The Survival Kit (13 page)

Read The Survival Kit Online

Authors: Donna Freitas

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Death & Dying, #Love & Romance

BOOK: The Survival Kit
13.68Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“Okay. Good. Because you could tell me.”
“Really, it’s okay. I was just thinking about your TBD playlist and what you might want to put on it, or maybe what I’d put on it if my dad had left me something similar.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised by this sweet, vulnerable response. “Any suggestions?” I asked, almost wishing he would give me a song to start things off.
“I think I’ll leave that to you. You’ll figure it out. You did manage to plant peonies and that was well out of your skill set.”
That comment lightened up the mood and I nudged his arm. “Hey, I did great with the garden.”
“Yeah, with my help.”
“So did your dad ever give you anything? You know, for afterward?” I asked.
Will’s hands tightened around the bottom of the steering wheel. “Hockey,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“My father brought me up on hockey—he played when he was my age, too. I’m grateful, but sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming, like you said before. For me, it’s the pressure I feel because this is his legacy. Me playing hockey, I mean. Don’t get me wrong—I love the game. It’s always been my favorite thing”—in the glow of the streetlight, I saw the blue of Will’s eyes deepen in that familiar way—“but sometimes hockey feels like this neverending thing I’ll always owe my dad. You’re lucky your mom’s iPod is so tangible. So concrete.”
“I guess so,” I said, and thought about how the iPod was just one piece of a larger puzzle. The journey outlined by my Survival Kit was anything but tangible, and there was still so much left unanswered. Sometimes I worried I wouldn’t get things right or understand what the tasks truly meant. “Your dad was right to give you hockey.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I watch you play, I can tell that you love being out there.”
“Not always,” he said.
“Well, every time I’ve seen you.”
“I hope you’ll share the iPod with me sometime,” Will said. “You said it was easier to listen with someone else. I’m here if you ever want to.”
“I know,” I said, and looked at the clock. It was after midnight and we’d been sitting in front of my house for almost two hours. Maybe we’d revealed enough secrets for one night. “Soon. Maybe after the holidays are over. On that note, it’s probably time I go.” I opened the door and cold air sliced across us. “Thanks for telling me something about you and your father.”
“Rose,” Will said, and stopped me from getting out by placing a hand on my arm. His palm was warm against my skin. “I’m having fun. This”—he stopped, nodding at me—“this is fun, what we’re doing.”
The wintry air was rushing inside, but before I jumped down to the street I looked back into his blue eyes. “I know. For me, too,” I said.
Will’s hand remained a moment longer and when he let go I pushed the door shut. As I walked up to the house, aware of each step that took us farther and farther apart, I felt his fingers pressed against my skin as if they were still there.
BLUE CHRISTMAS
I woke to snow falling outside and Christmas music blaring through the house. I recognized “The Wassail Song,” one of Mom’s favorite carols, and knew it was on the holiday playlist from her iPod. I hurried out of bed and grabbed the cardigan hanging over the back of my desk chair, wrapping it around me. The playlist jumped to “The Holly and the Ivy” by the time I reached the kitchen. Memories of my mother singing as she made holiday cookies flooded my mind so powerfully that I almost believed I’d find her there. But Jim’s voice broke the spell. He must’ve arrived late last night after finishing his last exam. “You took my iPod,” I yelled angrily over the music.
Jim looked up from spreading jam on toast, stopping midlyric. “Hey, Rosey.”
“Turn. It. Off!” I screamed. Of all the music I found difficult to hear, Christmas carols were the worst.
But Jim only lowered the sound. “Calm down,” he said, seeming startled by my anger. “When I saw Mom’s favorites on here I couldn’t resist.”
“I don’t want to listen,” I snapped, and stomped over to the iPod dock and hit
stop
. Silence fell over us.
“It was sitting here on the counter,” Jim backpedaled. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
I bit my lip, unable to speak, and a sob rose in my throat. Just a few bars of these familiar songs and I wanted to weep.
“Aw, Rosey. Are you okay? You’re not, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Are you thinking about Mom?”
I nodded.
“Me, too. I think about her all the time.” His voice caught and he sighed. “You want a hug?”
I nodded again and Jim wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head. Tears rolled down my face. If I could go back to the day of Mom’s funeral, when the whole future lay out ahead like one big nightmare, I would have prepared myself to cry at least once a day going forward, no matter how hard I tried not to. Though maybe it meant that I loved Mom more than words could express. The one thing tears were really good for was when we ran out of words.
My sobs turned to sniffles.
“Rosey?” Jim handed me a napkin to blow my nose. I saw that his eyes were red from crying, too. “Sometimes I can’t believe Mom isn’t going to suddenly walk in the kitchen. I keep expecting her to, you know?”
“I do,” I said. “I’m sorry I lost it.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Why wouldn’t we be losing it? It’s our first Christmas without her.”
“I know. It’s crazy she’s not here. It’s like, impossible or something.”
Jim pulled two slices of bread from the bag and put them in the toaster. “Sometimes I feel like Christmas won’t happen if she isn’t here to make it happen, which means we need to do it ourselves. I thought that waking you up to Christmas carols might be festive.”
“This sounds stupid, but I hear a song, any song, and I want to sob,” I confessed. “Obviously,” I added.
Jim leaned over the toaster, watching the coils turn red. “When ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ came on before you got up, I cried hard.”
“You did?”
“Yes.” The toast popped up and Jim caught the two pieces and placed them on a plate for me. He pushed the jar of jam closer and handed me a knife. “Music sometimes … I don’t know. This may sound strange but it almost—”
“—brings Mom back to life,” I finished.
“Yes.”
“I know just what you mean.” Talking to my brother about Mom made me feel less alone, especially since my father barely mentioned her. “Where’s Dad and Grandma anyway?”
“They went out a while ago. Grandma dragged him Christmas shopping at the mall. She said he
had
to go.”
“God, I haven’t even thought about presents this year. I mean, the thought of not buying Mom a gift about kills me,” I said. For a while, the only sounds were from Jim and me eating.
Then Jim spoke. “I think we should rise to the occasion for the holiday songs.”
“I’m so tired of feeling sad, though.”
“You’ll get used to it. We have to start somewhere and what’s Christmas without music?”
“But—”
“Rosey, come on. It would mean a lot to me.”
I sighed. “Can I reserve the right to skip something if I think I can’t handle it?”
“That’s fair,” Jim said.
“Okay, I guess.”
Jim scrolled his finger around on the iPod. “Here’s a good one.” He looked at me for permission.
I nodded, and Jim pressed
play
.
The first few bars of Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” floated out of the speakers, and immediately, a lump formed in my throat. But this time Jim reached over and squeezed my hand and held it until the song was over. Next was “Do You Hear What I Hear?” followed by “We Need a Little Christmas.” After a while, I began to move around the kitchen, taking out mixing bowls from the cabinet along with flour, baking soda, sugar, and red and green sprinkles for cookies. I gave Jim various tasks, and together we baked while the holiday playlist
scrolled from one song to another and snow fell prettily outside. Little by little, our mood became more festive. Soon there were dirty bowls and cooling racks stacked with cookies covering the counters. It was easy to tell which ones Jim made because they were oddly shaped. By the time Grandma and Dad returned from the mall my brother and I were dancing around and singing at the top of our lungs, our mouths half-full of cookie so that crumbs were flying everywhere. They didn’t say a word or tell us to turn the music down or even to clean things up. They just walked through the kitchen and let us carry on.
 
 
Later on I came upon Grandma Madison with her nose pressed against a window by the front door. “There’s the Doniger boy, out there shoveling snow.”
Part of Will’s landscaping business included plowing driveways and shoveling walks. As soon as I saw the snow this morning I knew he’d be at the house today. But I was surprised Grandma recognized him.
“You know Will? Doniger,” I added quickly.
“Yes I do and so do you, I see. Your father and brother are out there with him in case you’re interested.” I walked over to stand beside her and we watched the three of them working their way up the front walk through the snow. “You’d better be careful,” she added after a while.
I sensed her eyes on me. “Careful?”
“Your eyes give you away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Rose, if you don’t already know, then you’d better do some soul-searching and figure it out.”
“Okay,” I said, to get her off my back.
“You know his father died of cancer—”
“Two years ago this January,” I finished. “You know about Mr. Doniger, too?”
“Your mother told me when he passed away. When she first got her news about the cancer, the two of them discussed treatments and remission and”—she paused, her tone softening—“hospice. I think she wanted to be prepared.”
“Oh” was all I managed to respond.
“She appreciated having someone to talk to about it.” Grandma’s breath fogged up a round burst against the glass as she spoke and she sounded sad. “It’s written all over that boy’s face.”
“What is, Grandma?”
“That he’s lost his father. Such a shame. You can always tell.”
I looked at her. “You can?”
“Yes.” Grandma stared at me like she could see right through to my deepest insides. Her eyes shone like glass, and for an instant I thought I saw loss in them. “It’s all over yours, too,” she said, and walked away, leaving me alone by the window to ponder whether her observation was true.
ARE WE FRIENDS OR LOVERS
The days before Christmas break passed quickly. Everyone was festive, exchanging Secret Santa gifts and singing holiday songs off-key in the halls. The happier people became the more I noticed my own sadness. Krupa and I didn’t even decorate the outside of our locker with wrapping paper and bows. Ours looked lonely next to the others covered in sparkly tinsel and cheesy golden garlands up and down the doors.
“Do you need a ride today?” Krupa asked me. “I just got the car back from the shop so I promise you’ll actually get home.”
I mustered a smile. “Sure, I’d love one. Thanks.”
“Then I’ll see you in”—Krupa checked the time—“exactly fifty-three minutes, when they set us free for almost two entire weeks!”
“Yeah. Can’t wait,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ll be right here, ready to go.”
She looked at me with sympathy. “Soon you’ll be out of here and everything will seem better. Have fun during your free period.”
Krupa took off, and the halls began to empty. The last straggler disappeared and I was alone, or thought I was, until I felt someone come up behind me.
“Hi, Rose.”
I leaned my forehead against the cold metal of the locker door. “Hi, Chris.”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, you know, Merry Christmas and all that,” I said, and forced myself to turn and face him. There he was, tall and blond and gorgeous as ever. I was surprised to see he wasn’t wearing his football jacket, and almost equally surprised to realize that it didn’t bother me anymore.
He looked nervous. “I’m sure it must be hard, this time of year.”
“Yes, it is. I bet you’re excited, though,” I said. “You love Christmas.”
Chris took a step toward me. Close enough that I could see the tiny curved line that always formed on his left cheek when he was about to smile, and each individual eyelash fluttering as he blinked, so blond they matched the color of his skin. “I do. And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” I asked, worried where this was going.
“Nothing is the same without you, Rose,” he began, and that curved line on his cheek deepened as his lips shifted into a smile.
My eyes widened. It was about to happen: Chris was going to tell me he wanted me back, just like I’d imagined so many times back in October when I’d hoped for this outcome so desperately. “No?”
He shook his head. He took another step closer. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I said automatically. After two years of dating I was used to saying this to him if he said it to me. If Chris had said “I love you,” I probably would have returned the same sentiment without thinking twice. This was exactly the problem—I hadn’t thought before I’d spoken. If I were smart, I would have remained silent.
“You do miss me,” he said, seemingly relieved.
This time I was careful not to say anything further. I looked up into his eyes, trying to read them. His nervousness was gone, replaced by a growing confidence, and he leaned his right hand casually against the locker next to mine. “Remember Christmas your sophomore year, when I took you to Gianni’s for that really nice dinner?”
I nodded. Of course I remembered. That was the night Chris and I had sex for the first time. I couldn’t figure out where he was headed, but something told me to step to the side so that the wall of lockers was no longer at my back.
“Do you remember the ride there?”
The ride … Come on, Rose, think.
“How you loved what I’d done.” He laughed and sounded happy. “You told me how sweet it was and how it made you
smile and so we left it there for weeks.” He reached into his bag and began to dig around. “Everything was so good between us back then.” His hand reemerged and in his palm I saw green leaves and a flash of white berry.
That holiday season Chris had attached mistletoe to the roof of his SUV over the passenger seat so every time we stopped at a light he had a reason to kiss me.
He held it above my head.
Oh god, this was Chris trying to be romantic and all I could think about was Will Doniger, how I hoped he didn’t come upon this scene and get the wrong idea, and how, if I was going to be honest, if I’d been standing under the mistletoe with Will my feelings about the situation would be entirely different. This thought sent color rushing to my cheeks—and apparently gave Chris the wrong idea.
“I knew you’d be happy,” he said, tilting his head to the side.
“Chris, no,” I said, putting my hands up and stepping away. His left arm was still outstretched, the mistletoe hanging from his fingers, leaving a me-size space below. I began to back down the hall, first one step, then another and another. “This was sweet of you, but I’m just not … I can’t … I’m sorry.”
His eyes turned cold and the mistletoe fell from his hand to the floor with a
shhhh
. “Is this about Doniger?”
I halted, surprised, and closed my eyes.
“It is, isn’t it? I knew it.”
I didn’t say a word, dreading what came next.
“I heard about this thing you have going on with him. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That someone wouldn’t tell me?” Chris’s voice cracked and I opened my eyes again. His feet were planted slightly apart, his shoulders back, arms at his sides and hands balled into fists, huge and imposing. “Are you dating him?”
I breathed deep, searched for the right words to handle this. “No, I’m not dating Will Doniger, or anyone else for that matter.”
“You’re sure?”
“We’re just friends.” This was as close an approximation of my relationship with Will as I could offer at the moment. “Chris?” I asked nervously.
“What?” he snapped.
“Why should it matter who I’ve been hanging out with? You and I broke up.”
Something passed over his face, maybe regret, but it was there only a moment and was gone. “But I still love you, Rose,” he said, and looked away. “Don’t you still love me?” he asked, these words reverberating off the lockers on either side of the empty hall. A long silence followed this question, and when I was about to respond, Chris put up a hand, stopping me. “Wait, don’t answer right now. Just think about it, will you at least do that much?”
“Okay,” I whispered, because I didn’t want to hurt him any more than I already had. He grabbed his bag off the ground and stalked off. All I saw was his back before he rounded the corner. Feeling dejected, I gathered my things, put on my coat and
scarf, and went outside into the wintry air, snowflakes floating around me from the gray clouds above. At least out here there was peace and quiet. I wanted to get away from the mess Chris and I had just made, and from the holiday spirit of people excited about break, so I started to walk. When I reached the edge of the school grounds I headed left and kept on going until I’d walked so far I was already halfway home. I wouldn’t need that ride from Krupa after all.

Other books

Sacrifice of Love by Quinn Loftis
The Prodigal Daughter by Allison Lane
Time on the Wire by Jay Giles
When Dead in Greece by L.T. Ryan
Interlude in Pearl by Emily Ryan-Davis
Rebound by Noelle August