The Death of Us (9 page)

Mom’s sitting on the couch when I get back, waiting. “Want me to make you a cold drink? Lemonade from real lemons?”

She still thinks I’m a little girl. She really doesn’t get it.

“No, thanks. How’s Granny?”

“Same. I don’t think the fall is causing this confusion. I actually think she fell because she had a mini-stroke or something. I’m going to call the doctor about her again tomorrow.”

“A mini-stroke?”

“We’ll see. I’m not saying that’s it. Try not to worry. Sure you don’t want lemonade?”

“I’m pretty tired, Mom. I got up early.”
I’ve been awake for a hundred thousand hours.

“I wanted to hear about work. About you. I haven’t seen you much.”

“Yeah.” There’s no way she’ll let me go on the boat tomorrow, so I lie. “I’ve got work all day tomorrow too.”

“At the gallery? Why don’t Cosmo and I come down and see you.”

“Um, no.” I panic. “No, I mean, yes, please, but not right away. Give me a few days to settle in. Please?”

She nods. “Of course.” She’s still sitting on the couch, but now she’s at the edge of it, hands on her knees. “About Ivy, I do mean it. I don’t want you seeing her.”

I force myself to stay calm. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me?”

“Mom, what is this? No, I wouldn’t lie. Can I go to bed now? I’ve got work tomorrow and I’m tired.”

She appraises me, then nods again. “Okay, sweetheart. Sleep well.”

On the way up the stairs, I’m fuming. Mom needs to take her foot off the pedal.

X
ander returns with one foam cup of coffee in each hand. Seeing Mrs. Foulds is gone, he puts one cup on the table next to me. He sips from the one meant for her. I guess he figures she’s not returning anytime soon. His cell beeps—beeps again.

Switch it off.

He checks the screen, silences it. The silence is worse.

He says, as if to reassure himself, “They’ll tell us when they know something.”

I say, “The doctor left with Mrs. Foulds. I didn’t even get to ask anything. Man, people don’t survive shit like that.”

I’m not even sure he’s heard until he says, “Take it easy.”

I fiddle with the remote but it doesn’t work. The TV keeps playing the same channel. Xander paces the corridor. Flat expression on his face. He could be on a grim hike. My head slams like the worst hangover.

I rub the top of my nose. It’s a gesture from my dad. Not my birth-dad. He died when I was six months old—cancer. That was when my birth-mom started drinking, apparently. This gesture is from my adopted dad. Sometimes when I walk into that huge kitchen, my brothers scrapping on the floor, and Mom turns to me with a plate of fresh-cooked bacon, eggs and rye toast, I split in two. The person I was before they adopted me. And the person I am now. Took me years to stop being scared that my adopted family would make me go back to my birth-mom. I used to
dream of houses flooding, cracks appearing in the walls. I tried to explain it to Xander once. He took it in, the way he does. Solid. But I’m not sure he got it.

When I visit my birth-mom, I’m a little kid. All over again. At the same time, I’m me. Able to protect myself. Ivy recognized this. Somehow, she understood.

I think about what she told me on the boat. There’s something about vulnerable that makes me go soft. She sat on the prow, the water behind her like a blue canvas. Told me she wanted to start over. Said Callie was her “rock.”

I said, “Callie’s like Xander—self-sufficient. More than she knows. They seem a good match.”

Ivy said, “You’ll help me start over.”

“You don’t need my help.”

She laughed. “I don’t need anyone.”

She sure knew how to flirt.

Shit. I just used the past tense. But she can’t be dead. Not Ivy.

TEN DAYS EARLIER

I pick at the paint chipping from my bedroom window frame. Kevin didn’t get this room redone, although the room he shares with Mom is spandangly new. I murmur into my phone, “It’s been a while, Diego.”

He says, “I thought you’d call.”

“You miss me, then.” Guys just need it told to them sometimes—it’s not like emotions are their strong point.

He’s quiet.

I flick a paint chip to the floor, grind it with my bare toes. “It sucks here without you,” I say. “I forgive you, you know.”

“Shit, Ivy …”

“I gotta go.” I press End before he can answer. Always, always leave them wanting more.

I start my morning exercises, following the 60/60/60 routine my online CrossFit program sets me. Sixty burpees. Sixty lunges. Sixty sit-ups. Then I listen to a podcast about living your best life. The
speaker is a woman, about thirty, gorgeous, funny, in control, just about exactly who I’m gonna be one day.

Mom’s downstairs making waffles. “Hey, sugar,” she says. She’s trussed up in a pink apron. Her hair is loose. For a moment I let myself believe and I say all cutesy, “Hey, Mommy.”

She opens the waffle maker and spoons in some mix. It sizzles. “Don’t you just love it here, Ivy?”

I shrug one shoulder.

“Kevin wants to take the two of us for supper somewhere elegant.” Her deep red lipstick frames her smiling mouth. She’s stylish when she wants to be, like a photograph from a magazine. I get it from her. Not that I’m boasting or anything. I just have a feel for clothes, hair, makeup. I could go into that, I suppose. I’m meant to be planning all that—planning a future.

“Blueberries?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“What are you doing today?” She hovers over the waffle maker.

“Heading to Kurt’s boat.”

“Kurt?”

“Just some guy. He’s cute.” I twirl a strand of my hair around my index finger. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she says, all shiny like a sequin.

“Just, you know. Moving. Kevin.”

“Kevin’s a wonderful guy.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t spoil this, Ivy.”

I swallow. Hard. My throat hurts. I think over the podcast.
When the world tries to get you down, just hold yourself up higher. Fill yourself with light.

She opens the waffle maker and tips the waffle onto my plate. It smells buttery and sweet. “God, can’t you just be grateful?”

“I am, Mom. Sorry.”

“You should be. It’s not every girl who gets waffles made by her mom for breakfast. I never did. My mom was too busy travelling the world, acting in movies to make me waffles. No time for a kid, oh no, just pack up your stuff and follow along … but I made time for you.”

I’ve heard it all before, the way she says it with no
trace of irony—like, doesn’t she see? I try to pull her rant-train back on track. “The waffles look delicious.”

“Of course they do.”

We’re there. Light fills me. And now I have a waffle to eat too.

Kevin walks in. “Hello there, my girls. Super duper. Breakfast all together?” He’s the only person I’ve ever met who actually grins. With his red velvet housecoat and potbelly he’s too gross to contemplate. He says, “Circling the wagons!”

Mom smiles broadly. “How it should be. Right, Ivy?”

I nod. “Absolutely.”
Happy families are made up of happy individuals
. “Absolutely,” I say again.

Rebecca’s at my front door. “Surprise,” she says. “I thought I’d come see you.”

I give her a hug and say, “You’re not mad anymore?” She has a blue streak in her hair. I add, “Um, you did your hair while you were camping?”

“Yesterday after work.”

“Sorry I didn’t call back.”

“S’okay. I wasn’t really speaking to you anyways.” Rebecca is wiry and muscly. She’s on the track team, cross-country ski team, swim team, and is about as outdoorsy as it gets.

“So, you got physical with nature?” I say as she follows me into the house. “Pitched a tent? Hiked with bears? Posted stuff on the Internet?”

She laughs and slides up onto the kitchen counter. “Hi, Mom-Two,” she says to my mom.

“Hey, sweetheart. You had a nice time with your dad?”

“It’s always nice when Melissa’s not there.” Rebecca calls Melissa slutbag when my mom’s not around.

Mom juggles Cosmo on her hip and Rebecca coos at him, “Hey, baby. You got bigger!”

He smiles at her.

“He loves me!” she says.

“‘Kay, no more Cosmo.” I yank her off the counter. “We’re going outside.”

“We are?”

I nod. “We are.” I grab my bag.

When we get outside I break it to her. “Don’t be mad.”

“What?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“What?” She’s sardonic. “You’re killing me.”

“Seriously. I’m going out on a boat today with Kurt and Xander.”

“No! How come?”

“They asked me. Okay, that’s not true. Kurt asked Ivy.” I glance at Rebecca to see if Ivy’s name is an okay topic of conversation.

“Ivy?” she says, and pulls a face.

“Rebecca, we’re not kids anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Her cheeks grow red.

“Becs, this isn’t about Ivy. This is about me. Isn’t it cool? I’m actually doing something cool with my summer.”

“Is hanging out with me not considered cool, then?”

“I don’t mean that.”

“So when are you going on this boat?”

“Um, like, now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. But I’m going to pretend to Mom that
I’m hanging out with you and then that I’m going to work.”

“Oh, okay.” I can tell she’s trying to stop herself from crying. Tough as a daylily, tender as a daisy.

“I didn’t
know
you were coming over,” I say.

We’ve walked a little way from my house and we’re standing outside Ivy’s. Ivy comes out.

Rebecca lifts a hand in a fake wave and grimaces. “Hi, Ivy.”

Ivy squeals and rushes to hug Rebecca. “Amazing! So good to see you. Love the hair.”

Rebecca disentangles herself. She says, “Course you do. Right, Callie, I’m just going to go.”

“Becs, don’t. Come with us.”

Ivy pitches in. Trying to cover the tension. “Yes, come too. Kurt won’t mind.”

I wish Rebecca would just relent, relax into it, but she glares at me. “I’d love to, but I’ve got stuff to do. See you later.”

Ivy grabs my hand. “See you, Becs. We should go, Callie.”

Rebecca glances at Ivy’s hand holding mine.

“I’ll call you later,” I say.

Kurt pulls up in his dad’s car. There’s no time
for guilt about Rebecca because Ivy is tugging me away.

Xander and I chat together at the bow of the boat. He’s easy to talk to and he asks me questions about my life, about my family. I answer, stunned that I’m even here, on this boat, free on the water, the sky open above me. The sun warms my face. I finish eating some chips and tidy the empty bag away.

“Come on,” says Xander, “I’ll show you how to drive this thing.” He talks me through steering, which is easy, and soon I’m holding the wheel, guiding the boat in a long straight line. I can see the attraction of the water, how the boat feels like it’s mine as it glides forward. I’m reminded of my dad reading to me when I was a child, the first time I heard the epic poem about Odysseus’ extraordinary sea adventures.

I used to relate to Penelope, the one who stayed at home and waited for the return, but now I’m Odysseus himself. I’m thinking about how he was strapped to the mast of his ship so he could survive the Sirens,
women who live in the ocean and lure sailors to their death with their songs, when Xander speaks. “Nice to be on the boat, hey?”