Don't Touch (20 page)

Then I smell incense, musky and sharp, and follow it to the kitchen.

There's the old statuette of a frog that holds incense cones in its back and exhales smoke from its mouth. Dad hated the smell, so the frog's been decorating the garden since I was little. There are water stains, bits of moss on its sides.

Mom has the sliding door open so cool air seeps in. She sips tea and watches the frog's breath swirl its way out the door.

“Mom?”

She looks up at me, calm. “Want some tea?”

“No, thanks.”

She nods. “Have a seat, sweetie.”

“I don't want to.”

She smiles, so peaceful, so . . . Mom. “Caddie, sit down.”

“What happened?”

“It's a good thing. It's going to be really good for all of us.”

My tears burn before she even says it. I knew, of course I knew, this was coming.

“Your father and I had a talk.”

“When?”

“Just a bit ago. I was working, taking pictures for a wedding—the couple looked so happy. I had to pull over on the interstate and call your dad on the way home.”

While I was cowering in the corner of Peter's truck
not touching
him. I followed the rules, all the rules. It's not fair.

“Your dad and I finally admitted that this has been good, for both of us, being apart.”

“He likes being away from us.”

She frowns like I've said something mean. “He doesn't
like
being apart from you and Jordan.”

“You can't say that. He doesn't even answer his phone when I call.”

She says what she's supposed to say. “He loves you as much as I do, but your dad and I can't be married any longer. We haven't felt married for a long time. You don't have to understand right away,” Mom says. “It's all right to be angry.”

“I'm not angry. I'm sad.” And I'm sobbing—it scares me how hard.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says, and she starts reaching toward me.

“No.”

I'm up and away, and her face shows she's hurt, but that's all right. She should be. If splitting up our family hasn't hurt her, then something else should.

“Where's Jordan?”

She looks away. That hurts too. “I asked Connor's mother to have him over.”

“He doesn't even like Connor anymore!”

“I wanted to tell you first.”

“So I can show him how well I'm taking it? So I can set a good example?”

She turns back to the frog. “Something like that.”

I laugh, even though it's mean, even though she looks sadder now than she did when I walked in. I laugh all the way down the hall.

By the time I reach my room, my breath is ragged, my laugh turned to shuddering gasps. I shut my door so Mom won't hear, fall across my bed and concentrate on breathing.

I count through each inhale and exhale like I learned in middle school, trying to slow things down.

In the dark of my room, I'm not angry at Mom or Dad but at me.

It was foolish, laughable even, to imagine I had control over Mom and Dad's feelings, their decisions.

I followed the rules the best I could. Maybe it wasn't good enough—I messed up too many times—or maybe my stupid game never mattered.

Either way, the game's over. I lost.

I've lost Peter, too.

I roll onto my back, peel off my gloves, and hold my hands up to the air, exposed.

When Mom reached for me, my brain said a touch shouldn't matter anymore, but my
body
recoiled.

Maybe it's habit, but without the gloves, my hands
feel
vulnerable. Potential energy pulses around them in rhythm with my too-fast heart, the threat of a billion-trillion molecules all poised to crash in on me with a pressure inverse to the Big Bang.

It's stupid, but it's what I feel.
You think a divorce is bad news? Touch another person's skin, and
you
and your whole fragile world will implode.

Don't touch
didn't do any good. When it keeps me from connecting with people, from kissing a guy I like, from letting my mom comfort me, it's doing harm. So why does it still feel important not to touch?

Anyone. Ever.

It was never
only
about Mom and Dad. I knew that.

Don't touch
protects
me
from pain. Like an overzealous bodyguard whose last client died shaking hands. There are so many things in the world that can make you hurt, and
people—
people do it best. If I can't touch them, they can't hurt me.

There's a flaw in that logic. I hurt
now
. I want nothing more than to call Mom in here to give me a hug. But my games have never been logical.

I roll back to my side, and the quilt's damp and cool under my face.

I should work. Ophelia's the only good thing coming out of all this. She deserves my best. I pull my character journal out from under my pillow and find my list of similarities.

We're both young.

We are both in love.

That one's scary, but I think it's true. I feel something for Peter that's bigger than other crushes I've had. Maybe it's love, and maybe it's not, but whatever it is, it feels big.

We both have brothers.

Though I don't know that Jordan would fight to the death to avenge me.

We're both crazy.

It's scary to write that one down, but it feels true. Why else can't I drop this stupid fear? I've heard people say if you think you're crazy, you're not, that crazy people always think they're sane. Maybe I'm not crazy like Ophelia, but I'm something.

Ophelia completely loses her mind before she drowns—she loses all her inhibitions, walks around in her nightgown, sings songs, makes dirty jokes, more or less gives the finger to all the adults around her who don't understand. It depends how you read it, I know, but I think my Ophelia's angry, like me, so I write that down too.

We've both lost our fathers.

Ophelia's died; it's not fair to call that the same, but right now it doesn't feel so different.

We both wish things could be back how they were.

I hold the pen over the page a long time before writing again. I'm not sure if this one belongs in similarities or differences.

“We both hurt bad enough to do bad things.”

To hurt ourselves,
it should say.

I would never really hurt myself. I wouldn't.

But what if I can't touch anyone again ever? A person might start feeling so tired of herself, so exhausted with trying to keep it together. . . . I'm starting to understand how that happens to people, how a person could feel bad enough to make Ophelia's choice.

More than touch, more than anything, that makes my heart flood.

I scratch it out. Scratch it out all the way so I can't even read it, can't be reminded I wrote down those words.

It's one thing I don't want to share with Ophelia. Don't even want to understand.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

But break my heart . . .
—HAMLET, HAMLET (I.II.163)

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia . . .

—LAERTES, HAMLET (IV.VII.203)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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School passes by me like a dream.

I go. Talk and smile. I do all my work, follow the rules.

I don't talk about the divorce because it's nobody's business and because I won't keep it together if I have to say it out loud.

Mandy asks about my “date,” of course, and I shake my head. “It's not going anywhere,” I tell her.

“But
why
? You guys would be so cute!”

“We weren't feeling it,” I lie. “We'll be better as friends.”

“You were so into him, though.”

“Things don't always work out.”

“It's just so disappointing,” she says.

I want to say,
Tell me about it.
But she doesn't press.

Peter
is
friendly, but just. He makes eye contact in rehearsal, long and brooding Hamlet stares, but outside of rehearsal, our eyes barely meet and then flicker away.

These first couple weeks of October, we're working only the first two acts, and it's easy when I remove myself from myself. Nadia tells me I'm doing a good job making Ophelia regal, untouchable.

“There's something about you that's always a little bit sharp,” she tells me. I imagine my whole self scaled over with razor blades.

“I like that for Ophelia,” Nadia says. “She's playing her role, but there's a part of her we'll never see.”

Until she cracks open.
But I try not to think about that.

Home feels like a rehearsal as well.

Rehearsal for being a family of three? That's the show Mom's directing. She makes us eat dinner together, smiles and asks questions. Jordan and I find Mom's performance unconvincing.

I haven't spoken to Dad since our brief conversation the day I got cast. Mom's stopped trying to make me take the phone.

She did invite him to my birthday, which is in the middle of October, and Dad said he'd come. If I'm honest, I really hope he'll follow through, but I don't want to call and say so.

Exactly one week before, Dad calls and asks to speak to me. I'd started to worry I'd pushed him away for too long, that I'd damaged things beyond repair. So I accept.

“Hi, sweet,” he says. “Got any big birthday plans?”

“No, I'm not feeling celebratory this year.”

“Oh, no? Your mom told me about your coup with the play. I have to say I'm not surprised.”

Really?

“
I
was,” I say, “surprised, I mean. New students don't usually get big parts.”

“Well, they didn't know who they were dealing with.”

He's buttering you up for bad news,
I tell myself. But maybe not. Dad used to be proud of me when I'd perform in school plays, back when that meant standing on risers to sing about patriotism or Christmas.

“Dad,” I say, “are you still coming for my birthday?”

“Well, that's why I called,” he says. My shoulders tense. “The department wants to send me to a conference on the West Coast.”

Oh, the “West Coast,” like he's afraid I'll track him down if he reveals which state.

“Fancy,” I say, careful to keep my voice free of expression. It takes so few words from him to turn me inside out—my nerves, my heart, raw and exposed.

“I know it's a bummer,” Dad says, and then chuckles. “Or maybe it's not. I feel like I might be
persona non grata
in Birmingham right now.”

“No, I
want
to see you.”

My voice sounds tight, and I bite my lips together to prevent stray sounds from escaping.

He goes on, “Plus, it's so soon after our big decision.”

The divorce.
Why can't people say what they mean?

“It might be more stabilizing,” he says, “if we don't shake things up with a visit right now, let everyone get used to the idea.”

I almost say,
The idea of you not visiting ever?
but I restrain myself.

Dad's a wordsmith with “stabilizing.” He makes it sound like his absence is all to benefit my mental health.

“I'm thinking I'll come for your play,” he says. “Your mom's told me how hard you're working.”

“I am,” I say. I want to get off the phone so he won't hear the strain in my voice, but I also don't want to hang up. I have this feeling like once I hang up, I might never speak to him again.

“Thanks for understanding, Caddie,” Dad says.

I want to smash the phone, but instead I hold on tighter.

“No, I get it.”

“I'll give you a call on your birthday, all right?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

He's saying all the things that have to be said, back-to-back, fast, so he can get off the phone.

“Love you too,” I say. In spite of him being an ass, it's still true.

“How was it?” Mom asks, and then, “Oh, honey,” because I guess I look stunned.

“He's not coming for my birthday,” I say.

“Oh, honey, I know.”

She takes the phone from my hand, rubs my shoulder. I'm wearing a scarf, so my neck's safe, but I want to lean into her, let her cradle my face, and I can't.

She sits across from me. “You know, you and your dad are a lot alike sometimes,” she says. “You don't love to talk about your feelings or problems,” she says.

“No, I know.”

“Your dad . . . that was one of the problems he and I had. Sometimes, I think he'd rather pretend a problem's not there than sit down face-to-face and hash it out.”

“He's afraid of us,” I say.

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far.”

“No, he is. He's afraid of having to deal with everybody's feelings. If he stays in Virginia, he can bury himself in work and pretend the rest of the world is all good.”

Mom's silent but pained.

I take that to mean she agrees.

On my actual birthday, there's a card with a check. “I didn't know what you would like,” Dad writes. “Happy sweet sixteen!”

I don't feel like celebrating, but Mom insists we should “move forward” and “embrace the positive.”

On her insistence, we invite everybody over for my “birthday feast!”

Mandy and Drew arrive first, and Drew's a big hit with Mom. He shakes her hand gallantly and says, “It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

“Oh, I'm not a ‘ma'am,'” she says. “I'm a Molly.”

When she makes a comment about wanting to pack up some of Dad's stuff to ship, Drew says, “
You're
single? That's crazy.”