I don’t know what else to say to him. We sit there and watch the little kids tottering around the pond on their skates. They’re all bundled up in parkas and hoods and scarves and mittens, like snowmen mummies, so they can barely move their arms or turn their heads. Dads and Moms stagger after them, most of them not looking any more sure-footed than the twerps. And everyone is laughing.
They are all so happy. Perfectly happy.
I remember how my dad used to take Nate and me skating here when we were little. He had this really thick sweater of navy blue wool with white snowflakes knitted in lines across it and around his arms. That sweater always made me feel safe. It was the “Daddy and Rabbit weekend sweater.” When he wore it, I knew that he was going to take me to the pond to skate or out into the woods to hike or that we were going to play Monopoly in front of the fireplace in our living room.
One day he brought Nate and me to the pond to skate, and he was wearing the sweater and these big woolly mittens with leather stitched onto the palms. He knelt in the snow at the edge of the pond, clenched those mittens between his teeth, and tied my skates for me. He patted Nate on the top of his head and watched as Nate hurtled out into the middle of the pond. Then Dad held my hand and very gingerly, very carefully, lowered me onto the ice. “Ready, Rabbit?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with that warm smile he used to save for just the two of us. He held my hand as I skated, pretty much holding me up, since I was completely unsteady on my feet. When I toppled over, he grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me up, all the way up into the air, so he could plant a kiss on my cheek, then he swung me back down onto the ice.
Nate skated in circles around us, sometimes moving so fast his legs blurred, and he came careening toward us, laughing wildly—not with meanness, but with this crazy joy for the speed and crisp air and the knowledge that my dad would scoop him up before he could crash and swing him around and roar with a laughing mock anger.
This is home. An immense sadness, but a sweet one, fills me then. What a beautiful time it was. It’s over, so over, now. But at least I can remember it. At least I had all that once. Maybe I can’t hate it anymore.
I glance at Damian. He is sitting completely still.
We sip our cocoa in silence, when suddenly Damian looks at me. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe you’re right, so I’ll do it.”
I put my cup down. “Really?” I shout, and throw my arms around him.
Then I remember who, where, what, and everything, and am beyond embarrassed.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “But thank you. This is so great.”
He chuckles softly and turns back to look at the skaters. He rests his chin on his hand on his knee, and shakes his head so slightly. Again, the space between us yawns wider. I wish I knew what filled it.
Chapter Twelve
Now that I know what I’m supposed to do, I can’t seem to get myself to stay still long enough to work. Finishing this map is something I have to do, something I want to do. It’s interesting how there’s a sort of breakdown in communication between what I know I want and actually getting my hands to do the work. All these grand ideas, and then, poof, the brain gets lazy and easily distracted.
Tibet is shaped like a crocodile head. I move the cursor up and down on the screen, letting it crawl over the Tibetan Web page. The blinds are shading my windows, keeping out the late afternoon light.
Nate liked Death. Death was in the clothes that he wore and the music he listened to. He would wrap himself in a black sweater and ask Death to ride along with him in his Honda Civic.
And out on the county road, a half mile from the turn that is shaped like a bear’s claw, where the bent oak tree stands, it seems Death leaped up from the backseat, grabbed the wheel, found the tree, and took my brother.
Tibetan children are kept busy fetching water, shepherding, and gathering yak dung.
Yak dung, huh? Well, my mom always used to say that busy hands are happy hands. Does that apply to hands picking up yak poo? And if idleness supposedly breeds wickedness, then here is what I can’t understand: Nate was busy. He had plenty of stuff to do. The evidence of that is under my bed, rolled into a poster tube, and tucked away in sketch pads. So, why was he so filled with bad thoughts, bad ideas—like driving without headlights, like stealing and vandalizing and defacing?
I will never know, will I? I’ll just never understand why Nate did what he did, why he behaved the way he did. His death will stay meaningless and stupid and pointless and a waste. I’ll never know.
Anyway, I have to get to work. The map really is nearly done. But the last piece still needs…finding. I can’t figure out what the last piece is, but there’s a hole in the map that stares up at me like some walleyed fish searching for water. That hole needs filling. I flip through my sketches and try to figure out what part of the whole remains undefined, unevinced, undrawn.
I know why I can’t concentrate. It’s because of Damian. I like him. I do. And I mean like like him. I like the guy my parents think killed my brother. What would Freud have to say about that? I kick my legs up onto my desk and clasp my hands behind my head.
Damian has this tiny white scar on the fleshy triangle of his hand, between thumb and forefinger. The scar is shaped like a crescent; he got it burning himself with the soldering gun. And I can’t stop picturing it in my head, thinking about taking his hand and touching that scar, caressing it. I can’t figure out if Nate would hate this, hate me for liking his best friend. I’m fairly sure that none of this would be okay with him if he were alive. Then again, if Nate were still alive, Damian probably never would have noticed me anyway. But I wonder if, maybe, Nate left Damian behind as another piece of himself for me to find, so I could hold on to him. Even if Nate didn’t think of me much when he was alive, I have to believe that wherever he is now, he does think of me, that he misses me. And that he knows how much I miss him. I miss him so much.
None of this stops me, however, from wondering what it would feel like if Damian liked me back. If he kissed me. His mouth is like a seashell, a droplet of water, pink and round and perfect and smooth. A warm buzz fills my stomach when I imagine touching those lips.
Then, a crash from downstairs jolts me from my ruminations. Loud. I run to my door and out into the hallway, then crane my neck trying to peer over the banister and down the stairs. My father is crouched over a pile of—stuff in the middle of the floor. The front room closet is open and a landslide of boxes continues to pour forth from it, spilling all around him. Seeing my father outside the depths of the freezer or his den is new. I’m just about to turn around and retreat to my room, when I notice his shoulders shudder and his pale, skinny neck hunch over his knees.
“Dad?” I whisper, tentative, nervous. There is no response. I creep down the stairs so softly, as if I were approaching a wild, frightened animal. In truth, I’m the one who’s frightened. “Dad?” I try again.
I come up beside him and kneel down. An old cardboard box, weathered and torn, lies on its side, and all sorts of objects have leaked from inside it: a pair of navy mittens connected by a length of yarn, a tatty softball, a Hawks baseball cap, a dirty, beaten pair of cleats, and a pom-pom of blue and gold—the Hawks colors—streamers. I turn to my father, who still crouches with his head bowed and tucked into his arms. Then I see that a baseball glove has fallen to the floor in front of his feet. Nate’s old mitt.
“Dad? Are you okay?” Now I’m getting worried. “What happened?”
He looks up as though surprised to see me there beside him and quickly wipes at his eyes and rubs a hand through his gray, thinning hair.
“Nothing,” he replies in a deadened voice. “I’m fine. I just thought I’d get rid of some of these old things. Give them to Goodwill.” He sinks back against the wall and slides fully to the floor, limp as a sack of corn. Then he looks at me, really sees me. It may be the first time since The Accident that he does so, and it feels like a knife is cutting deep into my ribs, through the tissue and bone
and muscle that might protect my heart. My eyes fill with hot tears that I try to blink back.
“I found this,” he says, picking up the glove. “And I just remembered him standing out there in his uniform, playing, and…oh…” His voice breaks and his eyes are glossy. He presses his forefingers to the corners of his eyes, as though trying to dam the tears. “He was such a good boy.” A low sound, almost a growl—but not—a sob, snarls in his chest and rises up into his mouth and escapes, dropping into the space between us and hanging there.
“I know,” I say; then I sit down beside him and reach for his hand. “I know he was.”
My father lets me hold his hand. He doesn’t squeeze mine back, but he lets me sit there with him and put my head on his shoulder, and he sees me. He sees me for the first time in such a long, long time. We sit there and cry together.
I know it’s not a breakthrough or a new beginning or the end of the bad period—the freeze-out—but it’s something. I curl my fingers around his, feeling the putty-like flesh, warm and soft, against my own. Like the warmest, safest blanket.
Dad’s head snaps up as footsteps near. He presses my hand so gently he might not have done it at all, then rises and begins to scoop all of Nate’s old things back into the box. My mother appears in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” Her voice comes out in a strangely strangled clanking.
Almost without thinking, I stand and begin to back up to the stairs. My father doesn’t look at her, nor does he answer her as he continues sweeping the clutter back into its container.
“Daniel, what are you doing?” My mother’s voice rises, taking on that tinny quality it gets when she is about to explode. I can almost smell the cordite. “What are you doing?” Her face grows red and her fists are clenched at her waist. “Put the box back in the closet, Daniel.”
My father has finished depositing everything back into the box and now has it tucked in the crook of his arm. Then quietly, he says, “Marie, it’s time. It’s time to let him go.”
“Shut up, Daniel, and put the box down. Right now!” She’s really yelling now and tears are streaming down all three of our faces, but it’s as though I’m not even in the room. She runs over to him and tries to pry the box away from my dad, and suddenly they are in a tug-of-war match, each grasping a flap of battered cardboard, yanking and heaving and my mother’s chest is heaving with sobs, and they glare at each other. Glare as though they hate each other, hate and hate and they pull and glare and pull until the box splits apart with a meek exhalation, ffrrip. All of Nate’s things arc through the air like a waterfall and fall to the floor in a clatter.
My father stands mutely, gaping; he stares around at all of the things, while my mother swoops down and grabs as much as she can hold in her arms, cradling the baseball mitt like a baby, and runs out the door. I hear the door to her sewing room bang shut. Then silence. My father raises his eyes to mine briefly then turns and shuffles past me up the stairs. His face, his skeleton—it all seems to have collapsed in on itself, and he looks as fragile as a butterfly. The den door squeaks open and closes with a click.
I shake my head, and follow in my father’s wake up the steps and slide past the den into my own bedroom. Then, carefully, I put my shoulder to the door and nudge it shut. I lie down on my bed and cry until I think I’ll throw up. This was the worst thing I have seen since the night he died.
When I’m cried out, I walk to the bathroom, my eyes and nose and whole body dried out, empty, wasted, like some bug exoskeleton wasting away on a windowsill. After I wash my face, I remain in front of the mirror above the sink. I stare at my reflection, I don’t blink. Brown eyes, dull and brown, look back at me. Dark brown hair hanging in heavy waves. My face is pale and my eyes are bloodshot. I can’t detect much of a difference between this fourteen-year-old self and the thirteen-year-old one. Same flat chest, skinny arms, collarbone that sticks out sharply, all the way to my shoulders. What a watery picture I make. Enough. I have to be stern with myself. Enough with this. I grab my cell phone and start to dial Rachel’s number. Quickly, I snap the phone shut. What am I thinking? I shake my head clear, then call Helena.
“Hey, are you busy?” I ask.
“Nope. How about you?” she replies.
“Want to go to the mall?” Maybe chain stores and the lure of shiny objects will erase the whole horrible scene I just witnessed.
“Why not?” Helena says good-naturedly. “Meet me at the entrance in twenty?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her, silently thanking whatever power made her free.
Why can’t this—life, living—come easier to me? My parents and their insane fragility scare the crap out of me, all of this looming possibility that seems beyond my reach, the idea that I’m not good enough, the notion of being lonely and alone for the rest of my life, and this grief—this crushing, breath-sucking grief. It’s too much.
“I need to have some fun,” I tell Helena as we stroll past the fluorescent-lit shops that look like candy-colored daisies lined up in a plastic garden. “I’m so sick of being morose, of everyone treating me like I’m going to break down all the time. Over it. Done.”
Secretly, I’m reveling in breaking Rule #5, although I’ve been breaking Rules #3 and #4 for the past five months. Guilt and elation make a funny cocktail.
“Okay, fun…” Helena says thoughtfully, tapping her finger to her lips. “I’ve got it!” she exclaims, her eyes shiny in the glow of the extra-bright mall lighting. “Come on!”
She takes my hand and pulls me down the polished beige stone tile path, weaving between shoppers and bulky bags and kiosks and baby strollers.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to catch my breath and keep up. Helena sprints and darts like an elf.
“You’ll see,” she says, a wicked grin spreading over her face.
An instant later, Helena comes to an abrupt halt in front of Tricia’s Trinkets, a tiny boutique that sells cheap earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and so on. She stops so quickly that I walk right into her with a gasp.
“Sorry,” I mutter, catching her arm before she falls over.
“Cora, I have the antidote to your gloominess. We’re making jewelry,” Helena announces.
“You mean buying it,” I correct her.
“No, making it. You know, taking everything apart and redesigning it?”
“Oh,” I say to Helena. “That sounds cool.”
“Good enough,” she says. “Come on, let’s buy some stuff. Then we’ll take it apart and put it back together even better.” She looks so excited, I feel something lift inside of me.
Yeah, fun. Remember how this used to feel? I ask myself.
“Let’s go,” I say and put my hand through her arm. We step inside, grab a basket, and begin filling it with beaded necklaces and bracelets, modeling feathered earrings for each other, and giggling. Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice and some of the weight bears back down on me.
“These look just like the ones Macie was wearing the other day. They’re cute, don’t you think?” Rachel’s voice resonates through the shop, echoing off mirrors and glittering headbands. My stomach clenches. We still haven’t spoken since Homecoming, and that was more than a month ago.
“Totally,” Elizabeth Tillson’s unmistakable, shrill voice replies. Another Nasties hanger-on.
How can I avoid them? There is nowhere to hide in this stuff-filled, idiotic place. As I’m wheeling around the rack I’m hiding behind, hoping to take cover behind another, I spin right into Rachel’s path.
“Oh,” she says, a note of surprise catching in her throat. “Um, hi.” She clearly has no idea how she’s supposed to act.
“Hi,” I say back, offering a smile but not much more. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act, either.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “You hate this place.” A hood has come down over her eyes. I can’t see my old friend. Elizabeth comes to stand just behind her, as though she were coming to be Rachel’s second in
a duel.
“I’m just, um, picking up some stuff.” It’s very strange to be speaking in such a strained, awful way like this with Rachel, who’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Then, Helena comes up beside me. Rachel’s eyes switch over to Helena’s face and give her a long once-over. It is not friendly.
“Oh. Well, see you around,” Rachel says stiffly, then gives me a searching look, the hood rising a millimeter, and I could swear I see the same hint of regret behind her eyes that chisels at my chest. Then she turns and marches away, Elizabeth hovering at her side.
“What a freak.” Elizabeth’s voice wafts over to us. “I can’t believe you were friends with her.”
“Ugh, I can’t believe you were ever friends with her,” Helena whispers to me.
“It wasn’t always this way. She wasn’t always this way,” I tell her. It’s so strange how so much has changed, how Rachel and I seem to have grown out of each other, grown out of our friendship. Does that always happen? Does it have to happen? Does it mean that all ten years of our history are meaningless? Blown away, like dust?
“Hey, come on.” Helena breaks into my thoughts. “Let’s pay and go back to my house.” She looks at me with big, earnest eyes.
The truth hits me: Helena is my friend. I am not alone, and whatever happens between Rachel and me, Helena is my friend. Maybe I know how to be a friend because of Rachel. I don’t know…Now I’m getting corny in a way I don’t think I want to carry on pursuing.
Helena lives on Elm Street, on the other side of the county road, a quick walk from the mall. As she strides down the sidewalk, she bounces on the balls of her feet, a funny, rolling, cheerful gait, and when we arrive, her mother, who also has a mane of blond curls, welcomes us warmly. She is wearing an apron tied around her waist, and the whole house smells deliciously sweet, of cookies or muffins. I’m struck by how normal everything here seems. Like one of those old sitcoms—but not in a bad way.