Tastes Like Winter (3 page)

My mom moves between anger and sadness so easily these days, I never
know which version of her to expect. Last night, her weakness from the previous
week was forgotten and she was in a rage, yelling at my dad and accusing him of
using work to hide from their problems, a matter made worse because he runs to
the very place where their perceived issues started. As if sticking it to (err,
in?) his secretary was the real reason the marriage broke and not a symptom.

They moved on from fighting about the affair to fighting about
everything else, and the bickering continued over my dad’s increased work
schedule and how it’s negatively impacting me. Not surprisingly, they did not
seek out my opinion on the topic.

“It’s not negatively affecting me. Please, relax….” I began.

“If you weren’t always at work, we could have more family dinners,
which is an important part of a child’s development,” my mother continued, as
if I hadn’t spoken.

“Always throwing stones, aren’t you? While you sit here, yelling in
front of our daughter. How is that for her development?”

“Stop! Stop fighting about me. It’s fine. We’re all going to be fine!”
I yelled.

“See! Now you’ve upset her!” Mom shouted, waving an arm in my
direction.

My voice grew small. “We are going to be fine, aren’t we?” I asked, my
gaze sliding from one to the other, but I went ignored.

Suddenly, I didn’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is that my home doesn’t feel
warm and cozy and like it’s mine anymore.

Everyone always says that divorce isn’t the kid’s fault. But if it’s
not my fault, then why do they keep arguing about me? It’s like the only way Mom
can continue to justify her anger at Dad for cheating is to drag me into the
mix.

“You’re a bad role model for Emma. You’re never around to spend time
with Emma. Your behavior has let Emma down. Emma misses you.”

It’s bullshit.

Am I pissed off that he slept with another woman? Of course. Cheating
is a dick move, no matter who does it. But am I surprised to hear it? Not
particularly. I know I’m young, but I’m not an idiot. I watch plenty of TV and read
plenty of books. I know how these things work.

Maybe it’s unfair for me to take my anger out on Mom. After all, Dad
is the one who had the affair, and there is no excuse for that. But my father
has never been my hero, and his behavior isn’t a great disappointment for me.

The disappointment I feel is seeing my mother, the person I looked up
to, spiraling downward in front of my eyes. Mom changed. She molded herself
into what she thought was the figure of the perfect wife; and, instead of being
appreciative, Dad went looking for someone else. I know she had good
intentions, but it’s the path she chose to live.

I feel terrible distancing myself from Mom as much as I have these
past few months, but I don’t know what else to do. I guess I’m hoping, in the
end, it will be good for her and she will rise like a phoenix from the ashes
and become the strong, steady mother—woman—I know she can be. The
woman she once was before she lost herself in love.

They continued yelling, and unable to take it anymore, I leapt to my
feet. “Stop! Just stop it, already! Stop bringing me into your arguments. Mom,
choose to forgive Dad or not. Dad….” My voice breaks. “After all Mom has done
for us? Really?” I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. “But the both of you,
enough already!” And I stormed upstairs to my room.

A few minutes later, I heard a knock at the door.

“Please leave me alone,” I said, my pillow muffling the sound,
“please.”

I was surprised when whoever was knocking, probably my mother, obeyed
and walked away.

I’m grateful to be alone, especially now when their fights, their
hurt, drains me, suffocates me. All of Mom’s attention—even that hurts. I
don’t want them to seek me out so they can have an ally on their side. I want
things to be like they were.

But they can’t be.

At least the lasagna we had for dinner was good. Mom cooks when she is
stressed, and if nothing else, my taste buds appreciate it.

My attention drifts back to the Discovery channel. I’m still hungry,
even after the cereal I ate. I should have stolen another piece of garlic bread
before making my exit last night. It was buttery and delicious, and even the
arguing couldn’t spoil that.

That reminds me. I believe I saw Mom making a pie yesterday evening. Mom
is the pie expert, and we never made it to dessert. I peer down at the
remaining bland little
Os
swimming around in my milk.
Pie sounds a heck of a lot better than cereal. I go investigate.

***

As I’m clearing the last crumb from my plate, my phone buzzes with a
text from Genna. It’s rare for her to have a day off from practice, so I am
surprised to see her message.

“Meet me at Juniper’s in thirty? There is a double fudge sundae with
my name on it.”

I glance at the microwave clock and see it’s ten thirty in the
morning. It’s too early for ice cream, but considering I already stuffed my
face with pie this morning, who am I too judge? This wouldn’t be the first time
we made the trek to our favorite local diner for chocolaty, creamy goodness at
such an hour.

I sense there is a reason behind her need for such fat-laden calories,
so I text back that I will see her then.

Without bothering to shower, I change into jeans and a tank top and
slip on a pair of canvas boat shoes. I add my own note to the counter, placing
it next to Mom’s and Dad’s, to alert them that I too am out and will be home
later, who knows when, and to call my cell if they need me.

Grabbing my keys and jumping into my car, I drive the short distance
to Juniper’s. I expect to be early, but I can already see Genna shutting her
car door and heading inside. She stops when she spots me and allows me time to
catch up.

“Why the desperate need for ice cream?” I cut to the chase. Genna and
I are too close, been together too long and through too much, to beat around
the bush.

She shoots me a look, her narrowed eyes signaling now is not the time.
“Ice cream first.”

I nod and follow her inside. The diner is full as it usually is on
weekend mornings, but we are able to get a booth right away. The waiter frowns
at Genna when she orders her sundae, but he says nothing. The last thing I want
after my morning, spent
vegging
on the couch eating pie,
is more sweets, but in a move of solidarity, I order my own bowl, keeping it
simple with a scoop of vanilla. I wait for our order to arrive, and Genna to
down a few bites before I push her again.

“Okay, out with it, Gen. What’s up?”

She pushes out a pained exhale in response before launching into a
tirade. “I get that I’m co-captain and that the position comes with certain
responsibilities, but Coach expects me to play mother hen and counselor and to
deal with every little problem these girls have, and it is exhausting.”

She then launches into a mile-a-minute rant on the team conflicts she
is going through—including, from what I gather, one teammate hooking up
with another teammate’s boyfriend and the resulting catfight that took place in
the locker room. She rants and raves and sighs and acts as though she is going
to pull her hair out then rants some more all between bites of sundae. And like
a good friend, I sit and listen and nibble at my own dish, adding the
appropriate head nods and verbal affirmations to signal that I understand her
pain. How dare Coach put her in such a situation!

Finally, she sets down her spoon, pushes her bowl away from herself,
and leans back, looking drained. “Thanks. I had to get that off my chest before
I kicked some serious girl ass and put them all in their place.”

I laugh at her and playfully hold up my arms in a defensive pose. “I’m
innocent! I’m innocent! Don’t kick my ass, too!”

She throws her little fists up, pretending to fight. “No one is safe!
I will wreak havoc on all!”

We laugh heartily, and she reaches for another bite of her now-melted
ice cream before thinking better of it and dropping the spoon.

“Being captain will help my chances of getting a scholarship this year,
and I can’t mess it up, but jeez, it’s way more responsibility than I
originally thought.”

“I can’t imagine.” And I couldn’t. Being in charge of that much
hormonal girl drama was terrifying to think about, and I couldn’t fathom what
she had to go through. I wouldn’t have made it past day one, but Genna was a
natural. Even though she complained from time to time, there was a reason her
coach picked her, and I knew deep down she enjoyed the leadership and team
environment. I also knew it was important to listen and let her air her
frustrations so she could get back to loving it. That was my job as best
friend.

“This too shall pass,” I add wisely, and she bows her head, agreeing
with and accepting my sage advice.

OCTOBER

I push open the heavy oak door of High Street, and before my eyes can
adjust to the changing light and make out Betsy’s silhouette, she is already
halfway into conversation.

“…and we have to push the clearance carts to the sides and start
setting up chairs—fifty or so should do. And the display table will be
over here, and I made extra signs…” She rambles on.

“—Sorry,” I interrupt. “Did I miss something?”

“The Evelyn Whitmore reading is tonight! Don’t tell me you forgot,
Emma. You know, for such a smart girl, you can be so absentminded…” Betsy snickers
and continues mumbling to herself. “But then again, I guess the kids these days
don’t get excited about real literature. Real art! Oh, I hope she reads the
excerpt from when Rodrigo comes home from the Battle of
Burgengardd
.
I absolutely love that scene. Dreamy Rodrigo…”

Now that she mentions it, I do remember discussing an upcoming book
reading and author signing last week. It was less of a discussion and more
Betsy giving me a long lecture about the many talents of Mrs. Whitmore, her
favorite author. She wrote a whole series of war novels interweaving historical
facts with Harlequin-
esque
love stories. The History
Channel for housewives. They are currently developing a television drama to
bring her books to life and have nabbed Lorenzo Bastille, from the popular soap
opera Time in a Bottle, to play the lead. Evelyn is doing a nationwide book
tour to drum up publicity for the show, and High Street Books is her next stop.

Betsy has stopped talking and is now
looking up at me, bright-eyed. It’s official. My boss is a
fangirl
.
I chuckle, mostly to myself. I love her enthusiasm. Her energy is positively
infectious and exactly what I need these days. I give her shoulder a gentle
squeeze to show my approval, and satisfied by my response, she returns to her
stack of flyers.

I make my way down the aisles of books and through the supply room
doors, letting them flap noisily on their rusty hinges. After tossing my bag
down on the bench, I pull my apron off its hook and throw it over my head, all
in one swift motion. I slide my feet out of the flats I wore to school that day
while opening the flap of my bag and pulling out my sneakers. I sit down and take
a second to massage my toes gently, grateful to take off the hard-soled shoes.

Mom brought this particular pair of flats home last weekend as a
spontaneous gift, and I wanted to please her by wearing them. They are a
beautiful navy blue with a similarly toned jewel at the front, and they elevate
my simple combo of jeans and long-sleeved tee. The shoes allow me to look more
put together without actually challenging myself and exerting any extra effort.
At least that was Genna’s expert assessment when she noticed them this morning.
Unfortunately, they still have a lot of breaking in to do, and spending eight
hours in them today at school was not the smartest choice.

I reach back into my bag and pull out a pair of thick socks. As soon
as I slide the socks on my feet, I feel instant relief. The simple joys of
cotton. As I relish in the feeling, I hear Betsy talking in the main room and
smile to myself.

“Nutty lady is talking to herself again. If only I had something to be
so excited about.” Halfway through, I realize the irony that I, too, am now
talking to myself and zip my lips. I wedge my feet into my sneakers, double-knot
the laces, and head back out the door. As soon as I get past the travel
section, I am surprised to see that she is not, in fact, alone.

I recognize the guy Betsy is talking to from school. He is a couple of
years older than me and, if I remember correctly, has a bit of a reputation.
But what is he doing here, and how does he know Betsy? Maybe he is a big Evelyn
Whitmore fan and wanted to get here early. Ha! I doubt it. I walk up to where
they are standing but make no move to interrupt their conversation. Smiling
politely, I pretend to look up at Betsy, but from the corner of my eye, I watch
him.

He is half a foot taller than me and thin. Not lanky, but not overly
muscular, either. He is wearing light jeans, threadbare at the knees and frayed
where they meet his shoes. His sneakers are black and nondescript and, similar
to his jeans, look long worn and well loved. He has a loose grey tee shirt on,
and the biceps that peak out are beautifully corded and still tanned from the
fading summer sun.

My eyes drop to the black sweatshirt he has balled up in his fist. A
deeply folded Moleskine notebook, peeking out from the front pocket, catches my
eye, but my attention quickly shifts back up to the veins bulging slightly
under the stress of his grip. I can’t help but stare at his arm. Light fine
hair covers his skin, and I find myself unexpectedly wanting to touch its
softness. The flash of heat that rises in my cheeks takes me off guard, as it’s
not a reaction I am used to, not a feeling I ever remember having before.

Certain that the company in front of me must be able to hear the blood
pounding through my veins, I blink and self-consciously raise my eyes. He’s
staring at me. Our eyes lock for a second before I uncomfortably look away. I
return my gaze to Betsy and realize they have stopped talking. Crap!

She shakes her head ever so slightly and motions to him. “My
apologies, Emma. Do you know my nephew, Jake? I’m sure I have mentioned him
before. He is supposed to be working here, but schoolwork sure has kept him
busy. But Dan and I are happy to relieve him of his shifts, since we always say
school comes first, right Jake?”

Jake dips his head, but he continues to direct his gaze at me, his
scrutiny prickling my skin. Betsy’s eyes dart between the two of us, and I am
sure she can sense the deep awkwardness I am feeling. I have to look back at
him to not be rude, but for some reason, I am afraid. I quietly let out a
breath and turn my head.

I paste a friendly smile on my face and reply, “Yeah. I think we used
to go to the same school? I’m Emma. It’s nice to meet you.”

I clumsily extend my hand, regretting the movement as soon as my body
makes it. Who shakes hands? It’s so formal. He senses my reluctance, and he
responds by relaxing his own stance. He grips my hand firmly and gives it a
shake. His hand is rough and warm and exactly as I was imagining it seconds
earlier. Before I can swallow the knot in my throat, Jake releases my hand and
turns to leave.

“Well, I better let you guys get back to work. I wanted to drop off
the car keys. I’ll see you later, Aunt B.” He stops at the door and turns back
slightly, his eyes meeting mine once more. He bows his head and smirks. “It was
nice meeting you.”

And before I know it, he is out the door. I stare off into the empty
space, considering what just transpired and trying to understand why I am
unsettled to the core.

I remember hearing school gossip about him, but I never before made
the connection to Betsy. Jake Addler was known as a bit of a problem child—the
usual mix of drugs and alcohol. Not necessarily a troublemaker in the sense of
picking school fights and failing out, but rather he sat in the back of the class,
stoned and half asleep. He was handsome and brooding, and all the girls ate it
up. I never did understand that tired cliché, but seeing him now, he has a
definite charm. Though I must admit, he doesn’t look like much of a derelict.
He graduated last year, and I haven’t seen or heard much about him since. When
his parents died, it was a small-town headliner, but he wasn’t mentioned in any
of the news articles I read.

I continue thoughtfully staring at the spot he occupied until Betsy
breaks through.

“Emma!”

“What?”

“What?” She peers at me knowingly and gives me the same smirk Jake
left me with. It must run in the family.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” And after rolling back my
shoulders, I turn on my heels and head to the side to set up chairs.

***

During dinner later that night, I casually mention Betsy’s mystery
nephew in an attempt to dig up more details from my always-in-the-know mother.
I think I’m being subtle, but she smells one sniff of boy talk and runs with
it. Over the next hour, she happily fills me in on all of the town gossip about
the accident—the good dirt that you can’t read in the newspaper—like
we are regular chatty
Cathies
. I fish out the
following:

1. Jake’s parents were both killed instantly in an accident a little
over a year ago, when their car went off the road.

2. They were divorced at the time of the accident (but driving in the
same car together? Scandal!).

3. Much like my own self-centered father (her words, not mine), Jake’s
father also cheated on his beautiful sweetheart of a mother (again, her words).

4. Jake, while not in the accident himself, was found on the scene at
the time. Rumors are he was found mute, covered in blood, clutching his
mother’s dead body.

5. When the paramedics tried to pry him off so they could get her into
the ambulance, he freaked out and ran away from the scene.

“Wait! He ran away? Like literally ran away?” I interrupt her.

She raises her eyebrows conspiratorially. “Well, that’s what they
say.” She is eating this up. “The police let him go because the deaths were
pretty obviously accidental, but it took days before they could track him down
and get their questions answered for their official report.”

She goes on to tell me that Betsy and her husband, Dan, took Jake in
to raise alongside their daughter, Samantha.

“Pretty blond girl. Plays sports. I
think she might be a year younger than you. Do you know her? If she plays
sports, Genna probably does.” My mom easily recognizes that Genna is the more
social one in our odd pairing.

I have heard Betsy mention Sam before, but we have yet to work
together. I try to picture her from interactions at school or with Genna, but
after failing, make a mental note to fish more the next day.

I end the conversation quite satisfied. Mom is acting happier tonight
than I have seen her in months, and I am grateful that we were able to spend an
evening together, the two of us, talking about boys in a traditional mother-daughter
way. No tears, no tension, no drama and yelling. All my tough love and
self-imposed distancing has been hard on the both of us, and coming together
again tonight makes my heart cramp up. We gather our dirty plates, and I help
her carry them into the kitchen before we load up the dishwasher side by side.

With the last glass and fork loaded, I switch on the machine to start
the cycle as Mom grabs a sponge to wipe down the now-empty sink. Leaning
against the corner, I watch her. Satisfying my curiosity about Jake tonight is
icing on the cake; however, my bubble of contentment while looking up at Mom’s
smiling face as she cleans deflates as I question why I am curious about Jake
at all.

Sure, I’ve been attracted to guys before. I’ve even shared a few
sloppy kisses throughout my middle and high school career. But none of that
ever amounted to anything more than a fleeting moment or two. Yet, even though
I don’t want to admit it, Jake has been tickling the back of my mind all day.
The way my heart instantly reacted when I saw him. The way he examined me,
smirked at me. So what gives? Why him? Why now? And why am I still, hours
later, unsettled and nervous?

Observing my mother these past months, and seeing how much she has
gone through with Dad, scares me. I never want to end up like that. I never
want to sacrifice my life for a guy. So is Jake eliciting this reaction in me
simply because he is the first new boy I have met since my eyes have been
opened so wide by my parents’ situation? My heart is pumping a warning and
reminding me to be wary and strong. That must be all it is.

Satisfied with that answer, I hope I can now put it—him—behind
me. I decide to head for my room. There is a chapter and a dozen problem sets I
should to get through before Calculus tomorrow, and I’d better start reading.
Before I go, I loop my arms around my mom’s shoulders and hug her gently from
behind, trying to push love and strength into her with my touch.

“Homework time. Thanks for dinner. I love you, Mom”

She pats my hands gently in return, the moisture from her cleaning
dampening my skin. “Love you too, sweetie.”

Her voice sounds weak again, and the hope I had for her progress lessens.
I give her one final tight squeeze before forcing myself to walk away lest she
starts crying again.

***

The next day during our morning drive to school, I test fate again.
Quite out of character, but unable to help myself, I ask Genna if someone named
Samantha Addler is on any of her teams. She recognizes the name as soon as I
say it.

“Yeah, but call her Sam. She goes crazy when people call her Samantha.
She’s pretty popular. I am surprised you don’t know her. She’s a sophomore,
though, so maybe not. She is a middle-of-the-road player. Coach thought she had
a lot of potential, but over the past year, she’s fallen from top ranks. From
my experience, she can actually be quite the bitch.” She shrugs. As soon as I
think I’m in the clear, she turns her head, curiosity plastered on her face. “Why
do you ask?”