Tell Me Something Real (29 page)

She made a choice, conscious or not, to
not
love us. Not enough, anyway. Not in a way that is real and true.

I know she is wrong. I know I'm worthy, as is Adrienne, as is Marie, as is Dad. We deserve to be loved. In the haze of crazy lies, I don't doubt that.

And here is this boy, who acts like he spent his life with a map and I'm the buried treasure.

“You make it hurt less, too.” I rest my head on his shoulder and he traces the indentation of my spine with his
fingers, hopping over vertebrae like a car on speed bumps. I need him on a cellular level. When he kisses me, I swallow my grief. I speak with my body, the only language I truly understand.

He leans back so he can see my full face. “I'm never leaving you again. I swear.”

A battered VW bus whizzes past, and I watch as it grows small in the distance. We are a couple of blocks from Mrs. Albright's house.

“I got into two of the conservatories,” I say. “They need to know my decision by next week. I'm going.”

He runs his hand through his short hair. “You know what Kerouac wrote,” he says with a half smile.

“I don't have a clue what Kerouac wrote beyond what
you
wrote in your book.”

“It's from
On the Road
. ‘Nothing behind me. Everything ahead of me.' ”

“Everything is behind me,” I say. “Everything.”

He inches closer and slips his hand around my waist, pressing his palm against the small of my back. The idea of restricting our time to the academic calendar, to only seeing each other on holidays, makes my stomach clench. We already lived in segments, time organized by Laetrile cycles and clinic trips. To recovering from infusions and seizing sudden bursts of energy. I rest my head on his shoulder, comforted by the knowledge that we can be together no matter what the circumstances. School isn't the clinic.
We don't have doctors and needles keeping us apart.

“So, your dad's okay with you going?”

Dad made it clear in so many words:
No. Sorry. You can't go. What would your sisters do without you?

I stare at the asphalt, at the freshly painted yellow line in the middle of the street. “He told me I couldn't transfer, but I know he won't stop me. I just have to convince him,” I say.

“How about Adrienne?” he asks.

I laugh. “I think she wants to kill me in my sleep.”

“So that's why she's so icy. I thought it was me.

“Which ones did you get into? The San Francisco one?” he asks. “Kerouac used to live in San Francisco. I'll go with you. Remember, I turn eighteen next month.”

“They didn't accept me. The famous one in LA did. Then there's one in San Clemente.”

“We just drove through there and it's not even an hour away. You can come home every weekend. That sounds easy. Do you like it?”

I remember the holiday concert at the San Clemente Conservatory last year, the villa-style building, the bubbling fountain painted in the same hues as peacock feathers. Their orchestra blew me away, playing with fervor, each seat filled with a passionate student. It was on the bus ride home that Mrs. Albright told me I belonged at a conservatory, and when I picture going away, it's their auditorium I imagine, their music.

I nod. “Yeah, it's amazing.”

He eliminates the space between us. “Remember what we talked about when I first stayed with you, how you were yourself when you played? That it was pure?”

I almost feel the keys beneath my fingers. “Of course.”

“I'm not surprised you got in. I'm really happy for you. My mom promised me a car, a Remission Car. I'll drive you back and forth on weekends. Let's check it out tomorrow. We'll time it.”

I kiss his shoulder, the knot of muscle left over from years of playing water polo. A swimmer's shoulder. “I forgot how bossy you are.”

“So are we taking a road trip tomorrow? 'Cause you can't ditch me,” he says, smiling, trying to get me to do the same. He climbs onto the board and holds out his hand.

“Move forward,” I say. “I'm going to lead.”

I circle his waist with my arms, holding tight as I steer us home.

Caleb and I follow the coastline north, whipping past the long stretches of sand, and when we approach the crab shack and pier, I look inland, away from the water and into the scattered scrub brush. I don't avert my eyes until the menacing double domes of the nuclear power plant come into view.

Last night, after dinner, we lounged on the couch and watched
The Six Million Dollar Man
and
The Bionic Woman
.
Two hours of mindless comfort with Caleb's hand in mine. We took up half the couch, with Adrienne and Marie claiming the other. Even if Adrienne embodied the Ice Queen, sitting as far away as possible, she occupied the same room without hurling wince-inducing one-liners.

As we drive, I lean against him and hear the steady beat of his heart. Just by listening to the basic functions of his body—his breath filling and leaving his lungs, his heart pumping blood through his veins, and his muscles constricting and contracting with movement—I know I'll push through the grief. I'll never get over it, but for the first time, I have an idea of what my life could be. I only wish that Adrienne could be happy for me despite my act of treason.

Quietly, we cruise up the highway until I spot the buildings nestled high on the hill.

“Fifty-one minutes,” he says. “That's nothing.”

We can't go inside, not on a Saturday. Dad, with his love of large picture windows, might as well have designed the campus. On the field trip, we were restricted to the orchestra hall, but now as we stroll around the grounds, I pause at the practice rooms, peering through the tinted glass into the closet-size spaces. Perfectly contained. The refuge I've been seeking. I turn around to check out the view of the ocean, something I would see every day.

“Isn't this what you want?” he asks.

I tug his shirt, bringing him closer. “Yes, and you.”

“Fifty-one short minutes away. You realize that's half the time it took us to get to the clinic. And we won't have to deal with the border traffic.”

Or guards. Or Mom.

“After you get your GED, you should go into real estate.” Sound spills from the edge of campus—voices and music. “Must be the dorms,” I say, suddenly feeling more like an intruder than a prospective student.

“Come on,” Caleb says as he keeps walking. Then, looking back over his shoulder, “Don't you want to see? You don't have to talk to anyone.”

Around the corner, a small circle of kids lounge on the lawn. A girl I recognize from music camp strums a guitar. Not someone I hung out with, but a familiar face, even though I can't remember her name.
D
something. Donna or Dorothy or Denise. She doesn't look up; it's a relief that I don't have to explain my presence.

The low two-story building lacks the large picture windows, but it looks comfortable enough. It hits me then—really hits me—how I'd spend nights away from home. I would escape the memories of Mom, but in doing so, I would leave my sisters behind. I would be away from Marie, who climbs into my bed after a nightmare. And Adrienne, who lets me do the same.

A new layer of grief washes over me. This is where I need to be. This school. These buildings. But in leaving, I'll lose them. Not completely. Not like Mom.
But it will never be the same again. In letting Mom go, I'm letting them go too. It's the choice I have to make, but it splits me in two. This will be my new home, but now, this minute, I need to go back and be with my sisters. I need to look at them from head to toe, take them in, and know that even though I'll move away, we'll stay connected.

“Come on,” I say to Caleb. A nearby kiosk displays brightly colored posters announcing concerts across the state and travel abroad opportunities. Summers in Florence. Semesters in London. He doesn't move, preferring to be a voyeur. “Caleb, I want to go home now.”

Confused, he turns around. “But we just got here.”

The Suburban hulks in the parking lot, so big it almost takes up two spaces. My eyes move from the car to him. “I've seen enough.”

He joins me at the kiosk. “What's going on? Does this mean you don't want to go here? Look at this place.”

I close my eyes and collect my thoughts, sort out all of my conflicting feelings, the excitement and the fear. Mostly the guilt. “No—I want to be here, but I don't know how to leave. What if I lose Adrienne by coming?”

He steps closer but stops shy of touching me. “You deserve a place like this, you know, for your music. I want this for you. Adrienne will too. She just can't see it now. I swear I'll be here every Friday to bring you back home.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I'm so worried about my sisters.”

He pulls me closer, my own private cocoon. “You dad can handle things. Adrienne will come around.”

“You can't say that about Adrienne,” I say. I take a final look at the campus, picturing myself as a student, sitting alone before the piano, practicing for hours while gazing at the ocean. Alone in so many ways, but maybe that is a necessity, a requirement. My price.

I flatten my feet against the floor in the hope of feeling some sort of foundation. My fingers curl inward, strong fists, and I bang them against my knees. I see the movement but don't feel the pressure on my skin, much less in my muscles. I want to turn everything off: the light, the sound, and the merry-go-round that has become my mind.

I play the message again.

You have a collect call from Buena Vista Hospital.
Then, in the background,
Vanessa! Pick up the phone, sweetheart. Vanessa! Vanessa!
Click.

The front door opens and Dad rushes into the kitchen, the color draining from his face.

“Play it again,” he says.

As soon as it ends, he walks to the wall and unplugs the machine.

“What are you doing?”

“She tried to contact you,” he says, ears and cheeks scarlet.
“This is harassment. Between this and the fact that she took a blood sample from Marie, we might be able to extend her ninety-day commitment. This could be enough. Hopefully for a restraining order, too.”

“Dad,” I say. “You have to let me transfer. You have to let me go.”

“This is about more than music,” he says.

I nod. “You said you wanted to protect us. This is how you can protect me. I know she can't get out tomorrow, but she could get out in a couple of months.” I can't jump whenever the phone rings, feeling like Mom is reaching for me through the telephone wires, from photos, from memories. He must understand that.

He places the answering machine on the kitchen table. “That's what I'm trying to prevent.”

“I know, Dad, but even if you win in court, it's not like she's going to be locked up for years.”

He waves to the empty chair across from him. “The lawyer says I have a good chance of keeping her committed until Marie is older. This is Munchausen by proxy now. There are criminal implications.” He taps the machine. “This will make a difference. I'm sorry it happened, but it could change everything. She's a danger to herself. We need to prove she's a danger to others.”

“She's a danger to me now,” I whisper. “You promised you'd do anything for us.”

I stare at his hand, at the faint white scar on his knuckle
from punching the window. When I look up, he nods.

“Do you remember when Marie said you were next to have a blood sample?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That's not something I'll ever forget.”

“I'm telling you this because I don't want to keep it from you, and it's the reason why I'm going to say yes to the conservatory. You've seen her now. You know what she's like. When I first admitted her and she spent days screaming, she was screaming for you. She said that you took care of her. She was fixated on you and Caleb. She said you understood illness. She said that you might have cancer. She tested Marie, but she was focused on you.”