,” Josh replies. “He flies in tonight and leaves Friday morning.”

  “Quick trip,” I say, and then wonder if I should have.

  “Yeah. He never stays more than a day. Which is good for all of us, believe me. Things are pretty tense when he’s around.”

  “Sounds fun,” I joke.

  “Not in the least,” Josh replies, still smiling, but his voice is less joking than mine. “Which is where you come in. I’m hoping you’ll deflect some of the tension,” he admits. “So you’ll come? We usually eat around two.”

  “I’d love to,” I tell him, suddenly thrilled that my grandparents decided last minute to spend this Thanksgiving in the Caymans. When my grandma cooks, the meal starts promptly at one, and she expects us to spend hours at the dining room table, relishing every course. With my mom at the helm, there’s no way we’ll eat before sundown. I’ll easily be back from Josh’s in time.

  “Great,” he says. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “See you tomorrow,” I reply, and touch my lips to his. He steps forward, resting his hands lightly on my hips as his lips move against mine. We’ve kissed twenty-three times, but I still get light-headed when it happens. The two on the roller coaster last weekend (numbers nineteen and twenty) nearly made me pass out.

  “Hey, you two! The party’s over!” An exasperated park ranger is idling in his truck, waiting to shut the gate to the parking lot.

  “Sorry!” we call in unison, swallowing smiles. Josh kisses me one more time, earning us a honk from our chaperone.

  “If she was your girlfriend, would you want to leave?” Josh shouts to the park ranger as he jogs to his car. He turns back and blows me yet another kiss.

  Then, suddenly, it’s as if everything slows down. Even the wind that right now is rustling Josh’s hair. Details I didn’t notice a second ago now jump out at me. The old gnarled tree at the head of the path down to the river. The Sprite can someone left in the parking lot that got crushed by a car tire. The small brown bird perched on the edge of the entrance sign. And, at the center of all of it, Josh. His hand at his mouth, palm open, his kiss having just taken flight. A grin just beginning to take shape. The dark gray USC T-shirt with a bleach spot on the collar.

  The moment feels like déjà vu, but more precise. Déjà vu isn’t detailed. This moment is all about the details. Even Josh’s tiny mole stands out.

  Then, as quickly as it slowed down, everything speeds up again, and Josh’s back is to me as he jogs to his Jeep.

  I’m surprised to see my grandparents’ maroon Buick LeSabre parked in our driveway when I pull in. They’re supposed to be boarding a Seniors at Sea cruise ship right now.

  There’s much commotion in the kitchen when I open the back door. My grandma is holding a syringe full of dark brown liquid over a massive raw turkey. There are brown grocery bags on every available countertop.

  “Grandma, I think he’s dead already,” I say as I step inside.

  “She gets her sarcasm from you,” my grandmother says, looking pointedly at my father.

  “Better that than my hairline,” Dad replies, and kisses me on the forehead.

  “Still waiting,” my grandpa says, the same thing he says at the beginning of every visit. I walk over and plant a kiss on his cheek. “That’s better,” he says, folding me into a hug. “How’s my girl?”

  “I’m good, Grandpa,” I tell him, burrowing my nose into his leathery skin. Tobacco and Lagerfeld cologne. He always smells the same. I smile against his neck. “What are you guys doing here?” I ask, resting my cheek on his shoulder. “I thought you were supposed to be in the Caymans.”

  “We were,” my grandmother replies, squinting at the turkey.

  “Thwarted by a hurricane,” Grandpa says. “So here we are.”

  “Surprise!” my mom says cheerily, between large gulps of wine. Grandma shoots her a look, then stabs the bird with all the force her tiny frame can muster.

  “So does this mean we’re eating at one o’clock tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Of course,” my grandmother says as she pumps our turkey with brine. “We always eat at one.” My mom and I look at each other and mouth Grandma’s words with her as she says them in her thick Tennessee drawl: “It’s tradition.”

  “Their flight from Nashville to Miami was canceled because of the hurricane,” I tell him, “so they drove down here instead.” I called Josh as soon as I could escape the kitchen.

  “That’s good news, right? You were bummed you weren’t going to see them.”

  “Yeah, but it means I can’t come over tomorrow. We sit down at one o’clock and, no joke, we don’t finish till five. It’s the longest meal of the year. At the end of it, both my voice and my ears are tired.”

  “You’re lucky,” he says. “We speed through ours in awkward silence.”

  “What time does your brother get in?”

  “His plane lands at nine,” Josh replies. “My mom’s at the airport picking him up.”

  “Are you excited that he’s coming?” I ask. I don’t mean to pry, but I can’t help it. I know so little about Josh’s relationship with his brother, and why his presence puts everyone on edge.

  “Excited? No. But it means a lot to my mom that he comes every year, so I’m glad that he does. But he treats Martin like crap.”

  “Why?” Josh idolizes his stepfather. What would make his brother feel so differently? When Josh doesn’t answer right away, I quickly backpedal. “I’m sorry, I’m being nosy.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says. “You’re my girlfriend. You’re allowed to be nosy.” He hesitates before continuing. “It’s complicated,” he says eventually, “but the gist is, Michael thinks my mom and Martin were having an affair before my dad died. My mom says they didn’t, and I believe her. Michael claims to have forgiven my mom, but he still hates Martin. He refused to come to their wedding.”

  “Wow.” I was expecting a story about a missed curfew or a wrecked car, not something this heavy. “Poor Martin.”

  “Yeah. It’s even worse because he loved my dad so much. They were best friends,” he explains. “College roommates. Martin never would’ve done something like that to Dad. But he can’t even defend himself, because he doesn’t know what Michael thinks.”

  “Michael’s never confronted him about it?”

  “My mom won’t let him,” Josh replies. “When Michael came to my mom with his theory about the affair, my mom told him that if he ever said anything to Martin, she’d stop paying his Yale tuition. She also made him promise to come home for Thanksgiving every year.” He pauses, then says, “Wow, it sounds a lot worse when you say it out loud.”

  “Where’d the theory come from?” I ask. “If your mom and Martin weren’t having an affair, why did Michael think they were?”

  “According to my mom, he misunderstood something he overheard. She’s always been really v
ague about it.” His line beeps with another call. “Oh, hey, that’s her calling on the other line. Call you back?”

  “Of course,” I say, and we hang up.

  “Whatcha doin’ in there, sitting in the dark?” It’s my grandpa in the doorway, an unlit cigar between his lips.

  “Looking at the stars,” I tell him, and point at my ceiling. He looks from me to the stars and back again.

  “You know there are real stars outside,” he says. “A whole universe filled with ’em.”

  “I’ve heard that, yeah.” I smile in the dark.

  “C’mon,” he tells me, beckoning with his arm. “Take a walk with an old man.”

  My grandfather’s idea of a “walk” is going to the end of the driveway and back—eleven times—while he smokes a cigar. As we’re on our third pass, he pats the arm that’s linked with his and says, “I think it’s time I told you what happened the night you were born.”

  “The night I was born?”

  He puffs his cigar and nods. “Your dad called around eight o’clock that night to tell me your mother was in labor. We had strict instructions not to get into the car to drive down here until you’d officially arrived, so there was nothing to do but wait. It was a big deal for us, first grandchild and all. And since your parents had waited ten years to have you, we figured you might be all we’d get.”

  A wave of sadness washes over me. While my mom’s the youngest of six, my dad and I are both only children. From what my mom’s told me, my grandma struggled with infertility back before there were treatments for it. She lost six babies before having my dad. And my mom, she only ever wanted one. How lonely it must be, to be in your eighties and to be able to count your family members on one hand.

  “So, we waited,” my grandfather continues, pausing for a few more puffs. “Your grandmother was a mess of nervous energy, banging around in the kitchen, making all this noise, so I went outside. There wasn’t a moon that night, so the stars were especially bright—much brighter than they are tonight.” A perfect moon, I think, elated to tell Josh. Grandpa stops walking and tilts his head back. “And I stood there,” he says, “just like this, watching the sky and praying that the Lord would bring you here safely. And then . . . zzzoom!” His hand zips through the night air for effect. “A star shot across the sky.”

  I smile, imagining it. Grandpa turns to look at me. “And that would’ve been something—a shooting star always is. But then there was another one. And one after that.” He looks back up at the sky. “They just kept coming,” he says. “Nine altogether.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “I most certainly am not,” he replies, crossing his heart with his free hand. “And after the ninth one, they stopped. A few minutes later, I heard the phone ring inside, and a few minutes after that, Rose came out to tell me you’d been born. At nine-oh-nine on September the ninth.”

  Goose bumps spring up on my arm. That’s a lot of nines.

  “I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to figure out what it meant,” he says then. “‘Just a coincidence,’ most people would say. And maybe it was. But I’ll tell you what, it sure didn’t feel like one.”

  “What’d my dad say?” I ask.

  “I never told him,” my grandfather replies. “Or anyone else.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wanted to be the one to tell you about it,” he says, giving my arm a squeeze. “When you were old enough to really hear it. As much as I love my son, he can’t keep a secret for shit.” I stifle a giggle. No argument here. “I always planned to tell you on your eighteenth birthday—9/9/2009 seemed fitting somehow—but I reckon you’ll be off at college by then. Figured I’d better tell you now.”

  “So if it wasn’t a coincidence,” I say when we start walking again, “then what was it?”

  “A sign, maybe. That your life would be special.” He chews thoughtfully on his cigar. “That’s what I always thought, anyway.”

  “Special how?”

  “That depends,” he tells me, his face suddenly serious.

  “On what?”

  “What you decide to do with it.”

  12

  HERE

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2009

  (the day after Thanksgiving)

  “You owe me one,” Tyler says as soon as he opens his front door.

  “Here,” I reply, handing him a plastic container of yesterday’s leftovers. I look past him into the house. “Where is he?”

  “Basement.” He pulls open the blue cover and peers inside, surveying the contents. “I don’t see yams.”

  “They’re at the bottom. Below the parsnips. How does he seem?”

  Tyler plucks a green bean out of the container and pops it into his mouth. “Pissed as hell,” he replies, chomping on the bean. “So good luck with that.”

  Tyler steps back to let me inside. His mom, a concert pianist with a penchant for bright colors and expensive kitsch, has painted each wall of the foyer a different shade of magenta. Randomly placed shelves display various treasures she’s acquired over the years, only some of which are wall-appropriate. A hand-painted mask with a beaklike nose stares down at me menacingly.

  “So that’s why you were freezing him out?” Tyler asks. “You were screwing his brother?”

  “I’m not screwing him,” I say pointedly. “And I didn’t know they were brothers.”

  “Why didn’t you just break up with him like a normal person?” Tyler asks.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “I thought you were staying out of it?” I shrug out of my sweater and hang it on the banister. There are sweat stains on my T-shirt. Why am I so nervous? This seemed like a good idea when I orchestrated it during this morning’s six-mile sprint through my neighborhood. Having Tyler invite Josh over, pretending to just show up. It seemed like a brilliant plan. Now I’m thinking the endorphins may have led me astray, considering the guy I’m about to ambush promptly hung up on me when I called him last night.

  At least things with Michael are okay, if our sunrise drive to the airport was any indication. He was supposed to be in Boston with his high school friends until late Sunday night, but he told me he’s taking an earlier train so we can go to dinner when I get back to New Haven.

  “Should I stay up here?” Tyler asks, mouth full. He’s using his index finger to shovel broccoli casserole into his mouth.

  “No. We want him to think I just dropped by, remember? If you stay up here, it’ll look planned.”

  “Whatever. Either way, I’ve committed a major man-code violation. Luring him over here with PS3 so that his heartless ex-girlfriend can ambush him?” Tyler shakes his head. “I’m ashamed of myself.” He drags his finger back through the broccoli. “Then again, I’ll do pretty much anything for your mom’s leftovers.”

  “What if he won’t talk to me?” I ask.

  “I’d be more worried about what you’re gonna say if he will,” Tyler replies. “You gave the guy the deep freeze, then showed up on his front porch with his brother’s tongue down your throat.”

  “It was unintentional,” I insist.

  “If you say so,” he says. “How’s Caitlin?”

  “She’s good,” I tell him. “You should call her.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he says. But I know he won’t. It’s hard to know how to feel about it, especially since neither of them seems unhappy about how things ended up. Tyler has a new girlfriend at Michigan that he’s crazy about, and Caitlin can’t stop talking about the guy she met last week at STARRY, Yale’s astronomy club, who’s probably just a Ben replacement but a welcome one. Who knows, maybe Caitlin’s right. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe Caitlin and Tyler weren’t meant to be after all. I’m not sure I buy it—Tyler’s girlfriend calls her girl parts “the V-train” and Caitlin’s Astronomy Boy wears multiple shirts with popped collars (all pastel and all polo and all at the same time)—but I beat myself up less if I pretend that
I do.

  “Ilana’s in town,” Tyler says then. “Visiting her parents for Thanksgiving. I ran into her yesterday at a gas station.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Pretty well, I think,” he replies. “Better.” My spirits lift just a little. “She told me to thank you for the journal you sent,” he says. “She said she’s been writing in it every day.”

  With all the drama of Halloween and its aftermath, I’d forgotten I’d sent it. I found it at a bookstore off campus, misshelved in the religion section, wedged between Kempis and Kierkegaard. It was pink, Ilana’s favorite color, and had the word REMEMBER imprinted on the cover. I sent it with a purple pen and a note telling her that no matter what her doctors were saying, she shouldn’t be discouraged. There are always anomalies.

  “Think she’d mind if I stopped by to see her while she’s here?” I ask him.

  “I think she’d love it,” Tyler replies. “But seriously? You and Ilana?”

  “We have more in common than you’d think,” I say, and smile.

  I follow Tyler down the basement stairs. Josh is muttering angrily at the TV screen, immersed in a game of Street Fighter. He doesn’t see me at first, giving me thirty unadulterated seconds to assess. Bags under his eyes. Bedhead hair. The makings of a scruffy straw-colored beard.

  He looks like hell. But even unshowered and unshaven and unrested, he’s cute. Cuter now, like this, than he ever was in my head. I feel my pulse quicken just looking at him. Get a grip, Abby.

  Tyler looks at me, waiting for me to say something. “Hey, Josh,” I offer. Josh’s head jerks up at the sound.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Uh, I—”

  “She brought me Thanksgiving leftovers,” Tyler interjects, holding up the half-eaten container.

  “I did! Leftovers.” I bob my head for emphasis.

  Josh tosses the controller on the couch and stands up. “I should probably take off,” he tells us, not looking at me. “I told Martin I’d help him with something.”

  This is most definitely a lie.

  “Can we talk?” These words fly out, followed by a rambling flurry of unnecessary explanation. “I know you hung up on me last night, which I guess means you don’t want to talk to me, but I really want you to. You don’t have to, of course. It’s not like you owe me anything. But I hate the way we left things yesterday, and I thought that maybe if we could just talk . . .” I trail off, imploring eyes locked on his flat gaze.