Who Needs Magic? (29 page)

“Are you sure, honey?” Dad says. “You’ll miss the ships.”

“Positive. I’ll be over where the tables are. I’ll save you guys seats.” I hurry down the other path before Dad can come up with a reason to stop me. After I get my ice cream, I sit down at one of the tables closest to the sea, right where the concrete stops at the sand. I put my feet up on a free chair. Dad and I have come out here a few times this summer, but it’s always been during the day, when the place is clogged with flip-floppers dragging surfboards and dripping with seaweed. It’s better now, when the swimmers and sunbathers are packing up to go home.

They were out of mint chocolate chip, so I ordered a mocha chip, which isn’t awful, but it’s not a cheery flavor. It’s dark and bitter, something you choose after you’ve gotten too mature and sophisticated for mint chocolate chip and ice cream is more about style and sophistication than fun or frivolity. It’s appropriate for today, symbolic of my belated wising up, like me choosing to wear plain black boots. Not even a zipper, because, of course, I don’t need to carry a chopstick anymore.

The sea is calm, sending only a few lazy waves to shore every once in a while. They roll up onto the sand slowly, way too tired to make an effort. The sky is even pinker now, Ariella pink. I’d rather be reminded of Flynn.

“Pretty view.”

I look up as Gina takes a seat across from me. She smiles and licks the top of a double-scoop waffle cone. “Butter pecan and chocolate chunk,” Gina says, nodding at her cone. “Neither of which are on my diet.” She puts her feet up on the other empty chair and leans back, so that we’re parallel, both staring out at the water. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”

“I guess,” I say. I glance back toward the avenue of iced desserts. “Where are Theo and Dad?”

“They’re still looking at the exhibit. I thought I’d give them some guy time together.”

“You sure that’s a good idea? It may lead to a battle on the high seas. A bloody one.”

Gina laughs. “Believe it or not, Theo likes your dad.”

“Oh! So
that’s
why he was trying to give Dad permanent spinal damage on the drive here.”

“Theo’s just a little … guarded. He doesn’t like showing his feelings because he’s afraid of being hurt. Perhaps you’ve had some experience with that yourself.”

“Hmm.”

“Luckily, as we get older, we learn that it’s good to let your guard down sometimes. Especially with the people you care about and who care about you.”

“You sound like Dr. Hank. You could write your own book.”

Gina smiles and takes another bite of ice cream. “It’s no secret I’m a fan of your dad’s, both personally and professionally. And I admit I’m a bit addicted to the self-help
genre. But, you know, sometimes you
need
help. It’s hard to figure it all out on your own.”

“Millions of readers would agree.” I pop the last bite of my cone in my mouth. Gina finishes off her butter pecan and starts in on the chocolate chunk. “Your dad told me what happened. I’m sorry about your fight with Flynn.”

“Wow, I keep it in all summer, and he can’t even hold off on spilling all my private information for one day.”

“Oh, it goes back further than that. Ever since we started dating, you’re all he talks about, Delaney. ‘Should I ask her how things are going with Flynn or should I wait until she brings it up?’ ‘Should I try to spend more time with her or should I respect her independence?’ ‘I don’t want her to think I’m invading her privacy.’ ‘I don’t want her to resent me.’ ‘I don’t want her to think I’m uncool.’ ”

“I’m sorry, but that last one is a hopeless pipe dream.”

Gina smiles. “I told him that.” She takes a bite of her waffle cone and chews. “I also told him that he should be sharing all these concerns about your relationship with
you
. Like maybe you should do with Flynn.”

“Too late now.”

“Is it?”

“Um … yes. Didn’t Dad tell you the part where Flynn says it’s over?”

“He didn’t. Your dad said Flynn told you he wanted to take some time and think about things. Did Flynn actually say ‘It’s over’?”

“No, but—”

“Delaney, listen to me.” Gina swings her feet off the chair and turns around to face me. “You and your dad are proof that it’s never too late to repair something, especially something that’s only fractured, not broken.”

“Wow, you
should
write a book, because you have the platitudes down amazingly well.”

“Thank you. And will you at least think about what I’ve said? And don’t say ‘Whatever,’ because I get enough of that from Theo. Parents have tolerance for only so many ‘whatevers’ before they crack, and I still have to get through Theo’s teen years.”

I say, “Okay,” even though I’m not sure I mean it. I know it’s too late, no matter what Gina thinks.

“And I also want you to call me or text me or come by the bookstore any time you want to talk about anything. I’ve had my heart broken quite a few times, so I can speak from experience. And I’m much better at keeping a secret than your dad is.”

My eyes meet hers, for only a second, but I can see the sincerity and caring in them. They’re the eyes of a mom, even if it’s not
my
mom. Ugh, I’m sensing tears again. How is that possible, when I’m totally dehydrated from my earlier crying jag? Gina is still looking my way with her concerned-mom gaze. “Will you do that, Delaney?”

This is something I think I can say okay to and mean it, but what I actually say is:

“Whatever.”

Gina laughs, and I laugh, and it’s way better than almost crying.

Shouldn’t I be exhausted? Unable to keep my eyes open? Instead, I can’t keep them closed. The lids pop back up so my gaze falls, again, on the boxes, eerily lit by a beam of moonlight coming through my bedroom window.

I roll over to my other side and face the door, but now my eyes won’t close at all.

Fine. I’ll unpack them.

In the light of my Snow White lamp, I tear the tape off the top box and open it. Inside is a stack of my skirts, neatly folded in half. I don’t remember packing these, but maybe I didn’t. Posh and her mom helped me and they did most of it. I was in a daze, moving on automatic. My eyes begin to glaze over at the memory, and I can’t let that happen or I won’t get the boxes unpacked—and I
have
to. It feels urgent now.

Underneath the skirts are tops and rolled-up leggings. I open my closet and my dresser drawers and put everything away. One box down. I keep going, tearing through the tape, breaking down the empty boxes as I go. This is good. I’m almost done. I feel much better.

I set aside one box for the things that don’t fit. I don’t mean they don’t fit me. I mean they don’t belong in this world: a down vest, heavy wool ribbed tights, winter gloves. I’m not sure if I should give them away, take them
to Treasures or keep them in case I go back for a visit in winter. I’ll decide later.

I open the final box. It’s all boots. Five pairs. My Moonlight boots with the streaks of silver. The ones with the snaps up each side. Two pairs of ankle boots. The green suede boots with the cork heels. I line them up neatly in my closet next to the ones I brought with me.

Done. I can sleep now.

So why am I even more awake than when I started?

It’s the boots, probably. I’ll sketch for a while and that’ll help me chill out.

I grab my sketchbook off the bookshelf and climb back into bed. I open to a blank page and … do nothing.

Because this isn’t it. This isn’t the thing I need to do now. What I need to do now is finish what I started. I’m not done yet.

The sky is all stars. Distant strings of twinkling lights blinking out of the blackness. My Moonlight boots crunch through the grass and then clack across the concrete slabs of the driveway. I’ve never been inside the garage, because Dad parks the car out front and because there was never any reason to go in. Until now.

The motion-sensor light above the garage door clicks on, casting creepy shadows on the pavement. The windows in the garage door are like eyes, black and glinting, and when I reach for the door handle, they seem to flash in menacing anticipation. My heart speeds up and my
shoulders tense, as if I’ve walked into the middle of a horror movie. I expect a violin-heavy soundtrack to screech in any second.

This is stupid. It’s just a garage. I grab the handle with both hands and haul it up. As the door rises, shadows unfold inside, like hard-cornered geometric shapes painted along the floor in shades of gray. I quickly flick the light switch on.

There’s no hockey-masked killer crouching in the corner about to pounce. No rotting zombie corpse with its teeth bared, about to hurl itself at me. No ghosts drifting along the ceiling. No slime dripping from the walls.

What
is
there seems a lot scarier, though.

I postpone going in and gaze around at anything but the boxes. Yet practically everything in the garage is boxes. There are folded-up moving boxes stacked up in the back, plastic tubs labeled “Taxes” and “Christmas Decorations” and “Computer Cables,” and cartons of Dad’s books, each with a photocopy of the book cover taped on the side. The Dr. Hank clones stare at me with their can-do expressions, nagging at me to get going, to do what I came in here to do. “I’m going to, don’t worry,” I tell the tiny two-dimensional faces.

I pick up a folding beach chair that’s leaning against the wall, under the light switch. I unfold it, revealing its cheerful orange-and-yellow-striped lattice seat, totally out of place in this shadowy garage. The frame clacks down on the concrete and the sound focuses me. I turn the chair
so my back is facing the Dr. Hanks and sit down. Like the boxes in my room, the ones out here are taped and neatly labeled in Posh’s mom’s handwriting:
Books. Clothes. Personal Items
. I reach out my hands to the top box—
Misc.
, which seems safe—but I don’t open it. Instead, I let my palms rest on top of the cardboard, as if I can absorb whatever there is of Mom inside them. I know there’s nothing. It’s been almost a year since she died and it’s only inanimate objects and it wasn’t like Mom even packed them. All I feel is that hold-your-breath anxiety that comes before you’re about to get a flu shot or rip off the Band-Aid: pain is coming and you want it over with, at the same time as you don’t want it to come at all.

I force myself to rip the Band-Aid off. I tear back the tape, pull apart the flaps, press them down to the side of the box and look in. I wait for the sting, but it doesn’t come.

There’s no pain. I lift the items out and set them on the floor. Books we both read, things we bought together, a glass jar of coins we both added to. I still don’t feel anything. Maybe my emotional explosion with Dad earlier today was like an inoculation and gave me temporary immunity. I continue to unpack. A bunch of pens rubber-banded together, some lined notepads, a roll of stamps. More books. A couple of ceramic vases, a set of coasters, a glass paperweight with dried flowers inside it. At the bottom of the box, swaddled in bubble wrap, is a small globe lamp, made of clear red glass, with a tiny teardrop bulb
inside. We bought it at the last yard sale we went to, but we hadn’t figured out a good place to plug it in. It sat on top of a cluttered shelf in the living room, waiting.

It’s this, a stupid lamp, that does it—triggers a trip to the past and brings Mom back. But I’m on the outside looking in. I can see us on the couch, doing something boring like watching TV. I want to warm myself in the memory, but I can’t help noticing how vulnerable we look, just the two of us, alone against the world. The little lamp sits nearby, and it seems like it’s glowing, without electricity. Glowing like a warning light: Watch out! Danger ahead!

Now
the pain comes. The anesthesia has definitely worn off. It’s a deep, aching, throbbing pain, like a toothache times ten thousand. I turn my gaze away from the lamp, hoping this will clear the vision, and the pain with it, and look for something—anything—to take my attention.

My eyes land on a sliver of red poking out from behind a stack of Dr. Hank boxes at the far end of the garage, way at the back where the light dips again into shadow. I stand up and the beach chair scrapes against the concrete, loud and echoey. There’s more scraping and clunking as I push aside plastic bins, clearing a path and sending tiny particles of dust into the air, where they sparkle in the light from the overhead bulb.