A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life (6 page)

SIX

I probably don’t need to tell you that I feel absolutely awful when I wake up the next morning. For the first time in my life I know what it means to have a splitting headache. I’ve always had this sort of cartoon image in my mind of someone’s head with all these electric currents shooting through it, splitting it into a thousand different pieces. In the cartoon the guy is holding his hands to his head, trying to keep all the pieces together, and the word balloon says something like
YEEEEOOOWWWW! ! ! !
That is precisely how I feel this morning. And my mouth is dry. And I smell bad.

I take some Tylenol and jump in the shower while Cleo goes downstairs to make me some coffee. I’m in a hurry. I’m due at the town hall in thirty minutes. The hot water is beating on my back, and I stare down at my feet, which I’ve always found to be particularly ugly, trying my best to wash away last night. I know it was funny in the car with Cleo, but today I feel pretty embarrassed. I turn the water a little hotter, almost burning my skin. How long will it take for my episode to work its way through the Twelve Oaks grapevine? Is there a speed faster than the speed of light?

When I get to the demonstration I quickly find the other members of the ASA because they’re all wearing green T-shirts, as was the plan. The plan that I completely spaced on. I think it was some unconscious form of rebellion that sent me to this rally in a cherry-red shirt. I was totally against the idea that we all wear one color, but I kept quiet during the meeting because I still feel like the new kid and I don’t want to make waves. We’re the Atheist Student Alliance, drawn together by our common
lack
of belief. All of us wearing the same color seems counter to our mission. But this morning no one mentions my shirt. This makes me like them all a little bit more.

The Young Democrats are here, and some people from a group called Massachusetts Citizens United to Protect the Separation of Church and State, which seems like an absurdly long name for any group, and several people from a synagogue called Temple Isaiah. I know this from the name tags that are being worn by everyone here but me. I locate the registration table, sign myself in, grab a name tag, and write
SIMONE
,
TWELVE OAKS ASA
on it. There’s also fresh cider and doughnuts, but my stomach hasn’t signaled its willingness to mix and mingle yet.

I find Minh, and he gives me a hug. His green T-shirt has the logo of a skateboard company on it, and he’s wearing big baggy skater shorts. This is sort of a uniform for him. Minh may be an atheist, but he seems to have an almost religious devotion to skateboarding.

“Where were you last night? How come you didn’t come to Rich’s party?”

I just roll my eyes and shake my head, which I’m pretty sure is sign language for “You don’t even want to know,” and Minh lets it go. He tells me how cool the bonfire was, but of course he doesn’t realize that this is like rubbing salt in my wound.

The counterdemonstration is taking place on the south side of the lawn in front of the town hall. We’re standing in the shade of large red and yellow oaks that haven’t yet dropped their leaves. The main demonstration is taking place across from us on the north side of the lawn under the blistering sun. You have to wonder: exactly whose side is God on here anyway?

There’s a podium between the two groups—just two empty cardboard boxes one on top of the other. A rather large man steps in front of it. He is totally bald and has a full mustache. (Technically speaking, are you totally bald if you have facial hair?) People who must be members of his church surround him on all sides. Some hold signs that read
YOU CAN’T CROSS OUT A CROSS
. He begins to speak. No, he’s not speaking, he’s praying.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

You know the rest. Or maybe you don’t. I’m completely surprised to learn that I actually do know the rest. Me, of all people. And I don’t know how this could have happened, considering the kind of home I was raised in, yet I realize that all the words are coming to me as he is saying them.

“Give us this day our daily bread…”

How is this possible? By the way, I’ve been working pretty diligently on my vocabulary, as you know, and I think I can state with confidence that
art
is not a verb. And I have no idea what
hallowed
means.

I guess they had no takers back at the registration table because a woman approaches me with a tray of apple cider and doughnuts like this is some kind of cocktail party. Ugh. Even thinking of the word
cocktail
makes me want to hurl.

“Would you like a little refreshment, hon?” She has gray hair that she’s wearing tied back with a navy ribbon. There’s a name tag on her jean jacket that says
HELEN, ALL SAINTS CHURCH
.

I try to be as polite as I’m able, considering my headache. “You know,” I say, “I think you want to be over there.” I motion to the crowd melting in the sun.

She looks puzzled. She looks at my name tag and then quickly down at her own, and a wave of understanding washes over her.

“Oh, no, dear,” she says gently. “I’m in the right place. I believe the cross should be removed from our town seal. I don’t think religion has any place in the public sphere.”

Wow. Go, Helen. I decide to take a doughnut.

The morning passes with speeches and prayers made at the cardboard podium. Heidi speaks on behalf of the ASA and does a really great job. The rabbi from Temple Isaiah was excellent too, and he was bald with a closely trimmed beard, so I realize he’s the perfect person to take my question about baldness to, but I chicken out later when he walks past me and smiles. When the mind-numbingly dull guy from the town historical society is addressing the crowd, I spot my nemesis from the Organic Oasis. This is going to be good.

I walk over to her casually. “Hi.”

She looks at me and smiles. She has absolutely no idea who I am.

“Remember me?”

She looks at me carefully. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Laura Anderson.” So now who’s suddenly Ms. Hi-I’m-So-Friendly?

“I’m Simone. We met at the Organic Oasis.”

It takes her a minute. “Oh, yes. That’s right. The ACLU girl.” She looks at my tag. “I think you need a little help with your acronym there.” Now there’s the lady I know and love.

“I’m not here with the ACLU today. I’m here with the Atheist Student Alliance.”
Look at me! I’m a member of a club! And proud of it!

The redness returns. And so do the whispering and the spit. I’m in complete awe of how quickly this creature can turn from smiles and sunshine into some kind of dark lord ruling over a land of fire.

“I’ve heard about your group,” she spits, “and I intend to do something about it. My daughter is a freshman at Twelve Oaks. I’m up for a seat on the board. And when I get there you can count on your little group getting banned from campus. Good day.” And again she turns around and walks away.

Well, the first thing I’m left thinking is, who the hell says “Good day” anymore? What is this, Elizabethan England? Australia? This isn’t exactly how I imagined my terrible revenge. I was supposed to wow her with my mastery of the issue and my wicked wit, then turn on
my
heel and leave her standing there with
her
mouth open. But today my mind and wit are as dull as that guy from the historical society. For a minute I imagine the scorecard: Evil Bitch 2, Simone 0.

I retreat back to my team of green-shirted atheists. Heidi is giving a little pep talk, thanking everyone for showing up, reminding us how important it is just to be here in numbers and how we will monitor the case, and telling us not to forget our next meeting a week from Tuesday. The doughnut is like a brick in my stomach.

“Hey, Simone. Want to go get some lunch?” It’s Minh.

I don’t feel like eating anything ever again and I really want to just go curl up in my bed in my stuffy attic and shut out the world, but I realize Minh is the perfect person to talk to about that telephone number, the one with the Cape Cod prefix.

We go to this new place in town called Panini. It serves—you guessed it—panini, which I believe is the plural of panino and is also just a fancy way of saying sandwich. He orders while I take a seat with a large glass of ice water.

I got to know Minh last year in chemistry when we were lab partners. We’ve been going to the same school for years, and I knew that he was adopted because I had seen him at different school events with his very white parents. But I never said something like “Hey, I’m adopted too. We must have a lot in common!” What kind of kid says something like that? But the truth is I made an effort to keep my distance from Minh. I didn’t want to identify with him. I didn’t want to talk to Minh because even though I was curious about his story I didn’t want to have to tell my own. That book was closed to me. But I don’t know if you’ve ever taken chemistry. If you have, then you will understand that during our year as lab partners Minh and I did eventually get to talking about the fact that we’re both adopted because you’ll end up talking about anything just so you don’t have to talk about chemistry.

Minh sits down with his panino and a bottle of some kind of fancy soda that is a shocking shade of blue.

I cut to the chase. I tell him about the Rivka Situation.

Minh pushes his long hair out of his eyes and looks at me carefully. “Simone. That’s so amazing. Oh my God.”

“Amazing?”

“Yeah. You’re so lucky. What’s she like? Does she look like you? Does she have any other kids?”

I interrupt him. I have a feeling there’s no end to this list of questions. The more questions he asks, the harder I have to work to prevent myself from imagining the answers.

“I have no idea. I haven’t called her. I’ve had her phone number for a while now, and I’m not sure what to do with it.”

“Are you crazy?” He looks completely baffled. “You pick up the phone and you call her. What an incredible opportunity. I would kill for a chance like this. Damn. Give me her number. I’ll call her!”

Look at us sitting here. Two students at Twelve Oaks. An avid skateboarder and a newly minted member of the school newspaper. One Vietnamese boy and one olive-skinned girl. One in a green shirt and one in cherry red. If you just walked in and saw the two of us sitting here, you would have no idea that we share a past. Or what I guess I mean to say is, like atheists who share an absence of belief, we share an absence of a past. Our lives are defined by the same mystery.

“I’ve tried everything,” he says. “The orphanage I lived in burned down years ago. My parents were never told how I got there; they only knew that I lived there since I was born. They also tell me that I seemed well fed and that I barely ever cried. I’m no real detective, but that doesn’t give me much to go on.”

And again, in a space of less than twenty-four hours, I feel pretty embarrassed. I’ve been slamming doors and crying in the dark over the chance to know something, or someone, Minh will never know. Minh can’t solve his mystery, but I can begin to solve mine. Some of the answers are right in my own house, and if I want to go back farther, deeper, those answers are only ten digits away.

“Hey, Minh, I’m sorry,” I start.

“Don’t worry about it. Just do it. Just call her. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

When I return to school Tuesday I quickly become nostalgic for the days when I was known as the girl who’s full of herself. It seems so quaint compared to the girl who was fooling around with Tim Whelan and then puked. You know what happens with rumors. By the end of the week the story has me doing much, much more with Tim than I actually was, and puking all over him instead of the bushes. I don’t really know who’s to blame for getting this started, but I have a hunch that Tim has something to do with it because he hasn’t so much as looked in my direction all week. Forget all those things I said about him being kind of cute and smelling good and all that stuff. I hate Tim Whelan and I hate this school.

But I have bigger problems than Tim Whelan: I can’t shake my conversation with Minh.

Just call her.

Can it really be as simple as that? A telephone. A receiver pressed to my ear. A dial tone. Do ten numbers placed in a specific sequence really equal the answer to my lifetime of mystery?

Why can’t my past leave me alone? Why does it keep knocking on my door, and why is this knocking getting louder and louder until I can’t sleep or even think anymore?

I need the answers. I can’t keep fighting them off. The knocking is getting louder, and my door is creaking open.

SEVEN

It was Halloween last night. Halloween is my favorite holiday of all time. It always has been, and not just because I’m a big fan of candy, especially in bite-sized form. I think Halloween brings out the very best in humanity. We open our homes and give without expecting anything in return. It’s really pretty amazing when you think about it. What other night do you talk to your neighbors and your neighbors’ neighbors and other people’s neighbors who just drove to your neighborhood because it seemed like a nice place to knock on the doors of complete strangers? What other night do you not mind when your doorbell rings in the middle of dinner again and again and again? On most holidays we turn inward. We gather in our homes, we light fires, we spend time with our loved ones. But Halloween sends us out into the streets, into the cold, with people we don’t know, running from stranger’s house to stranger’s house. And in wacky costumes!

And for an atheist, Halloween is the perfect holiday. It involves spirits and the dead and generic ghosts but, from what I can tell, not the Holy Ghost. So I love Halloween. That’s why I still go trick-or-treating every year. You might think people would greet a sixteen-year-old in a costume looking for candy with disdain or even hostility. But like I said, Halloween brings out the best in humanity. I was greeted only with outstretched bowls of candy and praise for my costume.

I went as Edward Scissorhands. James wore a blond wig and went as the Winona Ryder character. We looked awesome. We snagged a pretty good haul and came home and shared most of it with Jake. Then the three of us watched
Edward Scissorhands
and I went to bed early.

And then this morning I do it. I call her. My hands are shaking so much when I push the buttons that on the first try I dial a wrong number. For a minute I think this is all a hoax, that she gave me a fake number like some guy who wants you to think he likes you but really never wants to hear from you again. But when I try a second time I get a woman, just slightly out of breath, and I know immediately that I have the right number.

I’m quiet for what seems like hours but is probably only about thirty seconds. She doesn’t say, “Hello? Hello? Hello?” like you usually do in that annoyed way when you answer your phone and no one is at the other end. She just stays on the line like she has all day. I can hear her catching her breath and then hear her breathing slowing down to a natural rhythm.

Finally I just say, “Hi.”

Again there’s a long pause.

“Simone?” she says, but it really isn’t a question. She’s just saying my name.

More silence.

“You know,” she says, “I was just sitting in my kitchen reading my horoscope in the newspaper.”

Oh, great. She’s one of those crazy astrology people. I can’t stand astrology people or numerology people or people who see other people’s auras.

“And you should know,” she says, “that I think horoscopes are complete bull and that people who believe in them should be locked away. But that being said, I read mine every day. Isn’t that twisted? And today my horoscope says that someone from my past is going to make a surprise appearance.”

“Wow,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. “That’s impressive.”

“No. Not really. Horoscopes say crap like that almost every day. It’s simple odds. They have to be right once in a while.” More silence. Then the sound of a kettle boiling.

I try to picture her kitchen. Is it pale yellow? Vibrant green? Are there windows that look out into a yard or out at the ocean? Are there tall stools at a counter? A small wooden table with chairs? Are there any pots and pans hanging from the ceiling? Any plants?

And why was she out of breath? Was she racing to find the cordless phone? Was it buried between the cushions of a couch in the living room like it always is in our house?

I still don’t try to picture her. I still can’t.

“Did you do anything for Halloween last night?” she asks me. This throws me off. I’m not sure if she realizes how old I am, although of course she knows how old I am, but maybe she doesn’t know anything about sixteen-year-olds. But then again, I did go trick-or-treating, so maybe I should say something that clearly spells out that even though I’m too old to go trick-or-treating, I did it anyway because I love Halloween.

“I was Edward Scissorhands. My friend James was Winona Ryder.”

“Clever. I like that. I didn’t get nearly enough trick-ortreaters, and now I’m stuck with this huge bowl of Almond Joys and Peppermint Patties. I hate Almond Joys and Peppermint Patties. That’s why I buy them—so I won’t eat them all. But now I’m starting to think that maybe kids don’t like them either and that’s why I’m staring at a huge bowl of Almond Joys and Peppermint Patties.”

“I love Almond Joys,” I say. And there we have it. The first notable difference between us. “I could take or leave the Peppermint Patties.”

In the next silence that follows I hear the sound of something outside far off in the distance. A car or a truck or maybe an airplane.

“Where are you?” I ask.

She understands that I don’t mean in what room. Clearly she’s in the kitchen. She already said so.

“Wellfleet. On the Cape.” I knew it. Damn, I’m good. “It’s so quiet here now. All the summer people are gone. This is my favorite time of year here, just before winter sets in and hibernation begins.”

“I’ve never been to Cape Cod.”

“How is that possible?”

“I have an uncle in Sag Harbor. We spend our beach vacations in the Hamptons.”

“Big mistake.”

I feel a twinge of annoyance. Who is she to judge my family or where we choose to go to the beach?

“It’s really nice there. My uncle’s house is just a few blocks from the water, and he has three kids all close in age to my brother and me.” I say this to kind of rub her nose in my family a bit.
Look at us! We’re a big, happy, fun-loving, beach-going family. And you live in your lonely little house on Cape Cod
. Or does she? Maybe her house is huge. Maybe she has a husband and a whole mess of kids running around.

“That does sound nice,” she says. “I guess I’m just a snob about Cape Cod. I’m working on opening my horizons.”

But I’m still thinking about who else might be in her house. Suddenly I have a desperate need to get off the phone.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”

“Simone.” There she goes again, saying my name. I think maybe she’s stalling for time. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m really glad you called.” And then she just lets me go.

I find my parents sitting in the living room. Dad is in his bathrobe. Mom is back from a run. Jake is still asleep in his room and will probably remain there for at least another two hours. Newspapers are everywhere (on Sundays we get both the
Boston Globe
and the
New York Times
), and I think I smell freshly squeezed oranges.

“Morning, sweets.” Mom looks up from the paper and smiles. Her face is still red from the run or the cold or both. She motions for me to come and sit next to her. I oblige, and she runs her fingers through my hair. I quickly get up and go stretch out on the rug. Dad is in the armchair. Mom is on the couch. I have them both in my sight.

I reach for the comics section. I think that’s where they print the horoscopes.

“I just talked to Rivka,” I say.

They both quickly fold up their papers and straighten them into piles and sort of adjust themselves as if company has arrived unexpectedly. Dad goes first. “Tell us about it. How do you feel?”

“Insensate,” I say. They look puzzled.

“What do you mean, honey?” Mom asks.

“I mean exactly what
insensate
means. I mean I feel nothing. I have an absence of feeling.” This is of course entirely not true. I think I feel the exact opposite of insensate, but I don’t know a word for feeling every emotion that exists all at once. I feel tears coming on, but this time I don’t really mind.

“I think I have her voice,” I say in a voice that is very quiet and shaky and not at all like my real voice.

Mom and Dad exchange looks. Then they both look at me. My mom smiles sort of sadly. “We think so too,” she says.

Finally I have my big cry. Out in the open. Right there on the floor. With the newspapers and my mother and father as witnesses. I have to admit that it feels really good. I think the word for this is
cathartic
. I feel such overwhelming relief. My head is clearing, and at the same time it’s spinning with questions. I’ve kept them locked out for so long, and now the window has been thrown open and they are swarming in. There are so many questions that I hardly know where to begin. But while I was listening to the sound of Rivka’s voice and of her home and of her life in the background I realized that my first questions aren’t for Rivka. They’re for Mom and Dad. They tell me they have some answers whenever I’m ready. I’m grateful to them for leaving it at that and understanding that the Big Cry pretty much tapped me out for at least today, probably for longer.

Dad then does what Dad does best. He feeds me. He makes raspberry-banana pancakes, turkey sausages, and some scrambled eggs I leave untouched. I drink two huge glasses of orange juice and more coffee than I should. Jake finally stumbles out of his room (shirtless, of course), eats about twice what I did, and then polishes off my eggs. I take a close look at him, searching for signs of my little brother. Everything about him is changing. He sleeps forever. His appetite knows no bounds. His voice is deeper than Dad’s. And I think I’ve already mentioned his budding physique. Jake is in the middle of a spectacular transformation, and the signs of it are everywhere you turn. But here I am, sitting across from Jake while rapid and irreversible changes are happening to me, and if you took a closer look, you still wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.

In the afternoon I go apple picking with my family. I was supposed to see a movie with Cleo and Ivy, but when my dad suggests that we go apple picking, it just seems like the perfect way to spend the day. And it was. I don’t mean to make it sound sickeningly sweet, like look at this perfect family laughing and smiling and filling bushels with bright red apples and then piling the bushels into the back of their Subaru wagon and heading home, leaving whirling trails of brightly colored leaves on the country road behind them. But that’s pretty much how it was. I’m just happy to be with my family today. They make me laugh, and they also make me proud, and they make me feel safe. I think maybe I give Jake one too many completely uncalled-for squeezes around the neck, because he finally just looks at me and says, “What’s with you today, you freak?”

And I go to bed in my attic, under my fading glow-in-the-dark stars, with my fingers still stinging from the November cold and my eyes still stinging from this morning’s Big Cry, and I sleep a sleep without dreaming.