Kings, Queens, and In-Betweens

by Tanya Boteju

  He stood up and pedaled as hard as he could. It wasn’t very hard, and I could have easily kept up with him, but I slowed my pace and let him go. He wasn’t about to hear anything I said right now, and I couldn’t really blame him. I’d pushed him harder than I should have out of some misguided sense that I knew anything about how to impress a girl.

  I crawled into bed that night feeling sick. Sick for Charles and his poor little heart, and sick that there were so many things he and I couldn’t seem to talk about right now. Real life seemed to be dimming the twinkle and shine of my festival escapade, and I wasn’t sure how to revive the glow.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Monday morning I schlepped over to Jill’s, feeling unmotivated to work. I’d tried calling Charles several times the previous day, but he wouldn’t pick up, nor did he return any of my many, many texts. This silent treatment was a new dimension to our friendship. I didn’t like it. And it certainly didn’t make me any more motivated to reach out to Winnow, either. One set of rejected texts was enough at the moment.

  Those complications were nothing compared to the one I was about to find at Jill’s, though.

  When I entered the side gate into the backyard, Jill was sitting on the wrought-iron bench she’d never been able to sell. Her lanky body drooped over her knees as she stared at an envelope in her hands. She didn’t even look up as I approached her.

  Not until my shadow crept over the envelope did she finally snap out of her daze.

  Then, in her no-nonsense way, she handed me the envelope and said, “Nima, this is from your mother. I guess she sent it to me so your dad wouldn’t see. Want me to leave you alone while you read it?” Her voice sounded steely, forced.

  Stunned, I stared at the envelope and noticed that the hand holding it quivered a little. I looked at Jill, my bottom lip beginning its own quiver. Sitting down beside her, I made no move to take the envelope. My eyes grew wet.

  “Do you want me to open it, babe?” she offered, a softness seeping in.

  Still unable to speak, I just shook my head no. She gently placed the letter in my lap. I didn’t move.

  I’d tried so hard not to think about my mom’s absence, so hard not to piece together her reasons for leaving. The letter had me frozen between a longing for understanding on one hand, and a fear that had slipped into me despite my attempts to ignore it—what if she’d just been bored with us, this life? With me?

  “I’m gonna make us a cup of tea.” She put her hand on my knee. “You don’t need to open it yet if you don’t want to.”

  After she’d gone inside, I willed myself to hold the letter in my hands and inspect the envelope. It was just a regular, plain white envelope with Jill’s address on it handwritten in blue ink. No return address, just “Kate Kumara-Clark” in the corner. My mom’s writing. Each letter perfectly spaced, tilting forward as if leaning into an oncoming wind. Below the flap on the other side, one simple sentence: Jill, please make sure Nimanthi gets this.

  Not wanting to tear any of the writing on the envelope, I ripped off a short end and slid out the paper inside. Regular loose-leaf, folded in three.

  My own hands shook now as I unfolded the letter. Inside, I found about a third of a page of crisp blue words explaining that she was sorry for leaving, but that things were complicated. That she couldn’t come back to Bridgeton to see me or my dad, but that I could meet her somewhere. That Jill and I should come together. That Jill would explain everything along the way. There was an e-mail address at the bottom.

  I read it again, this time counting each word to see how many it took for a mother to try and reconnect with her daughter. Ninety-two. Ninety-two words after one and a half years of absence. And not one explained why she left.

  Jill must have been watching me from the kitchen and waiting for the right moment to return, because as I finished reading the letter and looked up to stare blankly at a stern gnome scowling at me from across the yard, she appeared at my shoulder with the tea. “Here you go, darlin’,” she said. I took the mug and she came to sit back down on the bench. We sat in silence, making eye contact only with gnomes.

  Surprise, anger, resentment, yearning, sadness . . . I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. I was surprised by the letter, of course, but also surprised by the anger I felt toward Jill for—according to the letter—knowing more about my mom than she’d let on. I wasn’t surprised by my anger or resentment toward my mom, but the immensity of my yearning did surprise me—as though a secret door in the pit of my belly had suddenly opened to reveal a cavernous, empty space just waiting to be filled with her. Floating beneath all that, a niggling sadness at the tone of the note—the curtness of it, the lack of anything that came close to my longing.

  Jill kept glancing over at me and the letter. My words still wouldn’t come, so I just passed it to her. She hesitated, but only for a moment, then took it. As she read, I watched her breathe in and out deeply. When she finished, she folded the letter slowly and inserted it back into the envelope, using the time to take a few more careful breaths. Shaking off something I didn’t understand, she blinked a couple of times and looked up at me. “Well” was all she said. I couldn’t read her tone.

  “Yeah” was all I could manage.

  “Is that something you’d want? To see her?”

  I didn’t know what I wanted. Why’d she want to meet anyway? Maybe she wanted to come back. Or apologize. Or maybe she just wanted to say she was never coming back. I’m not sure I wanted to hear any of those things.

  “I don’t know, Jill.” I spat out her name and scowled back at the gnome across the yard. I knew I was doubling up my anger at both Mom and Jill and focusing it solely on Jill, but I couldn’t help myself. “What’d she mean? About you explaining everything?”

  Jill leaned forward, digging her elbows into her thighs, and let out a long, whistling breath. She gazed somewhere into the pile of soil bags and gardening equipment laid out in front of her. “Shit, Nima. I’m as surprised by this letter as you are. I’m not entirely sure I know what she means.”

  A completely unsatisfying answer. “But you must know something,” I said, refocusing on the gnome. Then, my voice cool with resentment: “You obviously know more than you’ve told me.”

  Breaking our unspoken agreement to avoid looking at one another, she turned to me and slid over a bit. “You’re right. I do know more than I’ve let on, and I’m sorry for that. But it’s not my story to tell.” She handed me the letter, stood up, and started kicking at the dirt by her feet.

  I looked at my mother’s name on the envelope. My eyes burned, still threatening tears. But I was mad. Mad at my mom for sending this cold, shitty letter. Mad at Jill for making this more confusing. Mad at myself for sitting here like a fucking lump. My hands suddenly clamped shut, crumpling the letter. And then it was like I couldn’t stop them—they started ripping at the envelope, pulling it apart, tearing at the letter inside, finally crushing all the torn pieces together into a ball. Jill just stared at me.

  I stood up. Tears hovered but didn’t fall. My voice came out like ice—frozen, even, clear. “Fine—you don’t want to tell me anything? You’re just as bad as she is. You’re both liars. I’ll figure this shit out on my own.”

  Jill stepped toward me. “Nima—”

  To prevent her from coming any closer, I stuck my hand out and shoved the wadded-up letter at her. She halted and automatically raised her hands to stop my balled-up fist from hitting her in the chest. I pushed the bits of letter into her hands, turned quickly, and walked away, ignoring her calls.

  I didn’t know what exactly I was doing, or how I’d manage to “figure this shit out on my own,” but for this moment at least, I was determined to be pissed off about it all.

  I spent the next couple of days holed up in my room, floundering in a rapid river of emotions. With no one else to turn to—Charles in his own spiral of self-pity and Ginny busy fund-raising and flirting with boys—I found myself finally wanting to call
Winnow, to hear her calm voice, to ask her advice. We didn’t know each other well, and maybe she thought I was an emotional wreck after I’d blubbered away for no good reason the night we met, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her, even with all this other shit going on—maybe because of all this other shit. It’d been a week since I met her—was it too late to contact her now? Would she be interested in seeing me again anyway?

  Think about it, Nima. Why would she?

  I wanted to kick myself for even thinking she would.

  On Thursday around noon, my dad, home for lunch, knocked on my door. He’d always been pretty good about leaving me be if I was experiencing a “teen malaise,” as he called them. And rightfully so. He had his own episodes that I had to contend with too. Every so often, he’d fall into a funk and keep to his room or go for long, long walks. I might not see him until the next morning. We were good at giving each other space, but my episodes didn’t usually last more than a day, and neither did his, so I guess he’d decided to check in.

  I wasn’t ready to have my space invaded, though. And I certainly wasn’t ready to tell him about the letter. I still couldn’t figure out my feelings about it all, and I didn’t want Dad’s feelings in the mix yet.

  So when he knocked, I responded with, “NO THANK YOU.”

  He knocked again. “Nima, I’m coming in.”

  “DAD.”

  “Sorry—here I am, turning the doorknob, cracking open the door, nudging my toe over the threshold . . .”

  I’d been lying flat on the rug by my bed, belly down, cheek squashed into an open book I’d been trying in vain to read earlier. I flipped my face to the other side, away from the door and him, and groaned as emphatically as possible.

  I could hear the soft thump of his bare feet across the carpet and then the squeal of my bed springs giving way to his body. Gus had been lying across the small of my back but jumped up when my dad entered, probably excited to see someone who wasn’t pathetically moping about their room.

  “Nima. This is a lengthy malaise. What’s going on?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could and turned my head back toward the door, away from him again. “I don’t want to talk about it.” My words crept in whispers across the rug.

  “Hmm. Fair. However, may I suggest we be silent together, in the kitchen, over lunch? This room is getting a little . . . funky.”

  I yanked a T-shirt from the floor over my head and said something like, “Mfpmmmfp!”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Uh-uuuhhhhh.”

  I could feel him get up and step over top of me. His body settled in gently next to mine. Then I felt Gus wiggle in between us and lie down. Dad pulled the T-shirt off my head. “Nima.”

  I reluctantly opened my eyes. His head rested on his arm, which pushed his glasses crookedly off his nose. “Oh, hello. So nice to see your beautiful face.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Beautiful face” my ass. I guessed my eyes were red, my lips were dry, and my hair was an unholy mess of frizzy curls straying from my loose ponytail. So . . . the usual.

  “Lunch?” he offered again. At the mention of food, Gus shimmied up a bit to make sure he was included in the conversation.

  I could see that if I didn’t comply, my father would just continue to lie there, making small talk whether I participated or not. “Fiiiine,” I moaned.

  We did, indeed, eat lunch in silence, save for Gus’s persistent whines for treats. I just stared into my plate of macaroni and cheese while Dad read the newspaper. It did feel good to get out of my room and into the kitchen, which was sunny and warm from the midday sun. But the letter—now torn and who knew where—weighed heavily on my heart. Sitting across from my dad, knowing that he had no idea Mom had contacted me, not knowing if he knew whatever it was that Jill knew—I felt sorry for him and uncertain about him all at the same time.

  We’d barely ever spoken about Mom’s leaving. One morning we woke up at the end of November a year and a half ago, and she wasn’t there. We’d have worried that something happened to her, but a note on the kitchen table—seemingly written in a hurry, judging from the brevity and unusually sloppy script—announced: I’m sorry. I need some time away. Love, Mom.

  I always thought that “Love” part to be a little over the top.

  I’d found the note first and, not fully comprehending what it meant, had woken my dad up to show it to him.

  I remember that even as a fifteen-year-old, something in his reaction to the note had seemed off to me. He hadn’t seemed confused, or surprised—just sad. And his sadness had seemed more in response to my confusion and questions than anything else. His only attempt at an explanation had been, “I guess she needs some time away, Nima. I won’t pretend to know why, or how long she’ll need, but I don’t think there’s much we can do except let her have the space she’s asking for.”

  At the time, his calmness and understanding had infuriated me. I couldn’t comprehend how he could just one day wake up without her there and go along with it. I guess I realized now that he was trying to remain calm for me, and that his long walks, which began the very next day after she left, probably allowed him to vent in whatever way he needed to. But part of me remained angry at him for not reacting more—doing more. I’m not sure exactly how I wanted him to react, or what I wanted him to do, but I just wanted him to do something.

  But then, I hadn’t done anything either. We were a perfect pair, avoiding the topic with one another and with ourselves.

  And I wasn’t ready to change that yet. I needed to get out of the house. I shoveled the rest of the mac and cheese into my mouth and then quickly washed my plate. I could tell my dad was sneaking glances at me as I clattered about the kitchen. Slipping on my flip-flops and grabbing a hat, I said, “Thanks for lunch, Dad. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

  “Okay. See ya,” he replied through a mouthful of pasta, pretending to be more interested in his newspaper.

  I didn’t want to see anyone I knew, so I walked east, away from Jill’s, away from the high school, away from Charles’s house.

  Eventually finding myself in the playground near the elementary school, I plunked myself down under the shade of a maple tree. Leaning my head against the rough trunk, I watched a group of four younger kids playing soccer on the gravel field close by. As they flailed around, hacking viciously at each other’s shins as much as they were at the ball, my brain whirred into metaphor mode.

  Watch as a flock of crows pounces repeatedly at the hapless mouse, who darts from one cruel set of talons to another, narrowly escaping multiple puncture wounds to her soft, exposed skin. What will our vulnerable friend do in the wake of these wicked, dark shadows?

  As if on cue, the children, in a particularly chaotic thrashing, sent the ball floating in a rainbow arc up and away from their small, frantic circle.

  But look! In a miraculous show of determined buoyancy, our furry friend bounces away in a single leap, narrowly escaping the looming swoop of gloom closing in on her from above.

  The ball hopped several times across the field and rolled to a stop a few feet away. It was much closer to me than it was to the kids, and they all stopped to stare at me. I sighed, scrambled to my feet, and plodded over. Maybe this was silly, but even the thought of kicking this damn ball back to some little kids made my heart beat quicker, my stomach wobble—what if I sent the ball in the wrong direction? Or worse, missed it completely, fell on my ass, and had a bunch of turdy little kids laugh at me?

  Told you it was silly.

  “Are you gonna kick it, or what?” one of the turdy little kids shouted.

  Not much choice at this point. I took a funny little hop, hinged my right knee backward, and punched the ball with the toe of my foot. Although my flip-flop went with it, the ball flew directly toward the kids, who cawed their approval and graciously threw my flip-flop back at me.

  Feeling disproportionately accomplished, I slipped my foot into the flip-flop and sat back down under the tree. A
s I watched the kids hammer away at the ball again, a text pinged my phone.

  Hey boo! Just eating pancakes for lunch and thinking bout ya! xx

  Deidre. Another ping followed immediately.

  You texted that amazing girl yet?

  I stared up at the maple’s vivid green leaves, smiling at Deidre’s simple encouragement. My lips fell a little, though, as my mother’s slanted handwriting came back to me. Certainly no pretense of encouragement in her words. She’d taken a year and a half to reach out. And she was my mom. What if Winnow showed just as little interest in me? What could Winnow possibly see in someone so . . . leavable?

  Not yet, I texted back, my watery eyes blurring the letters.

  Sugar, she’s into you! And should be! Don’t wait another minute! was her swift response.

  Her words produced the same sensation I’d had when she guided me through the festival, through the glowing fires and flickering lights. A warm, firm hand in mine, calming the unease in my stomach.

  Things could get worse, I thought, but not by much. If Winnow didn’t reply, at least I’d know she wasn’t interested. There’d be some satisfaction in that, I supposed. I texted Deidre back.

  I think you just gave me the push I needed. xo

  You know I got you, girl! LURVE YOUUU

  Like a friendly slap on the ass, her texts sent a surge of something resembling audacity through my chest.

  I scrolled through my contact list and found Winnow’s number. If nothing else, waiting a week before texting might make me look ultracool, even if Winnow had no interest in replying. Sound logic, right? Six draft messages later, I finally decided on:

  Hey. It’s Nima. How are you?

  I waited. Nothing. After staring at the screen for several minutes, I got up and started walking home. By the time I climbed up the steps to my front porch, no response. Another girl, another rejection, it seemed.

  But finally, around six, I got the ping I’d been craving: