37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) (8 page)

“Dad,” Abby whines. “We didn’t do anything.”

His forehead creases sternly. “You think I don’t know a hangover when I see it? I was young once.”

Abby flops back deep into the couch cushions with an aggravated sigh. She crosses her arms in a petulant display that makes no difference at all. Mr. Duncan has spoken. It is what it is. Grounded.

The doorbell rings. Mrs. Duncan slips into the hallway and returns moments later, trailed by my mother.

15

Mom

I do love her. A lot. I just don’t always know what to say.

THERE ARE CIRCLES
under Mom’s eyes. She comes in carrying nothing, no purse, bag, or briefcase, and she seems to me strangely empty. She perches on the edge of the waiting armchair, looking everywhere in the room but at me.

Her eyes linger on the shirt Abby’s wearing—my shirt, Mom’s own shirt—for a long moment.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

It’s past her bedtime. I’ve pulled us out of the routine. She tugs on one of her fingers, finally studies my face.

“I came to pick you up,” she says. “Mrs. Duncan called, and I was worried about you.”

It’s what she has to say, in front of the Duncans. But I read the lie in her eyes. A stretching of the truth, at least, because she wasn’t there to worry. She had no idea anything was up until they called her.

“I’m fine,” I say, brushing a stray hair from my eyes. We are very good at saying things that people want to hear.

I glance at Abby. She now has on her bulldog face, which means she’s about to dig in and make this a fight to end all fights. For her, an all-points grounding is the worst of all the worst possible punishments.

She’s staring at me, waiting for me to jump in and help her out. Nothing between us is forgiven, but she’s calling for my help to fight this conspiracy of grown-ups to make our lives a living hell.

I can’t help her now. I’m afraid. I’m afraid because I’ve suddenly realized that, with all that’s happening with Mom about Dad right now, grounding would be the worst of all the worst possible punishments for me, too.

*   *   *

IT’S STICKY HOT
and quiet in the car on the way home. I clutch the Mac Tonight shirt and my wrap skirt in my lap, picking off flakes of drying mud. Mom says nothing, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
I have to be able to see Dad
is all I can think.

“I don’t know what they told you, but it wasn’t my idea,” I say as we walk from the driveway into the house. “Abby wanted to sneak out, not me. Really.”

“I believe you,” Mom says. She opens the front door and sends me through ahead of her.

Mrs. Scottie’s sitting in the living room. Knitting.

“What’s
she
doing here?” The traitor.

“Ellis, be polite.”

I whirl on Mom. “Are you going to ground me, or what?”

“No, I’m not going to ground you.”

“Why not?” I should be relieved, but instead I feel this trembling ache. There’s supposed to be yelling. There’s supposed to be punishment. There’s supposed to be some sign that when I put myself in harm’s way, somebody cares and doesn’t want me to do it again.

“Because you told me you didn’t do anything wrong,” Mom says.

I breathe. This is rational. This is okay. “Well, I didn’t.”

“All right, then. But just so you know, we’re going to see the doctor this afternoon.”

I freeze. “Which doctor?”

“The therapist I told you about.”

Not what I had feared, but only a little bit better. “I thought the appointment was next week.”

“I moved it up.”

Here it comes. “Do we have to discuss this in front of
her
?” I say. Mrs. Scottie doesn’t appear to be paying attention.
Click, clack. Click, clack.

Mom shrugs. “We don’t have any secrets from Mrs. Scottie.”

“Evidently.” I cut a glance toward her, and I swear she’s hiding a smile. “But some things should be discussed in private.”

“It’s not a discussion.”

“I’m not going.”

Mom puts out her hands. “I can’t,” she says. “I can’t do this.” She looks to Mrs. Scottie for help. “I can’t … stay up any longer.”

She retreats into the hallway.

“I don’t need a doctor!”

The only answer is the sound of her bedroom door closing.

*   *   *

CLICK
,
CLACK
.
CLICK
,
CLACK
.

It’s Mrs. Scottie and me now. Just us, like usual.

“You can go,” I tell her. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Click, clack. Click, clack.
“The light is better over here.”

I know for a fact this is untrue. “Just go, okay? Haven’t you done enough damage for one day?”

Click, clack. Click, clack.
“I don’t know what you mean by that, dear.”

“You ratted me out!” I fume. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are.”

“You really know how to show it.”

“I can see that you’re angry, dear, but—”

“Angry? Why should I be angry? It’s not like I’m in any trouble.” But I’m so mad, my legs have gone stiff. It’s easy to yell at someone who’s right in front of you.

“It could’ve been worse,” she says matter-of-factly. “I neglected to tell them you girls had been drinking.”

“Gee, thanks for your discretion. Anyway, they guessed.” I pause. “Wait, how do you even know that?”

Mrs. Scottie smiles. “It’s been a long life, Ellis, dear. I know things.”

The knowing smile only sets me off. “Why do you have to butt in where you’re not wanted?”

Click, clack. Click, clack.

“Why?” I shout.

Click, clack. Click, clack.

“I hate you,” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you?”

Click, clack. Click, clack.
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that, dear.”

Mrs. Scottie looks up at me. She sighs and reaches deep into her lap until she finds the end of her knitting. The whole mess is shoved aside, and now that she’s ready, suddenly I’m wailing in her arms.

16

Rain on a Stained-Glass Window

Beautiful and sad—it always matches the way you’re feeling.

THE RAIN SOAKS
my hair and skin, but I don’t stop walking. After everything that’s gone wrong today, I just need to see Dad.

It’s not complicated. Really. I don’t see why Mom has so much trouble understanding why I come here.

I forgo the bus because I need time to focus. I want to be alone, alone, until I get to Dad.

But there’s damage control to be done. I text Colin:

last night was messed up.

I wonder if Abby’s gotten to him first. She’s grounded, which means her dad has confiscated her phone, but she typically manages to find a way around things like that.

Colin’s reply message makes me wish I hadn’t bothered reaching out.

so i heard. wtf?

I don’t want to get into the details with him over text. Anyway, he’ll come down on Abby’s side like usual.

idk. she’s out of control.

The little green light comes back almost immediately.

i meant wtf is up with u?

I don’t even know what to say to that.

f u. f both of u.

I close the phone. When it rings two seconds later, I don’t pick up.

*   *   *

I TELL DAD
everything. Last night, the party, this morning, the stuff with Mom and the doctor.

“I’m not going, okay? You understand why I’m not going, right?” I reach for his hand. His warm fingers close around mine, but only because I press them into place with my other hand. It feels almost right. It feels good.

I tell him about Cara—he’ll remember her from when we were little.

“We hung out for a bit, and it was really good, Dad. I think we’re going to be friends again.

“But I fought with Abby. I haven’t even told her what Mom said the other day. Isn’t that stupid? I mean, I have to tell her, right? Do you think it’ll go away this time, like before? Do you think Mom will just leave it alone after a while? She always does, right?”

I rest my head on our clasped hands. “Yeah, that’s what she always does.”

So why does it feel like this time might be different?

*   *   *

THE TINY CHAPEL
separates itself from the hum and thrum of ALF’s hallways. The seats on the wooden pews are padded, red and plushy.

The nurses are changing Dad’s sheets, so I’ve stepped out of the way. I don’t like to watch the mechanics of their care. The behind-the-scenes, keep-him-alive-and-looking-good technicalities. I don’t see him that way.

The rain on the stained-glass window is pretty. I love summer rain, the kind you can walk in and just be wet, with no ill effects. The ends of my hair are still damp from earlier.

Being in the chapel is nice, and not, because it makes me think harder about the way things are right now. The quiet reminds me that there’s no easy answer, even though I’ve read everything imaginable about end-of-life issues, looking for one. I don’t know what’s right, or what Dad would want. Except, I can’t give up when there’s a chance he could wake up. That happens sometimes. There are stories.

I think you’re supposed to pray when you’re in here, but I never do. I don’t know what to say to God or whoever might be listening. I thumb through the worn hymnals and draw on the little prayer request notepads, even though that might be kind of wrong.

We’re not religious, but when I think about what’ll happen when Dad goes away, I have to wonder. I don’t know if I like the idea of an afterlife. It feels like a huge gamble. I mean, it’s pretty much fifty-fifty that there’s life after death. But on top of that, it’s fifty-fifty that life after death is going to be something worth hoping for. You just don’t know what you’re casting your lot toward. It could be awesome, a euphoric heaven where you never feel worried or hurt. Or it could totally blow, and then you’re really stuck. What if heaven/eternity/forever is this horrible trap that’s way worse than life as we know it?

Maybe it’s better if the end is just the end.

*   *   *

YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED
to use cell phones in the patient rooms or in the hall, but there’s no one around and the chapel’s all the way at the end of the building. I slide open my phone and click through my contacts until I find her name. One quick press, and it connects and starts ringing.

“Hi,” Cara says.

“Hi.”

Pause. I didn’t plan any further than this.

Music turns down in the background on Cara’s end. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“You at home?”

I study the stained-glass window, with its slow tears running down. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Oh.”

“The more we talk, the weirder I get,” I say. “You can hang up if you want.”

“I don’t want.”

Pause. My turn. “You got home okay?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“I have new respect for you, after seeing you wrangle all those guys.”

“Please. That was nothing. Especially compared to what you had to deal with. Did Abby really stuff her bra with Jell-O?”

I gasp. “How did you know that?”

“Evan was on the phone with Dennis earlier. I overheard. Something about a striptease.”

Oh, God. “People know? They’re talking about it?”

“I guess.”

I should hang up right now. Call Abby and warn her to get some damage control started. My brain flashes forward five minutes: I’ll be on the phone with Abby listening to her screech about who knows and how did they find out and why can’t she remember. She’ll go on and on, and I’ll be sitting here, drained and horrified, reliving every awkward minute of the last twenty-four hours.

Whatever force it is that causes me to curl up in a ball on the red-cushioned pew is far beyond my control. A fresh gust of rain rattles the stained-glass window. I raise my eyes to it, washed in a feeling of complete overload.

“Plus, she was just so smashed,” Cara says. “Did you get in major trouble?”

I breathe a sigh, relieved to be reminded of Abby’s grounding. To call would be a breach of the rules.

“I don’t really want to talk about last night,” I say.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You pick.” I tuck my knees tighter, press the phone closer to my ear. I have too much on my mind, and I don’t want to think about any of it.

“I drew some pictures for you,” Cara says.

“For me?” My pulse speeds up.

“Yeah. I’ll show them to you.”

“What are they of?”

“Different things.”

My gaze wanders upward again. “Can you draw a stained-glass window?”

“I can draw anything. Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.” I close my eyes. “A pretty one, not a sad one.”

“Hmm. They’re all kind of sad, aren’t they?”

The tears that prick my eyes feel warm. “I have to go now.”

I figure she’ll say bye and hang up after that, but she comes back with, “Ellis? Are you okay?”

It should be easy to just say yes. Instead I don’t say anything.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Cara says into the quiet I’ve created.

“It’s a lot of stuff,” I manage.

“Can I help?” she says.

The pause stretches on for a while.

“I’m going to think about you drawing me a picture,” I say.

*   *   *

MY SENSES
are heightened. The hair on my neck is up. But strangely, I’m not dialing my cell again.

If I wasn’t mad, I’d find a way to call Abby and warn her. If I wasn’t mad, I’d spend the rest of the day getting the full scoop out of everyone else who was there last night. But I’m not reaching for my cell.

This is a deep transgression against best friendship.

17

Driving

For once, for a little while, everything’s up to me.

I LEAN FORWARD
in the chair and rest my cheek on the fresh sheets near Dad’s shoulder. They’ve washed him up, too; I can smell the institutional soap. Everything is clean and familiar, quiet. The machines’ steady hum settles over us, Dad speaking to me. I struggle to listen through it, to hear his real voice in my mind, but it doesn’t come so often anymore.