The Story of Us (8 page)

The school question. God, the school question, where I’d been stuck all my senior year and still was stuck, one of those annoying squares on a board game where you sit and sit until you finally roll the magic number that frees you.

I could hear Mom unzip her makeup bag. “I know you hate it when people point out that you’re cranky, but are you cranky?”

I flushed, came back out. My mother moved over so that I could wash my hands. She was putting on her mascara, and she had that mascara face people get—chin dropped down, mouth open. It looked silly, but then, honestly, I had the same face when I put on mascara. I guess I
was
cranky.

“Did you hear those stupid mating raccoons last night?” I asked.

“Is this a joke?” she said.

“No, they were on the roof or something. Then when I finally got to sleep, I had a dream about Janssen. One of
those dreams that go on and on the whole night. You know those dreams within a dream? Where you say, ‘That’s just like that dream I always have and now it’s actually happening,’ but
that’s
happening in a dream?”

“I hate those,” she said.

“I have this same one, over and over. He’s lost, and I can’t find him. I look for him behind the doors of this big house. I try to call him, but I can’t dial the numbers right. How can I think about going away without him if I miss him like this after two days?”

“You’ve known him so long. He’s a part of you. Like your
arm
, practically.”

There are downsides to divorced mothers who date and have relationships. First, the obvious—your
mother
is
dating. You’re
the one that’s supposed to be dating. And
I
wasn’t even dating. I’d been with the same person for forever. Mothers dating, there’s just something wrong about it, against nature, like those sixty-year-olds who have quintuplets. Oh, she’ll borrow your clothes, too. The dating, the clothes, and the excitement and nerves she shows as she’s getting ready—it’s all your territory, you know? It’s bad enough when they listen to your kind of music, something they have no right to have even
heard
of, and then this. A mother, your mother especially, should be in those mother jeans with wide ass pockets and high waists, and she should maybe be, I don’t know, clipping coupons and making dinner and not having men wanting to touch her. Jesus, you’ve seen him touch her, and it honestly gives you the creeps.
Sex
and
mother.
See? Just reading those words in the same sentence made you feel that way. Imagine the truth of it in your own house.

But on the good side? All the relationship stuff—the excitement and the nerves but also the deep feelings and confusion and crushing blows to the self-esteem and the sense of getting it right, of
flying
—she could understand. It wasn’t some distant memory from a long-ago part of her life. It was fresh enough that she got it. She tossed and turned with it in her own bed late at night, same as I did when I fought with Janssen. She hurt over it, she screwed up, didn’t know if she should call or not, called, wished she hadn’t called. When we talked, it wasn’t all shoulder patting and stupid expressions like “There are plenty of fish in the sea.” She knew how stupid that expression was. Because it was about a particular fish,
that
fish. See, a person in your territory—they might be a trespasser, but they might also be a friend.

“He’s like my other half. I hate that expression. Not
half
. He’s like my other whole.”

Mom hugged me. I decided to try and relax. Maybe I just needed to go downstairs and have whatever smelled so great down there. “I love you,” Mom said. “You are my own sweet nut head, aren’t you?”

“My nut head is a mess,” I said.

“Your head has never been a mess. You have a case of human nature, that’s all. Change is a messy business. Maybe you need to go downstairs and have some of those great blueberry pancakes Rebecca made.”

“That’s what smells so good.”

I suddenly remembered: that boy on the stairs. The dogs and the daughters. Mom and Dan, arguing but not arguing.

“You doing okay, Mom?”

“Two cups of coffee, never been better.”

Yeah, well, looking on the bright side was one of my mother’s worst habits. No matter what she was going through, all she needed was the easiest invitation to optimism—coffee, say—and she was in. She gave too much optimism to Jon Jakes and Vic Dennis. But once she ran out of it? It was gone for good, forever gone, and they were left wandering the wide, crowded halls of Sea-Tac, stepping over the carry-on bags of weary businessmen.

Mom was back to her makeup now. Come to think of it, there was also a lipstick face.

“The wedding?” It was a test.

“Planning out the logistics today with Rebecca. Who will do what, where. Some cake guy Rebecca knows is coming tomorrow.”

Relief. But then I had a nightmare vision—dogs, cake, some bad romantic comedy movie where the two inevitably merge in disaster.

“Can you see it?” she said. “The dogs destroying some huge, fancy cake, like in the movies?”

My mother had this creepy way of reading my mind, I swear. I decided to test her.
You have a creepy way of reading my mind,
I thought.

But she only looked at me and smiled.

“See you downstairs,” she said.

Jupiter must have strolled out from my open door, hopped downstairs, and found Ben to let her out. I knew because Rabbit was in the middle of the hall, dragged like a carcass and then abandoned for smells of sausages. I was surprised to find her and Cruiser in the dining room, sitting stiffly next to each other there, looking formal and attentive as if they were at a job interview. Yeah, Ben had treats. He sat on the floor in front of them as Dan and Hailey and Amy watched. Everyone else was standing around in the living room talking, their syrup- and blueberry-streaked plates abandoned on that huge wood table. The ocean was all morning newness and sparkly beginnings outside those large windows.

Ben opened his mouth dramatically, stretched his arms. “Aww.” He yawned. “Aww, awwww!” He yawned and yawned again, and I knew what he was trying to do. It was something I discovered one day. I don’t know why I thought of it, but it occurred to me to wonder if maybe you could make dogs yawn, same as you do people. So I tried it. I was on the old leather couch in our living room, and Jupiter was on the chair she wasn’t supposed to be on but was always on, and she was watching me while pretending to sleep. I saw her peeking. She always kept one eye on us; that was her job. I knelt up close to her. I yawned, and then she did too. I was so happy. I was
thrilled
. It was like a scientific discovery. I went and
got Ben, and we both tried it again to make sure it wasn’t a coincidence. It took some doing, but sure enough she yawned again, though maybe she was just bored with us people and our weird games.
Sometimes my humans are very puzzling,
she seemed to say. Still, the yawning discovery felt important. It said something significant about animals and humans, though who knew what.

I lifted the foil from the plates on the table. Sausages. There they were. Pancakes. I sat in a chair, which was still warm from someone’s recently vacated butt. I
hate
that. My crankiness, there and then not there, was back again. More than just
back
—it was the nun on the
Sound of Music
hilltop, singing with cruel volume, its little arms flung out wide. It was childish, I know, but dog yawning was
our
thing.

“They’re not going to do it,” Amy said. She sat on Dan’s knee, arms around his neck. She looked miraculously cured of her illness from the night before.

“Tell ’em, Cricket. They don’t believe me,” Ben said.

“Cruiser does all kinds of tricks,” Amy said.

“He rules the total house,” Hailey said. Her lip was curled up again in disgust. It was possible this was a permanent condition, same as Mom’s tipped-up nose, say, or Janssen’s eyes that always looked a little sleepy.

“Jupiter doesn’t do tricks,” I said. Jupiter was an independent thinker. We’d tried to teach her to shake a few times, but she just stared at us in firm refusal, as if she simply preferred not to. Throw a ball for her, and she’d look at you as if to say,
Plan on getting that yourself.
I respected this. Still, I don’t know why I was being such a bitch, engaging in some stupid dog contest. Cruiser was a great guy with sweet folded-down ears, even if he was a little wild. If we did get to choose family, as Ben said, I’d probably even pick him.

Right then, though, Jupiter had had enough of sitting beside that tall dog. She walked away, came over to me, and put her front paws up on my legs. I petted her soft black head. Neither of them had yawned on cue, and I was glad. Maybe sometimes you just feel like everything can be taken from you all at once.

“They’ll never believe me now about the yawning. Tell ’em, Crick,” Ben said.

“It’s true,” I said. Jupiter sat upright by my chair, showing me her straightest self for pancake bits. Her eyes followed every move of my fork. I gave her a bit of sausage, and she trotted off to eat it on the rug.

“I’m taking you at your word,” Dan said.

“Are we just going to
sit around
all day?” Hailey said.

“I thought we could all go for a beach walk,” Dan said. “Something like that? What would you guys like?” He stood, displacing Amy, who put an arm around his waist. She reminded me of those spider monkey babies. The ones who clung to their mothers as they swung from tree to tree.

“Morning, all!” Aunt Bailey said. She was wearing a yellow Windbreaker with her jeans and tennis shoes.

Gram appeared beside her a moment later. “Moped rental
in town, if anyone wants to join us.” She was wearing a yellow Windbreaker too.

“Twins,” I said to them.

“I bought mine first,” Gram said. “She always has to copy me.”

“Who ran down to Ross and bought my very same rain boots?” Aunt Bailey said.

“Do we have to wear a yellow coat if we want to go?” Dan Jax asked.

“Comedians,” Gram said. “A bunch of comedians.” Aunt Bailey held her purse tight to her side as if anticipating muggers.

“Humiliating tourist activity on two wheels—” Ben said.

“A couple of old broads leading the way,” Gram said.

“I’m in,” Ben said. “How fast those things go? Sixty, seventy?”

“I’m not exactly in the mood to break my arm,” Hailey said.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Grandpa Shine appeared with a big smile, wearing his cowboy hat, and with his golf shoes hooked over his fingers. George was beside him, looking crisp and handsome in khaki shorts and a polo shirt. Ben looked at me, and I looked at him and shook my head. Ben shrugged. As close as he’d get to admitting a mistake.

“Found a nine-hole in Anacortes. Want to join us, Dan?”

“Can’t leave us
alone
,” Amy said.

“I am not riding a moped,” Hailey said.

“Come on, guys,” Dan said, shooting a flare of impatience.

“Dad …,” Hailey whined.

Dan weighed his options, which didn’t take long. I guess there weren’t many. “Thanks, Art. But I guess we’re going to find something to do here.” Dan’s face was tight. “I’m a terrible golfer anyway.”

“Munchkin? Hit a few balls?”

“Mopeds,” I said. I’d suddenly decided. Embarrassing myself on one of those things with Ben and two old ladies dressed like daffodils sounded better than my other options.

“Better put some fuel in the fire, then, kiddo,” Gram said. “We got a full day’s rental and want our money’s worth.”

“You ladies know how to get around,” Grandpa Shine said.

“You’re one to talk,” Gram said.

“I can give you lessons, if you would like it,” George said to Dan. It was the first time we’d heard him speak a full sentence, though I couldn’t blame him for feeling shy around all of us.

“This guy’s a
player
,” Grandpa Shine said. “Let me tell you—”

“Takes one to know one,” Gram said.

“Marian,” Aunt Bailey said.

“I thought Mom told you to behave,” I said.

“What? Grandpa’s a great golfer,” Gram said, and winked.

“Nothing like this guy.” Grandpa Shine grinned, jingled some spare change in his pocket.

Ben looked at me, raised his eyebrows.

Aunt Bailey grabbed Gram and shoved her toward the
front door before she could say anything else. “We’ll wait for you two outside,” she said.

There was the ring of a cell phone song, playing in the dark depths of someone’s purse. Hailey’s. She retrieved the phone, walked a few steps away, flipped it open, and plugged her other ear for better hearing. She laughed loudly. I finished my pancakes. Hailey handed her phone to her father.

“Mom needs to speak with you,” she said.