The Memory Jar (5 page)

Then
(To Joey, Blushing)

This is about the island, two summers ago. I shouldn't have been there. For one thing, my skin is fair, so I was basically setting myself up for skin cancer lying there in the sun all afternoon. But then there was my new bathing suit, the unsupervised beach, the way Scott's head rested on my stomach, I mean whatever, you get the idea. I knew I'd be dead if my mom found out, but I didn't care. It was a moment worth every consequence.

That was the first official date we'd had where we weren't exactly doing what we said we were going to be doing. I was fifteen, and my mom made it very clear that she was uncomfortable with the idea of me dating a boy who was nearly eighteen. “It's just a number,” I told her, and she slapped me. I mean, not that hard. Just hard enough to let me know that wasn't a sanctioned opinion.

So it was easier, with my mom, to sneak around and hope to not get caught. Anyway, we told her that we were going to a car show, of all things. I didn't even know what a car show was. I curled up against his side on the drive over to the lake, or at least as close as I could get in the front seat of his truck without taking off the stupid seat belt he insisted I wear. “Buckle up, it's the law,” he would say, and he'd smile like such a geek when he said it. “You can't tame me!” I would always say, but then he'd laugh and I would fasten my belt and put my head on his shoulder and smile. He was my boyfriend. We were happy.

I fully admit that I was the one who pursued him. Ever since the moment he stumbled into that warming shack all unawares, focused only on the hot spot in his skate, your brother was a hunted man. “Pursued” might be putting it too kindly. You probably remember what pests we were. With Dani's help, I stalked your brother, online and off. Both Dani and I chat-messaged him relentlessly with stupid questions. We rode the activity bus (illegally, without parent permission slips properly on file!) over to the high school so we could hang around and talk Scott's ear off in the weight room, where, we'd discovered, nobody much cared that we were not high school students as long as we didn't actually try to mess around with the weights. And Scott was so good-natured about it, too. He let us prattle on about Doctor Who and Shakespeare and learning to play the ukulele, which we would pronounce very seriously with a Hawaiian pronunciation, and then we'd look down our noses for a long beat before simultaneously bursting into gales of laughter. He rolled his eyes (I miss those eyes so much) and focused on lifting and breathing and other hard-working type stuff that looked pretty damn impressive from our point of view, and, my god, he was a senior and nothing could happen.

But here it was, the summer before tenth grade, the super hot days at the end of summer when you're just relaxed enough to think you'll never be bored of summer but just bored enough to be the tiniest bit interested in school starting, and Scott was going to college in a month and I was going to high school for real, and Dani and I had plans to start a zine filled with poetry and Sharpie art and an entire section devoted to cool names for if we had a band.

Twice, Scott and I had met up with other girls and other boys, including Dani and the Ron Weasley boy from the hockey rink who turned out to be really nice but completely forgettable. Once we went to this movie thing that they projected on a huge screen in the park. People brought their dogs and blankets and coolers, and there were about a million mosquitoes and people talking all through the movie, including us. The second time was the Fourth of July, and we all went downtown to the street dance, where the city blocked off about half of Main Street and the area all around Sterling Lake and three bands played on makeshift stages at the far ends of each of the three branches of the T-shaped area. That night, there had been fireworks and more loud, giggly conversations.

But this time, we'd ditched our crowd of friends and instead of going to the car show like we'd told my mom, Scott took me across the lake in his canoe, and I brought along my new bikini. That was the moment, lying there on the beach on the island—the moment Scott fell in love with me. I swear, I could feel it happen. His head on my stomach, and his eyes closed, but I knew he was looking at me anyway. In whatever ways a boy can look at a girl. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for getting away with it all—with having a boyfrie
nd before I turned sixteen, for one thing, and with convincing my mom we were going to a car show without even really knowing what a car show was, for another.
My boyfriend.
I said those words in my head, my elbows propped on my Hogwarts towel. There was sand everywhere. The whole island was made of it, except where it was rock. Sand and rock.

I kind of felt like that's what we were, Scott and me. Sand and rock. I'm the rock, of course. I didn't care if he was older than me, more experienced, whatever. I'm always stubbornly myself, and I always have been. It's why my mom and I never could sit in a room together for more than five minutes without at least one of us yelling.

I want you to know that. It's not my mom's fault, or not any more than half. It doesn't matter to this, to Scott, but somehow it matters to me, for whatever reason, what you think.

He was looking at me with his eyes closed, the sand trapped everywhere, and he started falling—I felt it happen. And it was exciting, you know? I was powerful and I liked the feeling. My boyfriend.

Now

I put my head down on my arms, stretch out on the edge of the bed.
I was about to break up with you.

“So you didn't love him, even back then. I knew it.” Joey puts his hat back on and settles the brim low. “You paraded him around, so proud of your
boyfriend
, proud of your power over him, but I could see you weren't right for each other. I tried to tell him. We got into a huge fight over him buying you that ring.”

“You're misinterpreting everything,” I say. Of course I love Scott. He's my boyfriend. And even if he hadn't bought a ring, if I
had
actually broken up with him, I'd still love him. It's not like a person can spend every waking thought on another person for two years without a deep emotional connection. I lean closer to the bed, put my hand back on Scott's arm. He feels weird, animate and yet not, somehow, like a couch cushion in the shape of my boyfriend, his muscles strangely tense. “Scott.” I speak up. “I love you, okay? I don't know what your idiot brother has against me, but I've been telling how you fell in love with me, and I think you should wake up and tell the other side. Tell Joey how I fell in love with you.”

Joey makes a show of staring at Scott's still form for a good ten-count. “Looks like the jury's still out on that one,” he says, standing up. “Anyway,
idiot brother
wants a hamburger.”

I feel heat rush to my face. “Sorry, I—”

“Hungry? Café on the third floor?” The hat still obscures his eyes, but he jerks his head toward the door.

I remember the dill pickle potato chips. That was the last time I ate without feeling the nausea. The sudden thought of a thick cheeseburger with the grease running into the toasted edge of the bun … “Are you asking me to lunch?” I give Scott's cushiony arm another squeeze and stand up.

Joey scowls and folds his arms across his chest. “I don't like you in here alone with him, that's all,” he says. “For all I know, you'll try to smother him with a pillow.” He tries to keep his voice all growly and tough, but beneath it all I hear a quiet wavering, like the beginning of tears or laughter. Maybe both.

Then
(To Joey)

It was true, you know. I was preoccupied with my ACT scores. Dani and I weren't in the Ivy League Club, so we had to make damn sure we could at least get into the Scholarship-to-a-state-school Club. My mom didn't go to college, and that's her own complicated story; I wasn't going to let her interfere with mine. I was applying to all the same places Dani did because we were best friends and we were going to have so much fun in college, you have no idea.

I had a hard time deciding what I wanted to be. I mean, I really wanted to be both a poet and a doctor. “Oh, like a pediatrician?” asked my guidance counselor. She smiled sweetly at me, like she knew I was too dumb for such a thing but would humor me for a while before letting me know about this great nursing aide program that would be “a great place to start out, and then you could work your way up!” But I sort of wanted to be a cardiologist. I liked the idea of fixing people's broken hearts—it seemed like the perfect blend of poetry and medicine. Dani would do art or art history or history or women's studies, she wasn't sure, and I was balancing the idea of double majoring pre-med and English. In any case, I was applying to St. Cloud, the U, and Mankato State, but the only way I'd be able to go is if my test scores were good enough to qualify me for the academic scholarships.

“I don't know why you're thinking of going somewhere other than St. Cloud,” Scott said. He stirred a French fry into some disgusting blend of condiments and pouted.

“I don't know why I would choose my education based on proximity to a boy,” I said, and I was only partly serious. It's not that I didn't want to go to the same school as him, but we were talking about almost a whole year away and a lot of things could happen.

“I don't know, you didn't seem to mind my
proximity
earlier.” He kissed my cheek to keep it from sounding too slimy. That was the night it happened, I guess—was it homecoming weekend? In the stupid truck with most of our clothes on because it was too cold.

“Gross.” I pushed Scott away, him smelling of mayo and ketchup or whatever. We always went to the Village Inn, like everyone else did when it was too cold to drive around anymore and nobody's parents were gone so we could have a place to hang out. We nursed our sugary coffees and flipped the little creamers with our fingertips and waited to be old enough to live in our own place. “I'm hungry, actually,” I said and flagged the waiter down. “And not for those disgusting fries. You're going to buy me some cheesecake.” I smiled at Scott, who stuck out his tongue.

“Anything for milady,” he said, bowing his head. He was like that all the time, you know. Cute and playful. I took his hand, and he picked up mine and kissed it. He meant that, really. He would have done anything for me, anything at all.

Now

Joey is absorbed. In his menu, in his phone, in the dark surface of his coffee. I've never seen someone pay so much attention to a hamburger. “Joey.” This burger is good, but it's not that good. “What's going on in there?” I knock on the side of my own head.

“You're pregnant,” he says at last. He's pale, and he sits back in his chair as though his rage has been all that was holding him upright until this moment, and now all the rage has somehow transformed into a mistier kind of confusion and shock, which shows on his face in broad strokes.

“Yeah.” An eternity of silence follows. I stare at the brim of his cap until finally, when I've almost decided that he's been turned to stone by my condition, Joey speaks.

“His ridiculous plan was to marry you.” He still won't look up, and he takes a wolfish bite of his burger.

I sigh. I take another bite too, and for a while it's only the two of us chewing, the conversation of a woman and her young granddaughter coming over the booth behind me. The greasy smell of the place is oddly comforting, and it keeps me hungry, keeps my stomach on an even keel. So that's what pregnancy is going to be, then? Eating greasy food in greasy places to keep from throwing up? Well, it could be worse.

“It wasn't that ridiculous,” I say. “I mean, it was a viable option, but I was going to say no. I didn't … I didn't get the chance.” Joey doesn't answer, doesn't look at me.

I take another bite, and I'm mid-chew when the revolving door spins and a pair of police officers step into the hospital café. My mouth goes dry as a stone, grinding against the chunk of dust-dry hamburger bun. Did they find a clue at the scene of the crash? Did Scott wake up and remember something? I force my jaws to keep moving up and down. The blood spilling out of my belly as Scott held my hand … the
crunch
… whose hands were on the handlebars? Who was driving? Why does it matter so much? I reach for my water and force some of my mouthful down, enough to let me breathe a little easier, anyway.

“They're looking this way.”

Joey spins in his seat and checks out the two cops by the door. He turns back, and now he actually looks me in the eye. “Got something to hide?”

“Funny.” I stick my tongue out, but he's not Scott. He just gives me that dark and wounded look before his eyes sink back to his plate.

“I wasn't joking,” he says.

The two officers of the law nod to the girl who smiles and hands them menus. I try not to stare as they make their way to the spot behind Joey. The booth we're in wiggles a little while they settle in, and the woman cop orders coffee. The man asks for water without ice. This bit of fussiness annoys me.

“Come on, Joey. We're both upset.” I pick at the kettle chips on my plate, sucking the salt off my fingers. I wish his accusations didn't push me in the direction of thoughts that I'm afraid to think.

“Upset.” He pulls the brim of his hat down lower. “Wow, thanks for that word, Taylor, that's great. You're really helping me express my feelings about this exquisitely fucked-up situation. Really helping me heal.”

“Grieving, then,” I say. “There's a twelve-step process, I think.”

He snorts. “That's for alcoholics, you dumbass.”

I can't help it. I laugh at the absurdity of all of this, and then I can't stop—these shuddering breaths of stupid laughter. The cop facing me looks up, her eyes keen. I'm making a scene. I put my hand over my mouth, but my whole body shakes. The booth wiggles beneath us.

Joey twists in his seat, moving to face the cops, to include them in our discussion. “Can you grieve for someone who isn't dead?” he says. He holds up his phone, flips through five or six tabs on his browser, reads out possible long-term outcomes of traumatic brain injuries. I no longer find anything funny. “My brother could end up living the rest of his life in a persistent vegetative state,” he says. “He could be paralyzed, or he could suffer from vertigo, along with impulsive behavior, for the rest of his life, incapable of walking down a city street without the danger of being arrested on suspicion of being on drugs or inebriated.” The cops exchange a look, but the woman only offers a sympathetic look and a nod.

“Joey, come on. Let's take a walk.” My hands are shaking, and I pull out a twenty and put it on the table to cover our burgers. I smile back at the woman. “His brother,” I say softly. “Snowmobile accident.” They know the story; I can see the recognition in their eyes.

“It wasn't an accident,” says Joey, and he reaches out for the cop's shirt sleeve. The cop shifts in his seat to maintain distance, and I pull Joey back by his own shirt. “She's the one who was driving,” he adds, but he calms down, his attention back on his phone, the brim of his hat once again settled low and sullen.

“You're the girlfriend, then?” says the woman, and her eyes have that earlier keenness. “What do you mean, ‘it wasn't an accident'?”

I shake my head. “I don't remember the crash.”

She looks disappointed. “You're the one the reporter was looking for.”