The Art of Losing Yourself (30 page)

G
RACIE

Elias and I lay on the hood of my car, our backs resting against the windshield, our hands folded behind our heads, gazing up at the swollen sky. In the spaces between our words, all that could be heard was the soft whisper of the ocean and the faint hum of electricity that kept the sign bright. It lit up the parking lot and cast a pinkish-blue glow on the underbelly of blackish, purple clouds. It was a surreal moment. An “I can’t believe I’m here with this boy on Christmas Eve” moment, with our breath escaping into the air like puffs of smoke. It was cold—enough that Elias had to grab a coat from the backseat of his mom’s car.

“Do you think it will snow?” I asked.

“There’s somebody we could ask.”

I’d rather not defer to Carmen. No offense to her or anything, but I kind of wanted to stay out here with Elias forever.

He propped himself up onto his elbows. “I got you something.”

“What?”

“A present.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Of course I did. It’s Christmas.” He hopped off the car.

I sat up, cross-legged, while Elias opened the back door of the Honda Accord and pulled out a wrapped box that reminded me of the Twenty Questions game Mom and I used to play whenever we took a road trip.
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
For some reason, that was always the first question we asked. The gift Elias held in his hands was definitely bigger than a breadbox, and when he set it in front of me, it rattled like it was made of metal.

I scooted off the hood. “I got you something too.”

“You did?”

I popped my trunk and removed the gift that had caused me so much anxiety earlier today. Now, the weight of it in my hands made me giddy. I handed it over and climbed back onto the car. My gift to him sat in his lap—
neatly covered in shiny blue paper with silver snowmen. His gift to me sat in mine, poorly wrapped in Star Wars birthday paper.

“It was all I could find,” he said.

I laughed. “Who goes first?”

“We go at the same time.”

“What?”

“It’s more fun that way. Trust me.” He positioned his hands over the wrapping paper, poised to tear. “Ready…”

I did the same.

“Set…Go!”

The tearing of paper drowned out the ocean waves and the humming sign. I peeled Darth Vader’s head away and found a cardboard box beneath, the kind a person gets in the mail from Amazon. I lifted the lid and saw a six-pack of RC Cola, a tin of moon pies, and a Magic Eight Ball. My grin became uncontainable and so had Elias’s, because he was holding up his new Erector set.

We both started laughing.

“You can defer the snow question to your new toy.”

I picked up the Magic Eight Ball. “Will it snow tonight?”

Elias peeked over my shoulder, his body so close my skin tingled.

I shook, flipped.

It is decidedly so
.

“This,” I said, holding up the ball, “is officially the best Christmas present ever.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

I broke off an RC Cola for him and an RC Cola for me. We cracked open our drinks and clinked our cans together. “To the Bay Breeze General Store.”

“And to snow on Christmas Eve,” he added.

We took a drink and dug into the tin of moon pies.

Elias took a bite of his. Chewed and swallowed. “This place is pretty sweet.”

“I would agree.”

“Thanks for inviting us.”

“Of course.” I took a bite of my treat, the marshmallowy goodness enough to draw out a groan. Never in a million years would I have guessed that the boy
I met that first night on the dock would be here now—on Christmas Eve, at the motel I loved.

“Your mom seems to be doing well.”

I rolled my eyes—not at his words, but at my mother’s embarrassing behavior.

“You don’t think so?”

“I think she’s making a fool out of herself.”

“With Henry?”

“You noticed.”

“Maybe a little.”

I finished off my moon pie and stuffed the wrapper into the tin container. “She’s always carried a torch for him. I think she went to rehab that first time in an attempt to get him back. Unfortunately, I foiled her plans.”

“What do you mean?”

I reached for the container. “I think we should have more moon pies.”

Elias moved it out of reach. “No way.”

“But it’s Christmas. You’re allowed to eat as many moon pies as you want on Christmas.”

“You can’t toss a comment like that out, then change the subject.”

I waved my hand. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Gracie.”

“Fine. When Carmen was in seventh grade, she broke her collarbone in a car accident. Our mother was driving—drunk. I guess it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, because Henry took Carmen and left. My mom checked into rehab, cleaned herself up, then rebounded with some military guy—AKA, my father—and whoops, hello me. Getting pregnant with another man’s child pretty much put the kibosh on her Henry plans. And since she couldn’t have him, there was no reason for her to remain sober.”

Elias frowned.

“Aren’t you glad you pushed?”

He spun his Coke can in a slow circle over his knee, his green-brown eyes shining with an intensity that made my heartbeat quicken. “We all got enough ugly in our stories, Gracie. No need to take on your mom’s.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning her not remaining sober has nothing to do with you. That’s her deal.” Elias set the tin container in my lap and scooted closer. My heart did a quick
thud-thud
. I never realized until tonight how much security I took in my bangs. He rested his elbow on his raised knee and searched for something in my eyes. Permission, maybe? I had no idea. I only knew that the
thud-thud
of my heart had turned into a
flutter-flutter
and, despite the cold, my body was hot. Elias’s attention dropped to my lips.

I sat statue still.

He leaned closer.

The door to the front office opened.

And the moment burst like a soap bubble.

Elias and I moved apart. Rayanna stepped outside with Ingrid, who cried hysterically. “I want my Gerald. I don’t understand where he is. I don’t understand why they’re going to knock down my baby.”

Carmen followed close behind, trying to comfort Ingrid by patting her on the shoulder. Except Ingrid looked at her like she was a stranger. Like she didn’t know Carmen at all.

“It’s okay, Miss Ingrid,” Rayanna said. “It’s okay. We’re gonna get inside this car and work on settling ourselves down, all right?” Rayanna helped Ingrid into the backseat.

“Please bring me Gerald.”

Elias and I looked at one another, our pupils too big for the night.

“Who’s Gerald?” he asked.

“He was Ingrid’s husband. He died four years ago.” My attention moved to Carmen. She stood with her hand cupped over her mouth. And the strangest feeling wiggled its way inside my heart. It was a feeling I’d never felt before—compassion for my sister.

C
ARMEN

Ben’s mother washed silverware in a sink of soapy water behind me. I wished she wouldn’t. I wanted her to go away. Everyone else had, either home or to their respective motel rooms. In the apartment beside us, Liz attempted to put her children to bed. The whole ordeal sounded a lot like a calf-roping event at the rodeo. Her exasperated reprimands, muffled by the walls, wrapped around a heart that was already too raw.

The front door opened and shut. It was Ben, bringing up the rest of the pies. I opened up a gallon-sized freezer bag and placed leftover rolls inside.

“Mom,” he said softly, “why don’t you head to your room? Carmen and I can finish up.”

“I’m not going to leave this mess behind.”

I pressed my lips together and finished my roll bagging. If having more grandchildren was really so important to her, then why didn’t she go next door and offer assistance to the ones she already had?

“I’m sure Dad would love the company.” Ben paused. “Please?”

I thought,
No way
. She never left behind a mess. She never let the cleaning of that mess go unnoticed. And as far as I could tell, keeping her husband company had never been a priority. But miraculously, her scrubbing stopped. The door opened, closed, and just like that, Ben and I were alone. I zipped the freezer bag and put it inside the refrigerator. It already housed leftover ham, collard greens, stuffing, gravy.

He set a pie on the counter. “You okay?”

I shook my head. No, I wasn’t. I was far from okay. I hated that Aunt Ingrid overheard what I’d said to my dad. I hated that he broached a topic so depressing during the party. And I hated that the news of tearing this place down was Ingrid’s undoing.

Ben placed his hand on the edge of the counter.

I ripped off a piece of Saran wrap and covered the pie.

“What do you want to do with the motel, Carmen?”

I swallowed, as if doing so might loosen the knot in my throat, then Saran wrapped another pie. Tonight had been so perfect. But with a snap of a finger, it unraveled. “I just wanted this one night. One night for Aunt Ingrid.”

“And what happens after this one night?”

I wiped my hands on a towel. “What do you mean?”

Ben’s attention lingered on the couch.

I wondered if he was remembering like I had been remembering. Fixing this apartment—scrubbing from floor to ceiling, tearing up the carpet, battling layers of grime and dust—had resurrected memories from every nook and cranny. Laughing until we cried while playing late-night Monopoly games on the floor of the living room. Ben’s disastrous attempt at making chocolate-chip pancakes in the kitchen on Aunt Ingrid’s birthday. Stolen kisses in the hallway and the difficulty that came with stopping ourselves from going too far—a daily, desperate battle we had overcome together. All of them were his memories too.

“Tonight’s just a night.” He stepped closer, his blue eyes searching for the same something they searched for all those years ago, when I was too afraid to tell him what he wanted to hear. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I miss you.”

Part of me wanted to withdraw, because it wasn’t that easy. Another part of me craved his touch, the feel of his warm hand against my skin.

Ben lifted my chin, his searching eyes waiting for me to say that I missed him too.

“I miss the way we used to be,” I offered. But we were a long way from that, and I wasn’t sure it was possible to go back.

His hand fell away.

I turned to the sink, pushed the handle of the faucet to hot, squirted a blue ribbon of Dawn into the casserole dish, and watched it fill with suds. When the bubbles spilled over, Ben stepped behind me and shut the water off, standing so close that if I leaned back even an inch, his lips would be in my hair. He swept the curls off my neck, over my shoulder. “I don’t want a marriage like my parents have.”

The knot in my throat pulled tighter.

“There’s no effort. No intimacy.” Ben’s breath tickled my ear. “No passion.”

I closed my eyes, desire stirring in my belly, unearthing a whole host of sticky emotions that were best left undisturbed.

“My mom always used to say, ‘Your father and I will never get a divorce.’ That was her motto. Her safety net. She said it like Liz and I had nothing to worry about. But I realized something tonight.” He ran his hand down the length of my arm, then turned me around. “The devil is every bit as satisfied with a dead marriage as he is with divorce.”

The ache in my chest expanded.

“I don’t want to be like my father, Carmen. I want to reach you. I want to fight for us, but you have to help me, because I don’t know how anymore.”

It was a question he asked once before. After our third loss—the worst of them all, when hopelessness won and my soul died. It was a question I left unanswered then. Because I hated that he didn’t know. I hated that he had to ask. I hated even more that I didn’t know the answer myself. I looked up at Ben, this man who was laying his heart bare, talking about things we didn’t talk about, acknowledging the distance between us, and I knew I couldn’t leave this one unanswered now.

There were a million words left to say. We had a million things to work on. But maybe one step was good enough for now. I leaned toward him—the subtlest of leans. Yet that was all it took. Ben’s eyes went from searching to ravenous. His lips found mine and it was like flint against steel, igniting a latent passion I didn’t know existed anymore. A latent passion that burned like fire—red hot and hungry. Ben lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing at all. I wrapped my legs around his waist. Dug my fingers into his hair. With his lips on my neck, he carried me to the couch. And inside the motel where Ben and I began, the motel that had slowly come back to life, the motel I might still lose, we made the kind of love that honeymoons are made of.

Water crashed around me. It rose higher as I thrashed and flailed and gulped and sputtered. “Help! Somebody help!”

Ben reached for my flailing arms. “Carmen, take my hand.”

But no matter how much I grasped it, it slipped away like a slippery eel, and I’d forgotten how to swim.

The waves rose over my chin.

Cold water filled my lungs.

And my eyes fluttered open.

I inhaled a deep breath—of air, not water—and lifted my head off of Ben’s chest. I blinked away the confusion and the sleep and looked around. We were in the upstairs apartment, the one Aunt Ingrid used to call home, tangled up into a knot on the couch. No more bedtime battles through the walls. Liz’s children were long asleep. The only sound was Ben’s rhythmic breathing.

The counter light from the kitchen cast a dull glow into the living room. I looked at my husband—the dark fan of his eyelashes, his smooth brow, the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. He slept with one arm curled around his head, his palm turned up. Heat billowed deep inside of me as I thought about that hand on my body, those lips on my skin. Had that really happened? And what now? One moment of passion could not fix years of brokenness. A spoonful of sugar did not make everything better. No matter how much I wished it could.

I peered through the semi-dark at the clock on the wall: 12:45. It was already Christmas. I didn’t have to work, but I did promise Dad before he retreated to his room that we could meet at Aurora’s on Dock Street for their Christmas morning breakfast. “We need to talk,” he’d said. And I agreed. Right now, Gracie was at home, all by herself. Someone needed to be there with her.

As surreptitiously as possible, I disentangled myself from Ben. He turned over and sighed but didn’t wake. I got dressed, grabbed my purse, and walked to the door. We drove separately, so there was no reason to disturb him. Not when he was sleeping so peacefully. I stepped outside. Snowflakes fell from the clouds. So tiny they were barely bigger than specks of glitter.