Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (27 page)

“What is it?” My hands are dirty from all the pencil and crayon dust in the cabinet, so I swipe a lock of hair out of my eyes with the back of my wrist and peer over her shoulder.

“Hopkins wrote this. She wanted me to give it to Mrs. Rieper.”

“She wrote Mrs. Rieper a letter?” We’d both had her as our second-grade teacher, only years apart, of course.

“At the beginning of the school year.” Mom tilts it so I can see it more clearly. “But I never gave it to her.”

I read the note.

Dear Mrs. Rieper,

I know you and I had what you might call our differences when I was in your second-grade class. If I remember correctly, you once told me, “You think you know everything, but no seven-year-old knows everything, so maybe you should just listen and learn once in a while.” Does that ring a bell for you? I’m writing now because my sister is about to be a student in your class, and I want to assure you that despite her last name, she’s nothing like me. Keats is a very sweet and good-natured little girl, and her teachers always love her. In fact, her preschool teacher once told my parents that she would adopt Keats if she could. (She was joking, of course, and simply meant she enjoyed Keats immensely.) She deserves to be judged on her own merit and not as the sister of a student you frequently showed a lack of patience toward. Please try to keep an open mind and make her feel welcome in your classroom.

Yours,

Hopkins Sedlak

I read it twice, torn between laughter and horror. “Is this for real?”

Mom nods and folds it up and puts it in the
Save
pile. “You can see why I didn’t send it on.”

“Yeah, good choice.” I turn back to the cabinet but then just stand there for a moment, thinking. “It was kind of sweet of Hopkins. Misguided, but sweet.”

“I think she really did mean well. Can you believe she was only thirteen when she wrote that?” Mom laughs. “Only Hopkins…Do you remember Mrs. Rieper at all?”

“Vaguely. She was perfectly nice to me.”

“I told you before: teachers liked you better than they did Hopkins.”

“Only because I didn’t challenge them, and she did. They had to appreciate how brilliant she was.”

“I’m sure they tried to,” Mom says drily.

It takes us—me, really—several hours to get through the cabinets, but finally we have two huge bags of trash, one bag of papers to be recycled, three stacks of drawings and stories that seemed worth saving (one for each child), and a box of games and toys in decent shape that Mom wants to donate to a hospital or shelter.

I carry the trash and recycling out to the sidewalk and load the box into Mom’s car. Since we never had a real lunch, we’re both starving by now, and we figure we’ve earned a nice meal out. I ask Milton if he wants to come with us, but I’m not surprised when he says we should just bring something back for him. I don’t push him to go. He made it all the way to the supermarket today. That’s enough for now. It’s more than he’s done in two years.

He tells me to close the door on my way out of his room.

So Mom and I go out alone to a local Italian restaurant, where she gets a seafood salad and I get pasta marinara and a call from Tom, who wants to know when I’m coming home. I tell him I’m at dinner with my mother.

“You’re eating with her? But it’s Saturday! And it’s not even six yet! Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“Because I was hungry.” I tell him I’ll meet him at home in an hour or so and get off the phone quickly.

I drop Mom back off at the house. She’s got one foot out of the car when she stops and turns back to me. “You know, Keats, wherever I live, if you ever need a place to stay, for any length of time…You know you’re welcome to come stay with me, right?”

A month ago, a week ago—maybe even yesterday—I would have gotten annoyed at her for even saying that.

But today I thank her and say, “It’s good to know.”

She doesn’t ask me any questions, just nods and gets out of the car.

* * *

As soon as I enter the apartment, Tom turns off the TV and jumps to his feet. “I’m starving,” he says. “Let’s go to Jo-Jo’s. I’m dying for a burger.” He’s changed from the golf clothes he was wearing that morning into a T-shirt and jeans.

“Do you mind going without me? I’ve already been to one restaurant tonight.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Come on, Keats. The least you can do is keep me company—I still can’t believe you blew me off without even checking. You knew I’d want to have dinner with you.”

I go with him to Jo-Jo’s. It seems easier than arguing. He orders a double burger, and when it comes, he shoves his plate toward me. “Take some fries—you know you want them.”

But I really don’t.

He comments on how quiet I am. “Your mother bug you about something?”

I shake my head. “She was fine.”

“Then why are you so out of it?”

“I’m not.”

Fortunately the TV’s on at the bar, and he can see it from his seat, so he’s happy to just go back to sucking down the hamburger and cheering whenever someone gets a hit.

I watch him eat for a while, and then say, “I made Milton go to the supermarket today.”

“Yeah?” His eyes are on the TV. “Why?”

“Because he never leaves the house anymore, and I decided he should.”

“Oh. Good for you then. How’d it go?”

“It wasn’t easy for either of us. But it’s a good thing, I think. Something needed to change.”

“He’s a nutball, your brother,” Tom says genially. Then he winces and says, “Damn it—I can’t believe he didn’t catch that!”

I sink down lower in my seat.

“Split a sundae with me?” he says when his plate is cleared.

“Still not hungry.”

“Please tell me you’re not trying to lose weight. You’re so miserable when you’re on a diet. And you know I think you look great the way you are.”

“I’m just full from dinner.” But it’s not really that. It’s something else that’s making me feel sick to my stomach. Some sense that I’ve made a decision. Or that a decision has been made for me.

Tom orders dessert anyway—with two forks—and eats it quickly, staring at the TV over my head. I don’t use the extra fork.

On the walk back to our place, he hooks his arm through mine. “Sorry if I was in a bad mood before,” he says. “I was just hungry.”

“It’s okay.”

He tries to see my face, but it’s dark out, and we’re walking side by side. “You sure your mom didn’t say anything to upset you?”

I try to answer but I can’t. I’m trembling and I’m scared he’ll feel it.

I’m about to do something awful. And frightening. And probably wrong.

I’m about to jump off a cliff.

* * *

In the apartment, I take Tom by the hand and lead him to one of the armchairs and tell him to sit down.

“What’s up?” he asks.

I don’t sit down. I stand in front of him, biting my lip while I try to figure out how to say what I have to say. Eventually what comes out is, “I’m thinking I might go stay at home for a little while.”

“Really? Why? Is your mom okay?”

I stare down at the floor. The carpet is classic rental apartment wall-to-wall stuff: beige, easy to walk on, easy to vacuum. “She’s fine—she just needs help getting ready for the move. Lots of people were looking at the house today. I think she’ll get an offer soon, and then she won’t have much time to pack up.”

“With the money she’s going to get for that house, she can hire people to help her.”

“It’s not that simple. We need to sort through it all and figure out what to keep.”

He shrugs. “So help her. That doesn’t mean you have to live there. It’s close enough you can go over there whenever you need to, and I hate when you’re gone at night. I don’t sleep well when you’re not here.” He reaches for my hand but I move it away.

I say, “I think maybe it’s good for us to get used to sleeping apart.”

“What do you mean?”

I don’t respond, just stand there in front of him, not meeting his eyes, feeling my throat swell up.

After a moment, he says, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I whisper, “I’m so sorry. I think I need some time to myself.”

“No,” he says again, and his voice is rising with real panic. He stands up and grabs my arm. “Keats. I don’t know what this is about—whatever it is, tell me and I’ll fix it—but for god’s sake, don’t start talking like you’re going to
leave
me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say again because I don’t know what else to say. I can feel silent tears slipping out, clinging to my eyelids before dropping onto my cheeks.

“You’re always saying we’ll be together forever. Just last night we were talking about our
kids
,
for god’s sake. What happened since then? What’s changed?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”

“Was it something your mother said? I know she doesn’t think I’m good enough for you—no one in your family does. But you’ve said a million times that you’re glad I’m not like them.”

“I know. I am. And there’s nothing wrong with you at all.” My voice keeps breaking. It’s hard to get the words out. “You’re great. I just feel different now. I don’t even know why. I just do.”

His eyes search my face for more information, but I have none to give him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you about dinner,” he says so humbly that it breaks my heart. “I shouldn’t have done that. I know I get impatient sometimes. I’ve been taking you too much for granted. I won’t anymore, I swear. I’ll wait on you hand and foot if that’s what it takes to keep you happy.”

I’m shaking my head, whispering, “No, that’s not it,” but I don’t think he hears me.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” There’s a suddenly suspicious tone to his voice. “Were you really with your mother tonight? Or with someone else?”

“My mother and I had dinner alone together.” I recite the facts tonelessly. “We went to Ceci’s. She had a salad. I had pasta.”

“Give me your phone.” He holds his hand out.

“What?”

“Give me your cell phone.”

“Why?”

“I want to see who’s been calling you.”

“No.” I step back. “No one’s been calling me, Tom. Not the way you mean. That’s not what’s going on.”

“Then why won’t you just give me your phone? Show me you’re not hiding anything.”

I hand it to him reluctantly. “Don’t do this, Tom. Please.”

He pokes at the phone. “Who’s Mark?”

“No one important.”

He throws the phone across the room and grabs me by the wrists. “Who is he?”

“Jesus, Tom! Mark’s a guy in my office—you’ve met him a bunch of times, and if you actually read those texts, you’d see they were all work related.”

He grips my hands tightly. “Tell me the truth, Keats. Who did you have dinner with tonight?”

“I already told you: my mother.”

“Have you been seeing someone behind my back?”

I’m tired. I just want to curl up somewhere and go to sleep until this is all over and done with. “I’m not leaving because there’s someone else,” I say wearily. “I’m leaving because it’s time.”

He tugs me closer to him, tries to put my arms around his waist, but he has to hold them there because I won’t. “Please, Keats,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry anymore, just devastated. “Please don’t do this. You’re the only thing that matters in the whole world to me. I can’t lose you. I won’t have anything.” He burrows his face into my neck, presses his mouth against the skin there, then moves his lips up over my jaw and across my cheeks and then back into my neck again.

I don’t know what he’s thinking. That his passion will reignite mine? That sex will solve the problem, convince me to love him again? But I don’t want to be kissed right now. I don’t want to have sex. I just want to leave.

He lifts his head to see how I’m reacting, and I extricate my hands and turn away from him. “I have to pack,” I say.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait. You can’t.” His fingers scramble at his shirtsleeve. He pulls it up and shoves his arm right in front of my face so I have to see what’s written above his elbow. The sight of it scrapes something raw inside of me. “You
can’t
leave me,” he says desperately. “See? This is forever.”

I shake my head and whisper, “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have done that.”

There’s a moment where we’re both silent.

Then he falls down to his knees on the floor and buries his face in his hands.

18.

I
can’t stop shaking. My fingers are wrapped around a mug of tea, but I’m not drinking it, just using it to warm my hands. I have chills, even though it’s a warm spring night.

My mother greeted me very calmly when I showed up at her door. She just took my suitcase, put it at the foot of the stairs, then walked me into the kitchen where she sat me down in the breakfast booth and busied herself making tea.

“Okay,” she says, settling across the table from me. “Now tell me what happened.”

“I left Tom.”

“I gathered that from the suitcase. What brought about this decision?”

I stare down at the mug. The tea bag’s still in it. I should take it out before the tea turns bitter, but even that simple act seems beyond me. I’ve never felt so exhausted in my life. “I don’t know.”

“Something must have made you want to leave tonight.”

“It wasn’t anything he did. I just didn’t want to be there with him anymore. Does that make sense?”

“More sense to me than to anyone else probably.” There’s a pause. “You know how I’ve always felt about Tom. He wasn’t—”

I put a hand up. “Don’t start saying mean things about him. Please.”

She falls silent.

I put the mug down so I can pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs, which helps steady the shaking a little. “He was crying when I left.”

She reaches across the table and touches my arm gently. “That sounds miserable. But you did what you had to do.”

“All he’s ever done is be nice to me. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.”

“That doesn’t mean he deserves to be with you.”