Phantom Limbs (8 page)

The coffee grinder whirred from the kitchen. I rolled over and looked at the clock — 7:40. As the fog lifted, I realized what day it was: June 11. The day Meg and her dad flew back to town. I was going to see Meg today — in less than twelve hours.

When I went downstairs, I found my mom pulling out her marble pastry board and wooden rolling pin. She liked the marble for pastry, but she never strayed from the ancient red-handled rolling pin that had belonged to her grandmother.
Someday this will be yours
, she would say to me,
and it will be up to you to carry on the Stratton pie-making tradition. Unless Mason turns out to be a baker!
I remembered how Mason used to throw his head back and grin, eyes closed.

“Morning,” she said, turning to me, holding the rolling pin in both hands. She lifted her eyebrows, which I knew meant,
Today’s the big day, eh?
“Want some eggs? Or French toast?”

“Nah.” I poured a little orange juice and sat at the table.

“You get any sleep?” Her voice was gentle.

I hated it that she could see inside my head. She knew me so well that I wasn’t even entitled to my own private thoughts. I nodded and sipped my juice.

She opened the pantry and pulled out flour and sugar. “You’re going to help me, right?”

“Sure.”

Dressed in sweats and T-shirts, both of us, we went barefoot into the backyard. The grass was lit with dewdrops, warming under the sun, and the damp-earth smell of spring gave rise to a surge of anything-is-possible feelings.

The rhubarb’s heart-shaped leaves fanned out over the edge of the garden bed, big as welcome mats. My mom cut several fat stalks, removed the leaves, and handed the stems off to me. Their color was like an inverted watermelon — deep pink on the outside, pale green on the inside.

“That should be enough,” she said, handing me the last stem and wiping her hands on her sweatpants. She wandered over to the lilac trees between our house and Meg’s former house and trimmed a few clusters of blooms to bring inside. “I don’t know why I bother,” she called to me, pulling off the leaves. “They don’t last.”

Back in the kitchen, we made the pie, not talking much. I got the easy jobs, like measuring sugar and spices. My mom rolled out pastry dough and cut up the rhubarb. When we got the pie assembled and into the oven, my mom turned to me. “You swimming today?”

I offered my ubiquitous shrug. “I’m supposed to.” I wasn’t actually feeling so good. Every time I thought of seeing Meg, my stomach seized up.

“Skip it,” she suggested, turning and wiping flour off the counter with a sponge.

Right. It’s that easy.
Practice wasn’t optional, and even if Coach would forgive my missing one, Dara would castrate me. Between worries about her and worries about Meg, I felt queasy. I sat down and lowered my head onto my arms.

My mom sat down across from me. “This is a big day for both of us.”

“I guess,” I said into the table.

“I’m probably more nervous than you are.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Otis.” She paused, so I lifted my head. “You’re not the only one who lost a friend, you know.” She reached for the little jam jar of lilacs that she had put on the table. They were drooping already. She tried to arrange them so they stood up better. “There’s a lot we haven’t talked about. You and me, I mean. About what happened. But the bottom line is sometimes relationships don’t weather the storms.”

“Is that what happened with Meg’s parents? Did they break up because of what happened?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“You and Karen really haven’t talked?” I still couldn’t get my head around that. “You guys were so close.”

She kept playing with the lilacs, not meeting my eyes. A breeze floated through the kitchen window, ruffling the leaves of the basil plant on the sill.

“I mean, wouldn’t you reach out to her? After you heard?” I asked.

Anger flashed across my mom’s face. “Don’t judge me, Otis.”

Was I judging her? Maybe I was.

She shoved the lilacs back to the center of the table. “I’ve worked very hard with Dr. Banks to unravel my feelings about the Brandts. But suddenly Jay and Meg are coming back, and . . .” She turned her head away from me. “I’m doing my best, Otis.”

I never entirely understood my mom’s anger at the Brandts. What happened to Mason was an accident. And my mom was there when it happened, too — it’s not as if they were supposed to be in charge of him. Was it just easier to blame the Brandts? It seemed impossible that she’d hold it against them this much, for this long. It didn’t seem reasonable.

“Why’d you invite them over for dinner, then?” I asked. “If you don’t really even want to see them?”

She didn’t answer me. She stood up and got herself a glass of water at the sink, downing the whole thing in one long gulp.

And then it dawned on me. “It wasn’t you,” I said slowly. “It was Dad.”

She set her glass in the sink and turned to me. “It’s not that simple. We talked about it. I know your father wants to be friends with Jay — I know he’s eager to see him. We can’t just hide from this forever. Dr. Banks thought this might be good for everyone. He made me realize that Jay might be as nervous about seeing us as we are about seeing him.” She leaned back against the counter and blew out a long breath. “And frankly I can’t imagine what this must be like for Meg, coming back here.” She crossed her arms. She had some crusted flour on one of her wrists. “I’m not sure you realize how hard this must be for her.”

I knew my mom thought I was socially awkward and emotionally fragile, but I didn’t know she thought I was a complete idiot. I stared at her. “Really, Mom? It’ll be hard for Meg? You think?” I got up and went over to the oven, where I clicked on the oven light and stared into the window at the pie, which was still raw. The crust looked white and waxy under the oven bulb.

I heard the slap of her bare feet on the tile floor as she moved toward me. “It wasn’t just . . . that it happened,” she said softly, avoiding saying the actual words
that Mason died
.

But I knew what she meant. It was that he died in Meg’s house.

I turned to face her. “Yeah, I get it. I understand why they would have wanted to move. To another house. I get that. But why did they have to move back to California? Didn’t anyone get that we —” I broke off, torn between wanting to be understood and wanting to spare myself this awkward intimacy with my mother. “That we needed each other?”

My mom turned her gaze to the floor, chewing on her lower lip. “Otis . . .”

“Don’t you think they could have found a way to stay?” I prodded. “I mean, God! It was a terrible time for them to leave. And in the middle of the school year? Didn’t her dad have any say in a job transfer — did he even try to get out of it? Maybe if he had told them he wanted to stay at the Chicago office —”

“Otis.” She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead. “It’s time to move on.”

That was rich, coming from her. “Oh, like you’re such a role model for accepting things and moving on?”

Instantly, I wished I could take it back. She looked like she’d been slapped.

I lowered my eyes. “Sorry,” I mumbled to the floor.

I didn’t dare look up. After a moment, she spoke. “No, you’re right. I haven’t moved on. And I’m not talking about Mason, because that’s not something I’m going to get over.” Her voice wavered, and suddenly my own eyes stung, too. I might have told her I didn’t think I was ever going to get over it, either, if I could have gotten the words out without my voice breaking. “But everything else . . . There has never been any closure with any of us. You think I don’t feel bad about Karen? You think I’m not stressed about seeing Jay tonight? You think I don’t have feelings about Meg coming back? I don’t even know why she’s coming! Do you?”

I didn’t know which point to focus on first. “What feelings? About Meg.”

She gestured with her hands like it should be self-evident, whatever her feelings were. “For over three years, I have been trying to forgive her.” She turned away and put her hand to her mouth.

“What do you mean?” I took a step closer when she didn’t answer. “Forgive her for what?”

She just shook her head.

“You mean forgive her for leaving me like that?” I asked.

She hesitated, her eyes shifting toward me. “That was terrible for you. Not hearing from her.”

It was hard not to see her point, but at the same time, I didn’t want my mom mad at Meg. All I wanted was for things to be like they used to be. Except for all the parts that couldn’t be. Which, I guessed, was almost all of them.

She sighed, then pressed her lips together for a moment. “Do you remember . . . a few months after they left, you were so upset about not hearing from her that you wanted me to call Karen and tell her to make Meg write to you.”

I closed my eyes.
Shut up shut up shut up.
I didn’t want to think about that. It was bad enough as a sort of background ache, the memory of all that desperation and agony. I didn’t want it sharp and in the fore. I gave my mom a level look. “You can’t be mad at her for that. She was thirteen, and you yourself were just saying how hard it was for her. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at Karen and Jay for moving away.”

“Otis.”

I looked at her, and her eyes were so sad. I could barely remember a time when they weren’t. A mottled gray-green, her eyes were an anomaly in an otherwise brown-eyed house. It hurt her to see me suffering, I knew. That must be why she struggled with Meg: she could never forgive her for breaking my heart.

“You’ve been through so much, honey,” she said. “We all have. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.” A little eleven furrowed into the space between her eyebrows, which was approximately how much she worried about me on a one-to-ten scale.

“I won’t.”

She watched me for a moment, then nodded. But the doubt in her face was plain.

I texted Dara that I wasn’t going to swim today. She phoned me back. “That bitch is fucking up your career, and she hasn’t even gotten here yet.”

She called me a few choice names and then hung up on me.

I spent a ridiculous afternoon: I cleaned my room. I reorganized my bookshelves, trying to see them through fresh eyes. I tried on different clothes. I shaved. I did push-ups and pull-ups, trying to pump up a little. I took an extra shower, washing myself so many times I think I reduced my epidermis from five layers to three. All the while I mentally rehearsed what I’d say when Meg and I first saw each other. I wanted it to be smart and funny, confident and intriguing. As it turned out, the quest for perfection burned through a lot of soap.

Afterward, I went into my parents’ bathroom and compared the smell of my dad’s deodorant to mine. Mine was better. I put some on — and then I put some more on, because I was sweating bullets just
thinking
about Meg, so who knew what kind of puddle I’d be sloshing around in when we actually came face-to-face.

I followed my nose downstairs to look at the pie on the windowsill. I dragged a finger through the glistening pink juices that had bubbled up on top of the golden crust. It tasted delicious, but I was still a little nauseated. I stood around nervously while my mom made potato salad and grouched at her when she talked to me. I had an odd rush of emotion when she put crumbled blue cheese and an entire jar of capers in the potato salad, because Meg loved blue cheese and capers and my mom knew it.

Back upstairs I got paranoid and decided to hide my magnolia sonnet, which Chapman had returned to me with an A in red at the top. Not that Meg would ever look through my desk drawers, but still — better safe than sorry. I glanced around my room for a hiding place and finally tucked it into an inner pocket of my swim bag.

And then it occurred to me that maybe I should give her something
—
some kind of welcome-back present or friendly gesture. Shouldn’t I? I had always given her stuffed animals for Christmas and birthdays, usually making up complicated histories and personalities for each one. Had she outgrown stuffed animals? Probably, but I couldn’t think of anything else that wasn’t too expensive, too personal, or too inappropriate.

I jumped on my bike and zipped down to Willow Grove’s small downtown strip. After hemming and hawing in the toy store for a good twenty minutes, I finally settled on a stuffed skunk that looked shy and mischievous and kind of sweet.

When I got home, I jotted down a story for him.

I attached his fact sheet around his neck and then got back in the shower, because bike riding is sweaty business. While in the shower, I had a sudden panic about my toenails, so I trimmed them when I got out, and then I trimmed my fingernails, too. I checked my nose and ears to make sure there were no unwanted loiterers. Then I peered farther up my nose, fretting over my nose hair. How do you know if you have too much of it? Meg was shorter than me now — she’d be able to see up my nose!

I checked the toilet to make sure I didn’t leave any pee drops or pubic hairs on the bowl, in case Meg used this bathroom. Thinking about Meg using the bathroom prompted me to go through the medicine cabinet and the closet to make sure there was nothing embarrassing in there, like the acne treatment samples I’d gotten from the pediatrician at my last visit, or the lotion Meg might think I used for masturbating, which in fact I sometimes did. I hid them in the back of my underwear drawer — clichéd, maybe, but I was pretty sure Meg wasn’t about to go poking around in there.