Capture the World (13 page)

He talks fast, the conversation moving so quickly I’m not sure I’m keeping up.”

“You
should
do this,” Matthew insists. “The film, I mean. You don’t even need fancy equipment because,” he grins sheepishly, “phones.”

He’s bombarding me with too much all at once.

“No—”

“Your mom isn’t damaged, Reagan. She’s special,” Matthew whispers.

Just like that, I fall in love with him. Like I was hit by a lightning bolt.
          

THIRTEEN

The real world

#project

ALL AFTERNOON, I think about Matthew’s suggestion because I can’t
not
think about it. It’s like a mosquito bite I want to scratch, but I don’t because I know if I mess with it too much, I’ll make it bleed.

“Don’t forget to switch out the laundry,” Aunt Trish reminds me. She rushes through the kitchen, head bent, trying to fasten an earring.

She keeps missing the hole in her ear lobe, and I take the diamond from her, the jewel small but precious. “Let me.”

I study my aunt while fastening the jewelry, my gaze running over her smooth cheeks and pale skin. The cream-colored shirt she wears complements her, and I catch glimpses of the young woman she used to be. Before.

From afar, it’s hard to tell how old Trish is, but up close I can make out the lines in her forehead, the crow’s feet around her eyes, and the dark circles she tries too hard to hide with concealer.

“Thank you,” I whisper, choked up, because suddenly I just need to say it before the words, and the sentiment, aren’t there anymore. What I’m feeling now—the gratefulness and warm fuzzies—springs up, strangles me, and then threatens to disappear just as quickly.

Stepping back, Aunt Trish checks the earring and smiles at me. “For what?”

“I don’t know. For everything, I guess.”

Gaze boring into mine, she fluffs my hair. “Reagan—”

“This doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind,” I rush to say. “I still feel the same way about … you know. I just … I know it hasn’t been easy.” A tear is born in my eye, grows old, and then dies, slipping down my cheek, its entire lifespan no longer than a few seconds. “Thanks for stepping up, for letting us be here.”

My mom and I are a team. Before, when the
incident
happened, the rest of my family scoffed at the responsibility of caring for us while Aunt Trish opened her doors, placed her hands on her wide hips—the women in my family are not curvaceously challenged—and said, “Let’s do this.”

I haven’t made it easy on her.

Aunt Trish’s eyes redden. “I’m wearing mascara, Reagan Reneè,” she warns, stern, the fierceness of it ruined by the smile playing hide and seek with her lips. “Things are working out with Matthew, huh?”

“No!” I protest, baring my teeth at her, all animal. “Nope, so not ready to concede that victory.”

She cocks her head. “Enjoy your denial. I see it in your eyes. A woman always knows.”

“Whatever. Now you’re just being weird.” I laugh, think about what Matthew suggested I do with Mom, and then sober again. “What was Mom like as a kid?”

The question is out before I have a chance to snatch it back.

Trish freezes, her gaze sliding to the stairs. A beat of silence, and then, “Precocious,” she answers. “She was brilliant. Patient. A really good big sister.” Her lips tremble, threatening her mascara.

My fingers draw figure eights on the kitchen counter. “You don’t have to say anything else. Save it for later. I just have this project I’m supposed to do for history. I have to study my parents, or something like that, and apply what I learn about them to myself. Not so much a family tree thing as a personal study.”

Trish goes quiet, brows furrowed, her gaze examining the kitchen floor. We have random, mismatched, square tiles, tan on brown on cream. A spot near the stove is damaged, curling up. The house, like my aunt, is growing old and trying too hard not to show it.

“I have something that might help you.” She disappears into the living room.

The kitchen hugs me, the room’s warmth comforting. It’s my favorite spot, besides my bedroom, in the house. The walls are cream, the cabinets stained dark. Roosters glare at me from everywhere: windowsills, cabinets, and walls. Even the trashcan, a wooden wastebasket my aunt bought and had painted. She has a thing for chickens and apples. Red accents play off the cream and wood, and it always smells like the stove has just been used, like ghosts are cooking even when Trish isn’t.

My aunt returns holding a large, clasped box. She offers it to me. “Don’t open it until you’re ready, okay?”

Carefully, I accept it. “What is it?”

“Memories.” She smiles softly. “Which doesn’t sound scary, but I personally think memories are the most terrifying thing in the world. They make us want things we can’t have.” Leaning forward, she captures my gaze with hers and holds it there. “A memory is a memory because the time for it has passed, captured or not. We can’t go back and change history. We can learn from old stories, maybe grow from the lessons they teach, but we can’t change them.”

Her gaze narrows, widens, and then narrows again, as if she’s trying to find the best way to say the next words. “You can’t change her,” she whispers. “You just can’t, Reagan.”

“I know.” I choke on the response. “I don’t want to.”

She doesn’t say it aloud, but I see the contradictory ‘yes, you do’ in her eyes.

The front door opens, Uncle Bobby’s voice filling the front hall. “How’s that beautiful wife of mine? Ready to go out?”

He sounds young, carefree, and I suddenly realize how little I hear that from him. It only ever happens on nights like this, when he and Aunt Trish get dressed up to go do their thing. It’s their time, away from the worry, fear, and financial burdens.

Bobby pops into the kitchen, stroking his beard. He’s wearing a plaid shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. He’s a tall man, broad and naturally loud. His voice booms even when he’s whispering. The beard ages him, but he keeps it because of his skin condition. The flaky flesh and the redness are trademarks of psoriasis, and while it doesn’t bother my aunt and I, he doesn’t like the stares when it flares up.

Aunt Trish hugs him, grinning. “My pick tonight.”

He groans.

I fight a smile. Uncle Bobby’s idea of a good time is a thick, medium-well steak and a football game. A date with my aunt, however, could include anything from bagpipes and Thai food to spaghetti and line dancing.

I used to wonder how my aunt and uncle made it work, how they could be in love with each other when they are so different. Now, I know it’s love
because
of their differences. It takes so much extra work, and a ton of compromises, for
them
to work. That’s like being forced to do homework every night for an eternity. No one signs up for that shit unless it’s love.
 

“I don’t think you’re going to have to do much tonight,” Aunt Trish tells me, her voice breaking me out of my reverie. Snatching a purse off the counter, she glances at the stairs. “Your mom has been pretty content reading today.”

She hesitates, and I wave them toward the door. “Go!” We do this every single time.

Every third Friday of every month is date night for my aunt and uncle. I mean, they can go on a date anytime, but that particular night is religion, a permanent commandment in the Aunt Trish and Uncle Bobby Bible.

They are barely out the door when I hear it, a
tap,tap,tap
coming from the back of the house.

I stiffen. “Mom?”

My mother doesn’t leave her room very often, preferring to take her meals upstairs and using the restroom across the hall for personal purposes, but there have been exceptions.

Tap,tap,tap.

There is nothing worse than hearing a sound in the house when home alone because, no matter how small it is, its suddenly this really huge thing. Like someone is coming to murder me, an earthquake is about to destroy the world, or—wonder of wonders—there’s been a zombie outbreak in the neighborhood.

The hallway becomes something out of Stephen King’s
The Shining
.

It’s dark outside, and I squint at the window next to the back door, jumping back on a scream when a face pops up.

Yanking open the door, I pummel the perpetrator, open fists hammering his arms. “Damn it, you scared the shit out of me!”

Laughing, Matthew Moretti stands on the back patio, taking the beating. “Not literally I hope.”

I keep striking him.

“He doesn’t have much sense, my nipote,” an amused voice offers.

Oh my God!
I drop my hands, my face so hot I know the blush is obvious.

Matthew’s grin widens. “Nonna was over for dinner, and since you and I seem to be a recreational pastime for her, she wanted to come say hi.” He steps aside. “Say hi, Nonna.”

An elderly woman with surprisingly few wrinkles and mostly black hair, the long strands hanging loose around her shoulders, steps free of the shadows. Her skin is as pretty as her grandson’s, the deep red blouse and cotton pants she wears emphasizing the olive tone. She smiles, and the corners of her eyes shatter like broken glass.

“He thinks he’s amusing.” She has a beautiful voice and an even lovelier accent.

“I didn’t mean to … I didn’t know—”

“Matthew is to blame,” she says, waving off my stumbling words. “You were too easy on him.” She offers me her hand. “Perlita Moretti.”
 

My palm meets hers in a handshake that’s both soft and firm.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I manage, releasing her hand to step back. “Would you like to come in?”

I lead them to the kitchen. “My aunt and uncle are out, but I can make some tea or coffee. That’s about the extent of my culinary skills.”

Perlita studies the space, her dark eyes settling on the crowing roosters and soft light. Matthew leans against the counter, at ease, and I envy how he can do that, how he can just make himself at home.

“Please don’t go to the trouble.” Sucking in a breath, Perlita releases it on a sigh. “It’s quiet and clean here.”

Matthew laughs. “Don’t let Ma hear you say that.”

His grandmother raises a wry brow. “She has an excuse.”

And they’re all named after saints.

She looks at me. “You won’t remember, but I used to help watch you when you were a baby.”

She drops the revelation so quickly, it takes a moment for me to register her words. “I never—”

“It was before you came to live with your Aunt Trish. I kept your sister, too.”

Matthew stands at attention, the easy slouch he’d adopted gone. “Sister?”

Perlita watches me, ignoring her grandson, and unease settles like a fist in the pit of my stomach.