Escape In You (21 page)

A big part of me feels guilty for how little time I’m spending at home. Jerry did not suddenly have a change of heart—Mom still needs someone to look after her. I try to be there every afternoon and early evening to make sure she’s eating and taking her meds. Her days are hit or miss—some days she seems almost back to normal, content even. Other days she retreats to her bedroom for hours at a time. I wish, for the millionth time, that I could find some way to stabilize it, to give her enough consistency that she could have some kind of a life. But I’ve never been able to find the magic formula before, and I certainly can't now. It’s depressing, though, the constant back and forth. I see her awake and moving around the house and my hopes lift only to come crashing down the next time breakfast and lunch pass without her. I hate those days, feel like I’m watching her disappear before my eyes. I start every day terrified that she might decide not to get up at all. But I know the real danger is not in her sleeping. The biggest fear is that she’ll get up, and that she’ll swing in the other direction. That’s always when the real fun starts. I know full well that some of her behaviors can make me yearn for the days when too much sleep was our only problem.

I escape in Taylor.

Once or twice a week we go on what we have taken to calling a boring-ass, normal-shit date. In fact, Taylor had proclaimed it the summer of the Boring-Ass-Normal-Shit-Project, or B.A.N.S.P. for short. Sometimes it’s basic—dinner and a movie—while other days we get more creative. We do end up going to the art museum downtown, and Taylor’s insistence that he is a museum person turns out to be true. He blows me away with his knowledge of art. I know he’s incredibly talented at painting and drawing but had no idea he was so interested in art history as well. When we discover a small exhibit on graphic art on the lower level, I melt at the adorable, excited look on of his face. He’s in his element, explaining to me all about the different methods and points of view in each piece. It’s the kind of stuff I’d never have thought could be interesting, but Taylor’s enthusiasm is catching, and I really get into it.

“I’m feeling kind of inadequate,” I say jokingly on the way home. “You just gave me a pretty thorough art history lesson, and I have no way to repay you.”

“Hmm,” he says, his eyes on my bare legs in my sundress. “I can think of a few ways.”

“I’m serious! You’re, like, an art expert. I’m not an expert in anything.” I pout at him. “I have no expertise.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. There are probably a million things you can do that I can’t.” He pauses. “Did I ever tell you about the time Jim and I tried to bake a cake?”

I try not to react to his mention of his brother; it happens so rarely. Instead I keep my voice casual. “No, what happened?”

He chuckles a little. “It was my mom’s birthday, and Dad had been giving us a hard time about being more involved. He said we were past the age where a homemade card and a gift certificate to her salon were acceptable. We were, like, I don’t know, fifteen and sixteen at the time? So Jim gets this idea that we should bake her a cake.”

“I’m assuming it didn't go so well.”

He’s grinning now, his eyes happy and bright. “We lit the kitchen on fire.”

“You did not!”

“Oh, we
so
did. Luckily Jim managed to stop panicking and get the fire extinguisher out, so it didn't spread, but we did have to buy a new stove.”

I’m laughing. “How on earth did you manage to light the stove on fire?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “When we put the pan in, a potholder went in with it. Jim swears he didn't do it, but I’m pretty sure it was him. It caught on fire. When I smelled the smoke and tried to get the potholder out, I dropped it onto the floor. We were pretty lucky we didn't burn the entire house down.”

I slap my hands over my mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s insane!”

He snickers with me for a minute, but, then, slowly, his face closes up, like he’s remembering all the reasons he doesn’t spend time with the happy memories. “You know,” I say quickly, “you were right. About me being better at some things. Because it just so happens that I am a fabulous baker.”

He turns his eyes from the road for a minute to look at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. My mom and I used to spend hours in the kitchen, making up our own recipes.” I push away the little pain the words cause me, wanting to focus on him. “I got to be pretty good at it. You should try my macaroons. They’re pretty much the best things ever.”

He grins, and I’m relieved. “I’m going to have to take you up on that.”

So he makes a stop at the grocery store on the way home, and I pick up all the ingredients I need. I try not to think about the fact that I haven't actually baked anything in ages, that the mere thought of it usually depresses me. When we get back to his place and I set about working in the kitchen, the strangest thing happens: I stop thinking about my mother entirely.

I’ve assumed the act of baking would always be associated with her, would always remind me of her. But here at Taylor’s house, showing him the right way to separate egg whites, laughing when he gets flour in his hair, feeling his arms wrap tightly around me when I try to teach him how to whisk the batter, I feel better than I have in ages. I remember all the reasons I always loved to bake and, more than that, realize that I still love it even without my mom.

We burn the macaroons. That’s what happens when you forget to set the timer and let your boyfriend convince you that you’ll be able to stop kissing in time. Instead, we make love on the couch, laughing when the smoke alarm goes off right as we climax together.

We make another batch of macaroons later. And they’re pretty damn delicious.

***

Guilt claws at me by the time Taylor eventually drops me off at home. When I left that morning my mom had been in pretty good shape. She was cooking breakfast for Jerry and humming to herself as she scrambled eggs. I’d kissed her cheek on the way out, and she reminded me that she wanted to meet Taylor—or my hot man friend, as she had taken to calling him. It had almost felt like a normal person’s life for a minute.

Because she had seemed so well, Taylor and I headed straight to Fred’s house for a party without stopping home first. When I spend time with Taylor during the day, I usually make it a point to be home in the evening, just to make sure my mom is doing okay. I always feel better when I know she had dinner, when I was actually there in the house when she went to bed for the night. But we’d fallen asleep after we finished the second batch of macaroons and by the time we got up it was nearly nine—well past the time she was usually in for the night.

“Let’s just go,” I had told him, trying to tamp down the guilt. It was silly to worry—it was a Saturday, and Jerry wasn’t working. Surely they could manage without me for a day.

A healthy dose of fear joins the guilt over the course of the party. I just can't make myself relax. What if she needs me for something? What if Jerry went out drinking with his buddies and left her alone all day? Sensing my discomfort, Taylor takes me home around midnight. When he pulls up in front of the house, I can’t help but feel a stab of disappointment. I’d been stressing about getting home all night, but now that I’m here I just wish I could go back to Taylor’s. I would much rather be in his cozy little apartment, sleeping in his arms, than spend the rest of the night here alone.

As I walk up the front path, I notice a light on in the kitchen and my stomach sinks. Jerry must be up. Dreading the thought of seeing him, I slip into the house as quietly as I can. Maybe I can make it back to my room without drawing his attention.

“Zoe, babe, is that you?”

I frown as I shut the front door. That wasn’t Jerry—it was my mom. Wondering why she would still be awake, I walk to the kitchen—and gasp.

“Hey, girl! Get in here and taste this. I’m sure I’m doing something wrong, but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what it is. Too much cinnamon, maybe?”

I take in the state of the kitchen, my stomach turning to lead. My mother has, apparently, been baking. Dishes are stacked up in the sink and scattered around the counter, mingled with trays and trays of cookies and cakes. Every surface is covered. And in the middle of this mess, her hair tied up in a disheveled bun, flour streaked across her face, is my mother.

“This batch was better,” she goes on, ignoring the fact that I haven’t responded. “I think it’s because I used cardamom. I always say, cardamom is like magic in the right doses. Then again, it could be ginger…” She trails off, muttering softly to herself.

I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. There’s a frantic energy to her movements, to the way she’s talking. Just the fact that she’s awake right now, well after midnight, baking, is nearly enough to panic me.

She’s getting manic again.

I’ve been dreading this since she started getting out of bed every day, this other end of her mood swings, this aspect of her condition that scares me more than anything. It had been a long while since she’d displayed the symptoms, and stupidly I had hoped that we might stay lucky.

“It’s pretty late for baking, Mom,” I say, hoping with all my heart that maybe she just had a burst of energy tonight. “You should probably take a break until tomorrow.”

“Later, later,” she says, darting around the kitchen to grab first a bowl, then a measuring cup. “I need to get this right first.”

I sit down at the table, staring as she whispers to herself, adding and stirring and tasting. There’s no point in trying to get her to stop. She won’t sleep when she’s like this. I’ve seen her go days without sleeping during her manic episodes. Trying to make her go lie down would be fruitless. Of course,
I
can’t go to bed either, not when she’s like this.

I’m exhausted in this moment, watching her. I have no idea what’s going to come next, where she’ll go from here. Usually she’s just kind of frantic for a while, really hyper and active, and then she calms down. Other times, it gets bad. Sometimes really bad.

Suddenly I wish I could call Taylor back. Wish he could come and pick me up and take me far away. Not back to the party, not to his apartment—somewhere so far I wouldn't be able to help her if I tried. I don’t want to know what happens tomorrow, don’t want to know what the ending of this particular story is. I just want to go. Just want it not to be my problem, my life, not anymore.

But, of course, I can’t do that. All I can do is sit at the table and watch as my mother adds ingredients to her batter, stirring and tasting, struggling to find the magic combination that will make everything come out right in the end.

Chapter Nineteen

Taylor

“This is the big emergency?” Fred looks at me, incredulous. “You called me over here in a panic because you need help with a car?”

We’re standing in the middle of the shop where I work, staring at the Jeep in the center of the floor. I wouldn't say I called Fred in a panic, but I am stressing about this vehicle—stressing a lot.

“It’s not just a car,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair. “It’s for Zoe.”

“Shit, man.” Fred eyes the Jeep. “You got her a car? That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”

“I bought it off Carl for a steal. Someone turned it in for parts, but he’s too slammed to get to it.”

“So you bought it.”

“Yeah, with the intention of fixing it up for her. She needs wheels, man. It’s not safe for her walking around all the time.”

He nods, though he’s still clearly trying to process it. It probably
does
seem like a pretty big deal. You don’t just buy a car for someone you’re not seriously into. But I hate how often Zoe walks the two miles to my house in the middle of the night. I know she would never accept anything outrageously expensive, but I really had gotten it cheap.

Turns out, there was a good reason for that.

“I’ve been working on all the restoration,” I say, as I walk around and open the hood. “I put a new engine in, new transmission.”

“Where are you getting the parts? Engines aren’t cheap, dude.”

“Around.” I shrug. “I’m refurbing a lot of the bigger things as I go.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I still have a shit ton of work left to do to make it drivable, and I just found out from Ellie her birthday is in a week.”

He frowns, confused. “Ellie’s birthday?”

“No, dumb ass. Zoe’s birthday.”

“Why didn't you already know that?”

My frustration is building. I’m totally stressed about getting this done. I don’t need to play twenty questions on top of it. “According to Ellie, Zoe hates her birthday. Like,
hates
it. Refuses to celebrate, refuses presents.”

“So you’re responding to this information by giving her a car. Good move.”

“Dude,” I say, exasperated. “She needs a car. And Ellie tells me that she’s always trying to get Zoe to enjoy her birthday and that I should help her with that.”

He finally nods. “Well, if it was me, a car would sure help.”

“That’s the plan. And it just so happens that her birthday falls on Thursday.”

His face lights up. “You want to give it to her before Cedar Point.”

I nod. The four of us—me, Zoe, Ellie and Fred—are planning a trip to Cedar Point the next week. Fred and I had been to the roller coaster park down in Ohio a bunch of times, mostly as teenagers. We were shocked to find that neither Ellie or Zoe had been, and immediately started planning a trip to rectify that. Zoe was concerned about the cost, but I convinced her it is a necessary part of our B.A.N.S.P.

“I don’t think Cedar Point is what we would call
boring ass
,” she had said.

“Yeah, but it is normal shit. Normal, boring couples go there all the time.”

She had laughed and agreed and we’d been looking forward to it. But now that I knew it was also her birthday, I was determined to get the car ready in time.

“So now I have a deadline,” I tell Fred. “My original plan was to just be done when I got done. But now that I know about her birthday, I’m a little under the gun.”