All These Lives (18 page)

“You’re right,” Jack says. “I have to work up the courage first, though. That’s another thing I’m not so good at.” He grins wryly at the last sentence.

Something I haven’t thought about in weeks pops into my mind. “I have a question for you.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“That night at the party. Were you the one that drove me home?”

“Um,” Jack stares down at the desk. “Yeah. I didn’t think you should … I mean, I wasn’t sure you’d get home all right if I didn’t.”

“You saved me. I guess that makes you my hero.” For the full effect of making Jack Penner uncomfortable, and making him wish I’d get struck down by lightning or polio or something, I should turn to him and bat my eyelashes, grinning mischievously. But, today, I guess I’m doing things halfheartedly.

Surprisingly, Jack laughs. “You’re the only one strong enough to save yourself.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, I think you like getting into trouble. Like, a
lot
of trouble.”

I frown and stare at him, letting him know he treads in volatile waters.

“You won’t stop until you’re ready. And you’re sort of the only one who can determine that and pull yourself out.”

Neither of us says anything for a second, as Lauren stirs at her desk, turning her head and falling asleep again.

“So can I write my name on our paper?” I ask Jack.

“Well, I already printed it. See, it has both of our names.”

“I see that. And very good job. With, like, the fonts and the border and all that.” I take the stapled pile of papers from his hand. “I just want my role in this assignment to be clear from page one.”

One of Jack’s eyebrows skitters up. “Okay, sure.”

“Crap. My parents took away my school supplies.” I hold out my hand. “Can I borrow a red pen? And blue and black, too, please.”

“Your parents what?” Jack hands me the requested items, which I quite frankly consider pocketing and running away with. Red, blue, and black. The official rainbow of school pens. This far into the school year, nobody has all three colors anymore, and I don’t even have one. Would he really ask me to give them back?

“Took away my school supplies: you know, stationery, writing materials. They did food and accommodation a few weeks ago. The school supplies were the only way they could really get me below the belt after my behavior.”

He stares at me, a look of disbelief plastered on his face. I don’t think he really believes me and I am tempted to applaud.
Bravo, Jack. You might almost know me
.

“Don’t worry. What I did was really awful. I deserved it.” I start to write my name in bubble letters on our cover page. Halbrook does not appreciate color; he likes varying mixtures of black and white, the different shades of gray in history. But I will make him a believer yet. Besides, Jack probably did such a great job on this assignment, it won’t even matter.

“Next they’ll probably take away all my clothes.” I throw a wink in Jack’s direction.

He laughs and the ever-faithful flush appears again. “As long as they don’t take you away. You’re … er, funny.”

I smile up at him. “Thanks, Jack,” I say. “You’re funny, too.”

*   *   *

When I arrive home on the bus, Jena is drinking a hot cup of something that smells like seaweed, a new concoction Mom made for her.

Mom has been working off a lot of energy since she’s busy
not
speaking to Dad and
not
laughing at any of his (admittedly) lame jokes at dinner and just generally
not
acknowledging his existence.

However, around six-thirty, I hear them talking in low, rumbling voices as Mom washes the dinner dishes and I clear the table.

As I enter the kitchen, Mom steps around me and leaves. I corner Dad. “So what, are you two married again?”

“Don’t be silly. Every marriage has its ups and downs, its flows and ebbs, its—”

“Dad, please. They taught us antonyms in fourth grade.”

He nudges my shoulder. “Yes, and we all know how well you listen in school.” He laughs at his own joke, then quickly sobers as we hear Mom coming back down the stairs. “Well?” he asks her.

“It’s a bad idea. I wasn’t even going to go. And us both going? I don’t feel comfortable with it.”

Dad looks desperate. “I don’t understand why. Danielle is home and Jena’s been better than ever these past few days … Maybe she would even appreciate a little space.”

Oh no you did not, Dad.

“I mean, er,
you
might appreciate a little space. From life, and the girls.”

“Thanks, Father.” I push past them and head back to the dining room. They talk for a few more minutes and then I hear Dad say, “Let’s ask them.”

“Girls?”

He comes into the dining room, Mom trailing behind, her hand rubbing her temple, reluctant.

“I’ll live with Dad. Jena can live with Mom, so it’s even. It’s settled.”

“Danielle!” Mom gasps, hurt and surprised. Jena giggles from her seat.

“That is
not
what we wanted to talk to you about. Your mother and I are thinking of going to a Bible study tonight.”

“A small group meeting. It’s not Bible study.”

“Right,” Dad nods. “What do you think about an evening by yourselves? Or would you prefer a babysitter?”

“Or one of us to stay home?” Mom adds.

“A babysitter,” I say at the same time Jena eagerly says, “An evening by ourselves!”

Everyone looks at me.

“Yeah. I really wish Ham from two doors down would watch us.” Ham is a forty-year-old man that always muttered to himself when he came out to get the mail, and never had any visitors. That is, until a few months ago when the police paid him a visit and discovered he was growing some “illegal plant products,” as Dad put it at the time. We haven’t seen him since.

“Very funny, Dani,” Dad says now. “I really don’t see what the problem is, honey. They say they’ll be fine, and I agree.”

Mom still looks unsure, but finally sighs. “Fine. We won’t be long, though. An hour and a half. Two hours at most.”

“Take your sweet, sweet time,” Jena singsongs. She’s already looking at me, the light green of her eyes dancing.
This is going to be fun,
they say.

“If you have any problems,” Mom begins, talking for thirteen minutes straight (I count) about contact phone numbers, emergency numbers, what to do if something goes wrong. Then she turns to Jena and bombards her with a million questions: Are you sure you feel all right? Tell me, now that your father isn’t here. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home?

Dad’s in the study when I find him. “Bible study, huh? You must have been desperate.”

He laughs, fixing the collar of his new coat. “No. It’s … your mother has wanted me to go with her for a long time. I just decided it was a good time to check it out.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Right.”

“Take care of your sister, Dani,” Dad says as we head into the hallway. Mom walks toward us, finally ready to leave.

“I will. Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad!”

“See you soon, my precious stones.”

Jena and I try to act as precious as possible until the front door shuts and they’re on the other side of it. Then we turn to each other with fraternal-identical mischievous looks. “So,” she says, “what do we do first?”

30

First, we walk to the convenience store ten minutes away and load up on as much junk food as our detoxed bodies can possibly consume in one night. Next, we walk to the park we used to play at all the time, slurping on hot frothiccinos and eating Twizzlers. The combined taste is a waxy-caffeinated-foamy-colorated mess that is entirely appropriate for this kind of night and for our first exposure to sugar (minus Harry-with-an-
i
’s M&M’s) since Mom forced this abstinence upon us.

Jena has a harder time downing it than I do, and abandons her half-full frothiccino in the nearest garbage can upon entry into the park.

This time of day, the park is dark and shadowy, with rustling trees that look like mounds of blackness and light floating up from the ground, the glow of relatively fresh snow against the world above it.

We head to the swings, which are much too small for us. We look like we crashed a toy park, oversized kids in a world too small to contain us.

“Want me to push you?” I ask Jena.

She shakes her head, her too-long legs stretched far from her body. She stands, moving backwards with the swing behind her, then launches herself forward, swinging high, higher, higher, and coming back down.

High, higher, higher, and home again.

As she floats beside me, I propel myself up, too, and swing beside her. We’re not exactly in sync and not quite out of sync, either. We’re somewhere in the middle, drifting above this world that isn’t enough for us, ignoring the shaking, the quivering of the metal rail that holds the swing.

Jena comes to a stop first.

“Once upon a time,” she says, “there was a bird named Morris.”

I bring myself to a full stop, too, and dig my feet into the ground, trying to find grass. “Morris was the only bird in his entire flock that couldn’t sing.”

“Is ‘flock’ right? A flock of birds?” Jena wonders out loud. “Damn, I need to get back to school.”

We laugh. I take a sip of my now lukewarm drink.

“He could rap, though. He was the best rapper in his entire flock.”

“One day,” I continue, “he went before Congress to put forth his case. End discrimination against rapping birds.”

Jena giggles. “The other birds wouldn’t hear the case. They threw it out.”

“Um,” I frown, “why would they do that? These are progressive birds. And where am I supposed to take this story now?”

“I don’t know. I think it went downhill when he was named Morris.” She stands up. “Wanna make snow angels?”

I stand. “The snow’s not deep enough.”

“So?” She’s already lying on the ground behind the swings, sliding her legs and arms across the snow.

“I used to think when you made a snow angel, real angels came down and slept in the space.”

“Really?” Jena breathes.

“True story,” I tell her, lying down on the ground now, a few feet away. I spread my arms and feet, making a hole in the snow for an angel.

We’re staring up at the sky, saying nothing, when all of a sudden Jena sneezes loudly. Like, thunder-loud.

“Holy
shit
,” I whisper, kicking her.

She laughs. “SORRY.”

“Stop yelling,” I kick her shin again.

“I SAID SORRY. AND BACK AWAY FROM THE SOCCER SHINS. THEY ARE MY MOST PRIZED POSSESSION.”

“Jena, I swear, I will
sit
on your shins if you don’t stop yelling. And I weigh twice what you weigh.”

“NO, YOU DON’T. AND RESPECT THE SOCCER SHINS.”

I sit up, serious-faced, my hands in tight fists just to keep the threat of damage to her SOCCER SHINS alive, but I end up giggling myself and shaking my head.

“WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?” she yells.

“Because you are an idiot,” I whisper.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

“Everybody in the world can hear you.”

“STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF. IT’S CREEPY.”

“Can you really not hear me or are you just pretending?”

“DANIELLA! SPEAK UP! I’M OLD AND DEAF.”

“I’ve missed you, Jenavieve,” I whisper too quietly for her to hear.

She sneezes again. “SERIOUSLY, TALK UP.” Her voice echoes and bounces around us, sound particles crashing into one another and falling back at us.

“When do you think Mom and Dad will be home?”

“WHAT’S THAT, DANIELLA?”

“WHEN DO YOU THINK MOM AND DAD WILL BE HOME? THERE IS SNOW ON YOUR COAT AND YOUR FACE IS RED AND YOU’LL TAKE FOREVER TO REACH NORMAL BODY TEMPERATURE SO MAYBE WE SHOULD GO.”

Pause.

“God, there’s no need to yell,” Jena says, sitting up.

I follow suit and turn to look at her. “We have an hour still before they’re home. So…” My voice trails off. “There’s something under your nose.”

It’s a small black blip at first, tiny, like a bug or even a piece of dark snow. But, slowly, it’s melting, traveling down, and my head starts to reel as I realize what it is.

Jena knows, too. She touches her finger to it, tries to catch it, but her hands are only so big and it just keeps coming and coming and then it crosses her lips and trickles down her chin and it’s on the top of her coat and I can’t move.

“Oh, God,” she says. “Do you have Kleenex or something?”

Nothing.

We don’t need Kleenex. A little square piece of tissue will not clean up the fountain gushing out of her nose, spilling out onto the beautiful white carpet and slipping under the new snow and into the cracks in the old snow.

My fingers tremble and my brain can’t think and I need to do something.

Jena has her head tipped back.

Do I move her or keep her here, where the cold will seep into her clothes and make her bleed all out? What did Mom say? What does Mom do?

“Dani, you have to run home and get my medicine. The one in the kitchen, by the spoons.”

My head is shaking, whipping from left to right, but I’m up, hovering over her. “I won’t go without you.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I promise. This has happened before. Just hurry, okay?”

I won’t go without you.
And I say it again and again and again in my head, even as I turn around and leave her kneeling with her head tipped up and her hands cupping her nose, looking up to heaven and appealing to God, just like my parents are tonight. We didn’t think we’d have to join them.

Please please please please please.
I sputter prayers without beginnings and words with no meaning as I sprint toward home. Heart pumping against chest, lungs expanding, expanding, expanding. Tonight I am an athlete. Me and my running shins. When I get home, I find the pills where Jena said they’d be.

Then I pick up the phone and dial 911.

I hurry back, praying I’m not too late.

Nobody bleeds like that, and it’s not normal and it’s happened before but not like that and why did I let her come out tonight? Why why why?

I find her huddled in the snow, her chin up to her knees, her eyes weak, tired. She’s not dead, she tells me with a laugh. She just got cold.