Out of Order (20 page)

I don't say anything for a minute. I think I might cry if I try to talk, and I don't want to. I swallow hard. “Mom.”

“Sophie.”

“I know I can talk to you.”

“Good.” She smiles at me, but her eyes are serious. “But believe me, I know that sometimes it's easier to talk to someone who isn't your mother.”

I shake my head. “You're not like Gran.”

Mom sighs. “Oh, I try not to be. But sometimes...well.”

A car honks behind us.

“Damn it,” Mom says. She sticks her hand out the window and waves for the car to go around us. “I guess you'd better go.”

“Okay.” I don't move. “Mom?”

“What is it?”

I shrug. “I don't know. Just, thanks.”

She smiles. “Say hi to Zelia for me. I hope she's doing better.”

“I will.”

The car honks again, the driver leaning on the horn this time. Mom and I exchange glances.

“Type A driver,” she says. “You'd better go.”

“At least if he has a stroke, he's already at the hospital.”

Mom shakes her head at me, but we're both laughing as I get out of the car and wave good-bye.

I RIDE THE
elevator up to Zelia's ward. I still have to tell her that she can't stay with us and I wonder how she'll react. Zelia's unpredictability used to draw me to her. Now it worries me. I don't want to lose her, but I don't know if she'll let things be diVerent between us. She's always been the one who makes the rules.

Zelia's allowed to go out for a walk with me, so we wander through the hospital grounds and over to the Starbucks by the grocery store. I order a black coffee for myself and a chai latte for her, and we sit at a table by the window. It seems like we should be able to feel the warmth of the sun, but people keep coming in and out and the draft is icy.

She's in a good mood, chattering away about the other patients she has met and the staff on the ward. Her stories are awfully funny and I can't help laughing, even though some­times I think I shouldn't.

Finally she asks, “So did you ask your mom?”

I nod.

Zelia looks at me. Some emotion I can't identify flickers across her face and she lifts her chin. “I guess she said no, huh?”

“Yeah.” I hesitate and take a sip of my coffee. It is tempting just to let my mother take the blame.

She gives me a lopsided grin. “I knew she was going to. She came to see me.”

I almost spill my drink. “She did?”

“Yeah. She didn't tell you?”

I shake my head.

“Right after—you know. The next day.”

“Before me,” I say. I know when it must have been: when I was lying in the tub feeling sorry for myself.

Zelia meets my eyes. “Yeah.”

“Zelia...I'm sorry. I should've come sooner.”

She shrugs it off. “Whatever.”

Her voice cracks a little, and I remember Mom saying that I'm more important to Zelia than I realize.

“I really am sorry,” I say. “I got kind of freaked out. Scared.” I touch her arm for a second. “I'm glad Mom came.”

“Yeah. She was pretty nice to me. But she did say that I couldn't stay with you guys. She thinks Lee and I need to sort things out.”

I think about that for a minute. “Will you? Are you going to talk to her?”

Zelia frowns. “Maybe. If she'll listen.”

“You know,” I say slowly, “I used to think you hung out with me because you liked my mom so much.” I wait, watch­ing her face.

She laughs. “Idiot. Your mom is amazing, but I wouldn't hang out with you if I didn't like you.”

I let out a long breath. “Well, good.”

Zelia laces her fingers together and rests them on the table. “I liked you the first time I saw you. All that gorgeous crazy red hair. You looked like you should be laughing, but you had such a serious face all the time. You were hanging out with those girls. You know, the Clones.”

“Yeah?”

“And you looked...I don't know. Bored. Kind of disconnected
or something.” She shrugs. “You looked how I always felt.”

“Really? I did?” It's the last thing I expected to hear.

Zelia shrugs, looking uncomfortable. As if she's said too much. “Well, whatever. And then when I met your mom, I just thought you were so fucking lucky. If my mom was like that, I'd tell her everything.”

“It's not that easy,” I say, thinking about the conversation I just had with my mother.

“You don't even try.”

I shake my head. She might be right, but I can't take any more in right now. Besides, I think things with Mom and me are changing, maybe. “So you're not mad at her for saying you can't stay with us?”

“Nah.” She flips her hair off her face. “I fucked up, with the files and everything. I'm not a total idiot, you know. I get it.”

I bite my lip, wondering whether to say anything. Then I take a deep breath and go ahead. “Maybe it's better that way for us too. You know, if you're not staying with us. I mean, I still want to hang out with you, but I want to have other friends too.”

Zelia pushes her latte away from her and leans back. Her eyes narrow. “This is about Max, isn't it?”

“Partly,” I admit. “I don't want to have to choose between you all the time.”

“She really is a dyke, you know. I didn't make that up.” There is a spiteful edge to her voice.

I look at her straight on. “I know she's gay. Lesbian. Queer. Whatever. I don't care, Zelia.” I don't want to have this conver­sation now, but there is no way not to.

Zelia looks down and stirs the foamy surface of her drink with her fingertip. “God, don't tell me you're a dyke too.”

I am silent for a moment. My heart is beating so fast I wonder if she can hear it. I stick my hands in my jacket pock­ets. Our bag of rings is still there. “No. Well, I don't know.” I shake my head, as if I can shake all the doubts right out of it. “Right now I'm not really interested in getting involved with anybody. At all. And Max and I are just friends, if that's what you're really asking.”

Zelia nods but doesn't look up. Her long dark lashes hide her eyes. For a second I wonder if she is crying. Suddenly I realize that Zelia only pretends not to care what other people think. And I totally fell for it because I wanted to be more like that myself.

“I still want to be your friend,” I say.

She snaps her head up, chin set. “I don't need your pity. Even if I am...what was it you said? Messed up?”

“I'm sorry I said that,” I admit. “I was angry. Anyway, who isn't messed up?”

She looks at me. She has no makeup on, and in the bright sunlight I can see that her blue eyes are ringed with violet shad­ows. She sighs. “No, it's okay. You were right anyway.”

“It's not pity,” I say. “I like being with you. I...well, you're really important to me.” I reach out my hand and lay it on the table in front of her. “So...are we still friends?”

Zelia takes my hand. “Yeah,” she says. “We're still friends.”

A grin spreads across my face, and I don't try to hide it. I reach into my pocket with my free hand, pull out the bag of rings and drop it on the table between us.

She grins back. “You know, I had to take out that belly button ring,” she says. “It got all infected.”

I wince. “Gross.”

Zelia turns the bag upside down and the rings tumble out. “You pick first,” she says.

I gaze at the jumbled pile of gold, the colored glass glint­ing blue, red and green. I pick a twisted gold band with a blue stone and slide it onto my finger. It slips down my finger and catches the light.

Zelia picks a matching band with a red stone. She holds up her hand and I hold up mine. Fingertips press to fingertips.

“Friends forever,” I say.

Zelia nods slowly. “Friends forever.”

DECEMBER FLIES BY
, cold and clear. Things gradually resume some kind of rhythm. Michael has moved out, and Zelia is back at home with Lee. They seem to be managing. Whenever I ask Zelia how it's going with her mother, she just shrugs and says it's fine. I think maybe it really is.

I know they're seeing a counselor the hospital referred them to. Her name is Julie. Zelia mentions her quite a bit. Julie says this. Julie thinks that.

I tease her about it. “Julie, Julie, Julie. Do I get the impres­sion that you're not absolutely hating talking to this therapist of yours?”

Zelia takes my question seriously. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I never thought I'd say this, but she's okay.” She lifts her chin, flips her hair back over her shoulder and grins. “Not as good as you, Dr. Keller.”

I toss my backpack at her. “Goof.”

I suspect that Max and Zelia still don't like each other too much, but we don't talk about it and they are at least polite to each other, if not exactly friendly. It would be great
if they got along better, but I don't think that's going to happen. Anyway, it's working out okay. I ride with Max and sometimes with Tavish, and I spend most of my lunch hours with Zelia. At least once a week, though, I have lunch with Max.

We go to the pizza place sometimes, or we take our sand­wiches and drive down to Dallas Road. If it's cold and windy, we eat in her car, watching the waves crashing and tossing drift­wood high onto the beach. One calm sunny day we walk the path winding along the cliff top.

“It's beautiful,” Max says. We stop walking and stand facing the water. The mountains are a jagged snow-peaked line against a clear blue sky. A huge container ship looks like a tiny toy against the dark blue water. Bright yellow and green rectangles soar from the cliff: paragliders catching the updraft and flying with the breeze. I draw a deep breath, feel the sun on my face and drink it all in. Something is stirring in my belly, rushing through my veins. I feel like I could fly.

FINALLY SCHOOL BREAKS
for the holidays. Patrick is away for a few weeks, visiting his parents in Alberta, but Gran is at our house most days. It's her first Christmas since my grandfather died, and she's finding it hard. She bakes hundreds of cookies; writes Christmas cards; makes red, white and green cross-stitched decorations and hangs them all over the house: stars, snowmen, Christmas trees. I can barely take a step without bumping into them. It's like she's trying to fill every last empty space. Sometimes I sit and help her, threading needles and listening to her talk.

“It's a funny thing,” she says one day. “You start thinking your life is complete, polished, everything just the way you want it. And then it all goes and changes on you. Your grand­father dying, you and your mom moving out here...everything is so different.”

I pick up a piece of fabric she has dropped and lay it on the table.

She sighs. “I had no idea a year ago that I'd be spending this Christmas with you and Jeanie.” She looks at me. “I'm not complaining, mind you. I've never been one to complain about my life.”

“That's okay,” I say.

Gran picks up the scrap of fabric and turns it in her hands. “I suppose I should make another quilt,” she says. “All these little pieces of cloth. Might as well make something from them.”

It's hard to imagine that all these odds and ends could be stitched together into something beautiful. “Teach me how,” I say impulsively. “Maybe I can help with this one.”

Gran actually smiles at me for once. “Maybe you can.”

SATURDAY DECEMBER 21
, is Zelia's birthday. It is winter solstice, the shortest darkest day of the year. I love this day. You know that this is as bad as it's going to get and that from here on it will get lighter and brighter as we get closer and closer to spring. It is my first winter in Victoria, and Max has told me that the crocuses will start to come up in January.

I have invited Zelia to come out to the barn today. I call Tavish to ask if she can ride Bug.

“No problem,” he says. I can almost hear his wide grin over the phone. “It'll do him good to get out. I don't have time to ride him as much as I should anyway.”

“Great. That's great. She'll like that.”

“So...is she doing okay, do you think?”

I nod; then I realize he can't see me. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good. I'm glad you're bringing her riding. It'll be good for her as well as Bug.”

I laugh. “Equine therapy.”

“Exactly,” Tavish says.

I'm about to say good-bye but I find myself saying some­thing else. “Tavish? Are you still in touch with friends from Georgetown?” Even as I say the words, I realize something: I'm not scared of the answer. It doesn't matter anymore.

He laughs. “No, we left there when I was twelve. Anyway, to tell you the truth, I didn't really have a lot of friends there.”

“You didn't?”

“Nah. Twelve-year-old boys are supposed to play hockey or baseball, not ride horses. Those weren't actually the best years. To be honest, I was pretty happy to leave.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too. Me too.” Someday, I think, Tavish and I might talk about Georgetown.

LEE DROPS ZELIA
off at my place in the morning. After lunch, Max picks us up, and we drive out to the barn. Tavish has already
brought our horses in from the Weld and knocked the worst of the mud off for us. Max calls him a sweetie, and I feel a tiny pang of something like jealousy. Lately I have been thinking I am maybe, perhaps, just a little bit in love with them both. It doesn't matter, not yet anyway. Just having friends and being liked for who I am feels like enough of a miracle for now.

We groom, tack up and head out to the woods.

Zelia is riding up front with Tavish. Bug's round belly sways from side to side, and he jogs along to keep up with Schooner's long strides. Max rides beside me; Sebastian and Keltie are more evenly matched.