Fans of the Impossible Life (3 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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No one to talked to me on that first day back except for Peter. Not that I gave them an opportunity. Head down, I counted the minutes to the end of each period, knowing I just needed to be able say that I made it through the day.

When I got home after school, the front door was open and I let myself in.

“Dave?” I pushed my shoes off my feet and set them in their place on the carefully curated shoe shelf by the front door.

“I'm in the kitchen,” Dave called back.

I dropped my backpack at the bottom of the stairs and followed the smell of bread baking into the kitchen. Dave was laying out cookies on a baking sheet.

“Hi,” I said. I sat down on a stool across from him. “You're home early.”

He shrugged. “Work was slow,” he said.

“You're not here to check on me?”

“I'm here,” he said, uncovering a fresh loaf of bread in the breadbox on the counter, “to make you a snack.” He cut off a large slab of soft bread and spread fresh peach preserves on top. Preserve making was a new hobby of his. Half of the basement was currently filled with colorful jars that he couldn't give away fast enough. Dad said he should start a stand on the side of the road if he was going to keep this up.

Dave handed me the bread on a plate.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Cookies will be ready in ten minutes,” he said.

“Cookies and bread?”

“Don't tell your dad. He already thinks I'm trying to fatten us all up.”

“And you're not?”

Dave smiled. “Eat your snack.”

I took a bite. It was still warm.

“You're not going to make me talk about my day?” I said, mouth still full.

He picked up the baking sheet and bent down to put the cookies in the oven.

“Do you want to talk about your day?” he asked, closing the oven door and setting the timer.

“No,” I said.

“Okay, then.”

He cut himself a slice of bread, spread on preserves, and we sat and ate in silence.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

It was only after the school nurse gently suggested that Mira might “like to try going back to class” that she reluctantly abandoned her post on the cot and managed to finish up her first day. Four more periods before she was able to get on the bus, claim a seat by the window, and stare out at this new route that she would be following from now on, twice a day, five days a week. She counted the blocks home as they passed by the window. Nothing had ever seemed so far away.

The bus let her off at the bottom of her driveway, its double doors shushing shut behind her.

Their house was the one holdover on the street from an age before people in the neighborhood started building faux mansions that went up to the edge of their property lines, elaborate chandeliers displayed prominently in soaring front-hall windows. Mira's family's house looked like a refugee from 1920s Savannah, with a decorative wicker rocking chair on a
wraparound porch. Her mother thought this gave it charm. Mira thought it looked lonely. Like it had outlived its friends.

She took a deep breath in an attempt to cleanse herself of this day and tried to think of something positive to report to her mother. Her mother was into positivity. It had never been Mira's strong point. She would not mention the nurse's office. Let her mom believe that she had made it through the day upright.

Mira made her way up the front steps. There was no avoiding it. She lived here. She would have to go in sometime.

“Mira? Is that you?” her mom called when the front door banged shut behind her.

“Yeah.”

Mira made her way back to the computer alcove by the kitchen, where her mom could usually be found these days. Fourteen months ago the law firm she had worked at for the past decade decided to let her go rather than make her partner. Unfortunately this was the same firm Mira's father worked at. And he was a partner. After she was let go, Mira's mother sued the firm for gender discrimination and since then the topic of work, a thing her parents had always shared, as if the firm had been a third party in their marriage, was avoided at all costs.

Today her mom had on sweatpants and a T-shirt declaring that she had completed some 5K run, as if to prove that she had once been a person who spent all her time doing 5K runs and not growing pale in pajamas in front of a computer screen. Her frizzy hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that created a cascading poof on the back of her head. She called this her “Jew
fro.”

There was a framed picture of Mira's parents on the mantel in the living room, taken during their days together at Columbia law school, both of them making goofy faces, her very white mom's hair teased out to match the retro-looking afro her dad had sported back then. Mira loved that picture of them.

“Let me see you,” her mother said.

Mira pulled a chair up to the computer alcove and presented herself for inspection.

“So?” her mother said. “Tell me everything.”

“It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

Mira sighed. She didn't have the energy to live through this day and talk about it too.

“I'm tired,” she said.

“Tired tired? Or just tired?”

“Tired tired.” It was their code. It seemed better than other words they could use, loaded with the baggage of diagnosis. As if all she needed was a really good nap to finally feel better.

“Scale of one to ten,” her mother said.

“Eleven,” she said.

Her mother was looking at her as if she was trying to remember which encouraging piece of positive-speak she hadn't used in a while.

“What?” Mira said.

“Eleven means we need to go see Kelly.”

“No, Mom, please. I'm following the diet. She's just going to
make me choke down those awful horse vitamins.”

Kelly was the holistic nutritionist that her mother had started taking Mira to when she had asked to go off her medication last spring. The pills had been making her feel jumpy and constrained, like her head was trying to hold her brain in place and somehow failing. Kelly had been the compromise.

“It's Kelly or Dr. Hellman. Your pick.” Horse vitamins or jumpy drugs.

“Just give me a chance to get used to this place, okay? Did you think it would be filled with some kind of special air or something that would immediately make me all better?”

“I just want to know that you're giving it a chance.”

“I am giving it a chance. I went to all my classes except gym.”

“Mira . . .”

“Mom . . .” She tried matching her mother's tone in an attempt to turn this into a playful conversation instead of yet another panicked planning session about “what we should try next.”

Her mother sighed. “I just want to make sure we're doing everything we can.”

“First days are hard. Just give me some time.”

“Okay. I get it. But we have a standing appointment with Kelly next week and we are not missing it, okay?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“And you need to stick with the elimination diet until then. Or else we're just wasting her time and ours.”

“Of course, Mom.”

“What did you eat today?”

“I don't know. Nothing, I wasn't hungry.”

Her mother shook her head and turned toward the computer. “No, absolutely not acceptable. Your blood sugar, Mira. It's like we did all of that glycemic index work for nothing. I'm making you lunch tomorrow.” She was clicking through pages of recipes on her favorite all-allergy-free-cooking website. “Look. Vegan, gluten-free quiche.”

“What exactly makes it quiche?”

“Well, the shape, I guess. It's quiche shaped.”

“Sounds great.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

“Sounds gross.”

“Thank you. Honesty.”

“Mom, you don't want honesty. I was honest with you that I had a crappy day and you totally overreacted.”

“All right. Let's start over, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So, did you make any new friends today?”

“You don't just ‘make friends' on the first day of school.”

“But did anyone seem nice? Did you see Molly Stern?”

“Oh yeah. I saw Molly Stern all right.”

“And?”

“I mean, she's Molly Stern, what do you want me to say? She's like if a chipmunk became a human girl.”

“Are you sure you're not just being a snob?”

“A snob? When am I ever a snob?”

“Molly may not be that cool, or whatever,” her mom said. Mira automatically rolled her eyes. “But she's a nice girl and she might be able to help you get adjusted.”

“So I should use her to get ‘adjusted' and then drop her when I find ‘cool' friends?”

“You know that's not what I mean.”

“That's what you said.”

“If you are half this difficult with the people you meet it's remarkable to me that you have any friends at all.”

“I don't. Remember?” Mira stood up. “Sebby didn't come by, did he?”

“No,” her mom said. “But no visitors until you finish your homework.”

Mira grunted.

“I assume you have homework?”

“Tons.”

“Mira . . .”

“What?”

“You're going to give this place a chance, right?”

“Yes. I am. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Mira hoisted her school bag with exaggerated effort.

“I'll take a thirty-minute nap, then do my homework, then make tons of new friends, okay?”

“Set your alarm,” her mom called after her as she made her
way up the stairs to her room. “Your father said he'll be home for dinner. He wants to hear all about your day.”

Mira woke up an hour after her alarm went off, dreading the impending dinnertime recap of her day for her dad, and called Sebby. Contacting him wasn't always easy, since his cheap cell phone had usually run out of minutes, which just meant that he hadn't gotten around to pocketing another prepaid phone card. This meant that the best way to reach him was unfortunately to call his house.

The phone picked up on the first ring.

“O'Connor residence. Stephanie speaking.”

Mira breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't Sebby's foster mother, a woman who thought it was sinfully rude to hand over the phone to anyone before inquiring for at least ten minutes about the health and well-being of every member of the caller's family.

“Hey, Stephanie. It's Mira. Is he home?”

“I don't know, Mira, what's it worth to you? Ow!”

The unmistakable sounds of older sibling aggression were accompanied by a declaration of “Give me the phone, maggot child!” then pouting shouts of “I'm telling!” and finally Sebby's voice on the other end.

“Sorry, babes, this place is crawling with maggot children.”

“That is gross, Sebby.”

“It's the truth. They leave little trails of slime behind them.
Hold on.”

There was the sound of children screaming and a baby crying in the background. Then it was quiet.

“I am literally in the closet,” he said.

“What's going on over there?”

“Big Momma is the last person in the world to still have a phone with a cord. It only reaches to the pantry.” Big Momma was what Sebby called his foster mom, which he thought was hilarious since Tilly O'Connor was so thin she had to buy her belts in the children's section.

“No, I mean what's going on with the screaming?”

“New shipment. Twins.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. It's insanity over here.”

Tilly was a full-time foster parent, taking in those in need through a referral service at her church. At least twenty children had gone through her care since her husband died in a construction accident nine years ago. Her current household had three other kids, two boys and Stephanie, all younger than Sebby.

“Wow. Twins. Jackpot for Tilly.”

“And listen to this. She's moving Stephanie into my room with me because she needs space for the two cribs.”

“Oh no.”

“Yup. Me and little Steph are getting real close over here.”

“Is Tilly allowed to do that?”

“The state says it's fine as long as we have our own beds.
Believe me, I checked to see if I could make an anonymous report.”

“Maybe she thinks you'll be a good influence.”

“Maybe I should tell her that I'm a godless homo and get myself kicked out of here.”

“Don't joke, Sebby.”

“No, do not joke about being a godless homo when stuck in the religious lady's pantry. It's just too ironic to be amusing.”

“And here I was calling to complain about my day.”

“Yeah? How was it?”

“Awful.”

“Anything in particular?”

“You know, mild panic attack in the nurse's office.”

“Oh, that's all.”

“That's all.”

The screaming returned, with a loud cry of, “He's in here! He's hiding in the closet so he doesn't get in trouble!”

Sebby sighed. “See? Not even funny.”

“It's a little funny,” Mira said.

“I better go. I need to make an appointment to have some earplugs permanently implanted.”

“Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye, babes.”

“Bye, Sebs.”

Mira hung up the phone and lay back on her bed. She looked up at the wall above her. A set of stretched nylon wings hung from a hook, like a trophy from a successful fairy-hunting
mission.

She made a wish on the wings that everything would be okay. For both of them.