Her and Me and You (11 page)

“Who says?”

“Alex.”

I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to defend and protect. Charlotte was right—Adina was awful. Still: “If it’s true, if she did do what she did on purpose . . . I dunno.” I rubbed one eye. “That’s just sad, don’t you think? That makes me really, really sad.”

Charlotte swallowed. “Well now I feel bad.”

“Yeah?”

“I really do.”

I smiled. I felt my first ever genuine swell of warmth toward her.

“What?” she asked. “What’s with the look?”

“You have a heart after all. Who knew?”

She chucked a Tic Tac at my face. “Shut up,” she said. “I keep it hidden.”

40.

“We broke up.” Evie in the rain. “He broke up with me.”
Her sopping sweatshirt hung off one shoulder. “Al!” she cried, her words punctuated by spastic gulps of air.

“Jesus, Evie.” Her wailing gutted me. “I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling her inside.

“He—he said—he said he wasn’t sure he loved me.”

“Oh, Eves.” I blotted her down with two damp dish towels. “You look like you’ve been swimming,”

Footsteps, then Mom, arms open.

“I’m soaked.”

“Don’t care.”

They embraced. I dropped the towels in the sink and grabbed the kettle off the stove. “You want anything?”

Evie smiled and pulled away from my mother. “Tea, yeah.” She yanked her sweatshirt overhead, then stood
shivering, half-naked, in her black cotton bra. “Can I borrow something?”

I filled the kettle, switched on the gas, and grabbed Evie’s shirt. “We’ll stick this in the dryer—but, here.” I grabbed a clean tee off the laundry pile. “Have this.”

“I feel like I’m dying,” she said.

“I know, babe.” Mom slipped my shirt over Evie’s wet head. “It’s terrible, right? That feeling?”

Evie nodded.

“You’ll be fine, though. You’ll forget how this feels, I promise.” Mom’s eyes went wet.

“I won’t.”

“You will,” she insisted, running a towel through Evie’s thick, matted bob. “You’ll love again,” she said, planting a kiss on Evie’s round, ruddy cheek. “I guarantee it.”

We lay on the floor in my room.

“I hate this thing,” Evie said, still crying, clutching my afghan. “It’s itchy.”

“So don’t touch it.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” I said, rolling toward her. “I’m not being mean.” But maybe I was. A piece of me felt glad Ben was gone. Evie was mine again. “I’m sorry.”

“I just don’t get it. He didn’t even seem upset. ‘I’m not sure I love you.’ How can that be true?”

I had no clue. How was it possible to love someone who didn’t love you back?
I should ask Dad,
I thought.
Or Fred.
“Did you tell Judith?”

“No.”

“She doesn’t know you’re here?”

“Uh-uh.”

I grabbed the phone off my nightstand.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling your mom.”

“No.”

“She needs to know you’re here, Eves. Once she realizes you’re gone, she’ll freak.” I dialed.

“Stop.” She dove for the phone. “Gimme,” she said, taking hold. “I’ll talk.” And, after a bit, to Judith: “It’s me.” Heavy sigh. “I’m in Meadow Marsh with Alex and Liz. I’m sleeping here, okay?” She took another deep, broken breath. “I’ll go. I swear I’ll go. I’ll leave here at six and be back before homeroom.” A beat. “Well, what do you expect me to do, drive back now in the rain?” Another pause. “Okay. Okay, okay. Me too.” She flipped my phone shut. “Alex.”

“What.”

“I’m sad.”

“I know,” I said. “Come’ere.”

She flung herself forward, folding up in my arms.

41.

“So, I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

We were on the porch, Mom and me, eating M&M’s and drinking root beer from glass bottles. Mom had her heels kicked up on Grams’s old wicker patio table. I clutched my cell. Fred hadn’t called since the morning of the accident. One week. I’d been relentlessly nauseated.

“About selling the house.”

I sat up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s not really ours, you know?”

“Right, but”—I ate an M&M—“we sell the house and go where?”

Somewhere that’s ours.” When Grams died Mom hadn’t wanted to weed through Grams’s things, let alone find a buyer.

“Around here?”

“
Yeah. We stay close to Dad. You finish out this year and next. We put the place up for sale and start looking for someplace new. Fresh start.” She pushed some hair behind one ear. “Someplace that feels like
us
.”

I thought about it. Brand-new life with Mom. What would that even look like? Sunny kitchen? Sobriety? Waffle Sundays? “What about Grams’s stuff?”

“We keep what we want. But the rest—” She looked back at the house. “I dunno. Sell it?”

I took a long swig of soda and looked at our lawn. Brown and sparse with a few bits of new, green growth. “Apartment or house?”

“House.”

“Rental or what, we buy something new?”

“We rent, I think. For now.”

I stood up and put one foot flat against the porch railing. “Do I get to help decorate?”

“Absolutely.”

I smiled. “Well okay, then.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Why not.”

Mom grinned. We clanked bottles. “Cheers,” she said.

“L’chaim.”

“How are you?”

“Skinny.” Eves sounded far away. “Eating is impossible.
Anything but crackers and apples makes me ralph.”

“Sorry,” I said, switching ears, swinging my feet over the gearshift and into the passenger-side seat. I was parked outside school. Three p.m. Another day, no Fred.

“It’s fine. Heartbreak diet. My boobs will just continue to wither. Eventually they’ll look like yours.”

I tried to laugh but no sound came out.

“Hello? Al? You there? I was kidding.”

“No, I know.”

“You okay?”

I put two fingers to my lips and inhaled. Fake dragging off my fake cigarette. “Did I tell you that Adina Bishop got into a car accident?”

“What? When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“
Shit
, Al. Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s okay.” I told her about the vodka and the tree and the stitches. “I haven’t seen Fred since.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did something happen?

Yep: Adina kissed me, I kissed Fred, Adina kissed Fred, then she drove into a tree.
“I—not really.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Saying it all out loud, reliving the saga, seemed exhausting. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it up.

“
And why would you wait two weeks to tell me Adina Bishop nearly killed herself?”

I stiffened. “Killed herself? No—”

“I meant—you know what I meant. What’s wrong with you? You sound miserable.”

“I’m okay,” I said, forcing a smile, hoping my voice sounded bright. “I didn’t tell you because, well, there wasn’t really much to tell.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“Yeah, I know you don’t.” I fiddled with the knob on my stereo.

“You into this?” Mom held up two plates from a checkered cream and black dish set.

“No, I like the floral.”

“Which ones?”

“The plates with the pink tulips? And there’s a creamer and teapot that goes with.”

“Okay, I’m selling these, then.” Mom set the stack of checkered china on the dining room hutch. I went back to weeding through cookbooks and novels, encyclopedias and biographies. “Can I keep this stuff?”

Mom looked up. “What stuff?”

“Her books.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

She let out a sigh. “Al, please, find something to get rid of. Books are heavy and hard to move. . . .” She went back to her dishware. I surveyed the house—tall piles of kitchen crap, wall art, electrical gadgets, faux jewels, lamps, tagged furniture. Grams had been gone three years, but this was the first time I really felt sad. All she’d ever owned, for sale. Years of accumulated
stuff
—some of it meaningful, some of it useless—would now mean something new to someone else.

The screen door rattled, then squeaked. “Hello?” A boy’s voice. “Katonah?”
Fred
.

“We’re back here!” I shouted, instantly breaking a sweat.

“Who’s that?” Mom whispered.

Fred. Fred in the dining room, dressed in brown.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

My fingertips tingled.

“Mommy, Fred. Fred, my mother.” I gestured back and forth between them both. Mom took off her glasses, stood, and shook Fred’s hand. “Liz.”

“Finally.” Then: “Wow, the place is—”

“A mess, we know. Estate sale this weekend. And the move—did Alex tell you?”

He looked at me. “You’re leaving?”

“No. I mean, yeah, we’re selling Grams’s, but we’re staying. In Meadow Marsh.”

He exhaled.

Mom: “Okay, more boxes. And tape.” She slid between two stacks of plates and grabbed her keys off the table.

“You’re going?” I asked.

“I’ll be back in an hour with packing supplies.” She smiled. “Take a break, okay? Get your friend some tea.” She patted my head on her way to the door.

I looked at Fred. “You want tea?”

The screen door slammed. “Um.” We were alone.

“We have green, Oolong, white . . .”

“I’m okay.”

I glanced toward the pantry. “Snack?”

“No thanks.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You can sit,” I said, a knot in my gut the size of a grapefruit.

He sat on the arm of the sofa. I stayed standing, my shoulders and head against the wall. “How’s Adina?”

His head shot up. “She’s okay. She’s home.”

“Are you guys coming back to school?”

“I am. Tomorrow.” His glanced sideways. “D’s taking some time off.”

“What for?”

“She’s . . . weighing her options.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

He picked my old rag doll up off the floor.

“That’s Dolly,” I said.

“What’s she doing down here?”

“She—” I grabbed her back, blushing. “She got lost.”
Then: “You didn’t return any of my calls.” The second I said it, I regretted it.

Fred looked like he might stand, but instead, stayed put. “Any, like, house leads?”

Ignore me, sure.
“There’s a place off Chester Hill that Mom likes. It’s small, but the attic’s been refurbished. I could sleep there.”

“In the attic?”

“Yeah.”

Fred got up. He walked forward. I pushed my heel against the power socket. “Sorry,” I said. My voice broke.

“What for?”

I looked down at my hands, which were shaking. “I feel really guilty about what happened with Adina.”

“
You
feel guilty?”

“You know what people are saying?”

“Alex.”

“No, have you heard?”

He took my hands.

“That she did it on purpose.”

“Alex.”

“What? Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah, I hear you. Sorry I didn’t call.”

I squeezed his fingers hard. “What’s wrong with you? Why won’t you talk to me?”

“About? Why, what do you want to know?”

“How’d your mom die?”

Without missing a beat: “Car accident.”

“Well, what about Adina?” I shifted back and forth. “Did she do what she did—did she do it on purpose?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

My vison blurred.

“Hey.” He crouched down, so our faces were level. “Why the tears?”

“That’s—that’s so fucked up.” I was huffing. “Why would she do that? Because I’m like,
taking
you? Because I like,
stole
you from her?”

“Hey.” He grabbed my head, pulling me close. “Stop it. Stop crying. This has nothing to do with you.”

I pulled back so I could look at him. “Nothing?”

“Adina has her own shit going on.” His brow furrowed. “This isn’t about you.
Or
me. Besides, she doesn’t want to die. She wants attention.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

I wiped my nose and my cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Again?” He smiled. “What now?”

“I made it about
me
.”

“Alex, come on, stop.” He leaned forward just an inch. Our noses grazed. “I know what I’m doing,” he said, quietly. He kissed my neck. Then right behind my ear. Then the corners of my mouth and lastly, my lips. I didn’t move or kiss
back. I stayed very still, letting him touch my hands, my hips, the sides of my face.

“You’re sure about this?” I whispered into him.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back a bit. “I am.”

42.

Day trip to Dad’s. I didn’t call ahead or ask if I was
welcome—I just went.

“I’m gonna pack up some stuff, okay?”

Caroline and I stood face-to-face in the den downstairs. She lifted a tissue to her nose and blew. “That’s fine.”

“Where’s my dad?”

“Hardware store.”

“Are you sick?”

She shrugged, wiping her nose. “Allergies. Or, I dunno, a cold, maybe? I’m fine.” She looked messy and vulnerable. I felt a flicker of sympathy.

“When Dad gets back, tell him I’m upstairs, packing?”

Chicken was at my heels, licking and nipping and softly panting.

“Sure,” Caroline said. Then: “Alex, hey.”

I stopped.

“You need anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Water? Food?”

I continued up the steps. “I’ve lived here sixteen years,” I said. “I think I can handle my own drinks and snacks.”

I didn’t pack everything. Just the crap I couldn’t live without: photo albums, a clear plastic bin stuffed with summer clothes, my favorite floral lamp with the hand-painted shade, a big barrel curling iron, a framed shot of Chicken at the beach playing ball, my dad’s old bathrobe.

“Hi, kid.”

“Oh.” Dad. I was mid-pack, clutching his bathrobe.

“That mine?”

“Not anymore,” I said, shoving it deep into my duffel.

He smiled. “Need any help?”

“I’m pretty much done.” I picked up the last of it. A stack of summer tees. Plastic bin overflow.

“We didn’t ski this year.”