Life From Scratch (19 page)

“He’s—”

When she saw Annie’s parents, she cut in. “I thought
he
was going to take you.”

Before I could respond, she spun on her heel, went back into the house, and slammed the door behind her.

I stared at the door for a moment. The handle never moved, and there were no shadows in the windows. Finally, Annie put her hand on my shoulder and led me to the car. Only when the plane rumbled off the tarmac did I realize that I’d forgotten my white teddy bear.

PART THREE

Cleav
i
ng

“You can outdistance that which is running after you, but not what is running inside of you.”
—Rwandan proverb

CHAPTER 12

School D
a
ys

T
HIRTY-FOUR HUNDRED MILES LATER
, my brother Tim picked me up from LaGuardia and drove me to Wesleyan University. He resembles the comedian Jerry Seinfeld in more than just looks, and soon had me laughing. As the miles piled up between us and the airport, I felt as if I were shedding a dry, too-small skin.

Before long, I settled in at school with a full course load, a well-behaved group of friends, and a shaggy-haired, prep school–graduate boyfriend named John. Though most of my freshman class was literally drunk on their freedom, I felt sobered by the responsibilities that came with college life and steered clear of the frat parties that thumped along the sidewalks.

As far as I was concerned, what had happened on that last day in Luxembourg could be water under the bridge if I could just show Patricia and Pierre how well I was doing. In September, when Pierre wrote asking for my new email and phone number, I was relieved. My friends didn’t understand my reaction, but without a hug from either of them on the day I left Luxembourg, I genuinely felt that I needed such permission to reach out. Pierre wrote that he and Patricia had donated many of my things, including my roller skates, to a local shelter. He also enclosed money for books and school supplies, and signed off, “We are looking forward to hearing about your experiences and impressions.”

Pierre and I emailed a few times after that, but Patricia remained silent. When I called their new house in early November, I was in for a surprise.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Patricia, it’s Sasha. I was—”

“Hold on.”

A moment later, Pierre picked up the phone.

“Hi! I was wondering what you guys are doing for Thanksgiving?”

There was silence. “Hello?” I asked. “Are you there?”

“Yes. Sasha, I … we think … well. Now that you’re 19, there’s really no reason …” He took a deep breath. “Y–you probably don’t need to be staying with us anymore. Of course, we’ll continue paying for school, but after that …”

I twisted at the phone cord, winding the rubber spiral tightly around my index finger.

“Of course, yes. You don’t have to do that. I just thought …”

All is well. All is well. All is well
.

“No, we want to. It’s the right thing to do. Have a happy Thanksgiving, Sasha.”

I closed my eyes: “You, too.”

I was confused; the letter had indicated a genuine concern for my well-being and future, but if I was to believe Pierre, this was it. I wondered if his daughters felt the same way. It seemed unlikely: Toni had sent me a boom box and card to perk up my dorm room, and Lauren and Heather had sent occasional updates as well.

As dusk turned to twilight, I thought over my time with them, remembering all the nights I’d stayed out past curfew, the times I’d cursed at Patricia and Pierre out of teenage angst, the times I’d secretly wished I could live anywhere but with them.

Yet they’d given me so much: the best of everything. In the years I spent with them, we lived in the United States, France, and Luxembourg—just 3 of the 12 countries I experienced, including visits to Norway, Tunisia, Greece, and Spain. Though cherished family and friends washed in and out of my life like driftwood, I’d still managed to cultivate a yearning for adventure. I’d seen, lived, tasted the world. I was curious and hungry—because of what they’d given me.

Even after my conversation with Pierre the winter before, I hadn’t expected things to end this way. His words felt like a sentence, except that instead of locking me up, I was locked out.

I stared down at the phone.

Nothing, it seemed, was forever. Even as I gave in to the status quo, I felt a wave of homesickness, yet didn’t know what or who for.

When I wasn’t with my siblings in New Jersey, I disappeared into my boyfriend John’s extraordinarily
normal
family on Cape Cod. As I strolled arm in arm with him along the snowy beaches, I didn’t have to wonder about Patricia and Pierre or decide if it was time to find my mom (it had been seven years since I’d last seen her in Atlanta). And yet she felt so close; John’s parents lived 15 minutes from where I was born. I often caught myself scanning the scattered, faceless tourists, looking for Mom’s small shoulders or that mass of curly black hair on the off chance that she still visited the Cape from time to time. I was equally as afraid that I’d spot her as I would not.

When spring break rolled around, John gently suggested that we mix things up by going to see friends in Boston. We were sitting together at the campus cafeteria. “That sounds nice, but …” I stopped, thinking of Mom. I didn’t have her number, but if she hadn’t moved, I did know her address. “Do you think I could look up my mother while we’re there?”

He gave my leg a squeeze and nodded. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

We retraced the winding roads and dusty alleys that led to the old apartment in Jamaica Plain. The shuddering elevator train that once spat pedestrians onto the cracked sidewalk was long gone, but even without it I knew we were close. A curious mix of salsa and rap still spilled out from the Latino market a half mile from our house, where Michael and I once ate ice pops on hot summer afternoons. John turned down a small street lined with enormous oaks, end capped by old warehouse buildings.

My
street: There was the fire hydrant I’d splashed in and the handicapped ramp where Mom had once parked, only to get a citation. There, suddenly, was the park where Michael and I had played all those years ago. As I stared at the empty swings drifting ever so slightly in the breeze, I could almost see little Michael run by with a belly laugh, his chestnut hair dancing across his blue eyes. I drew my gray hoodie close around me.

John slowed the car to a crawl.

“Is this the right place?” he asked. I followed his gaze across the street: There it was, with the familiar evergreen trim. Nothing stirred: No neighbors milled about; no engines idled but ours.

“That’s the apartment,” I said slowly, pointing to the first floor, then to the narrow window next to the doorbell. “That’s where my bed was—under that window. Our landlord and some other guy lived in the two apartments above us. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost nine years since I last crossed that threshold …”

I could still see the seashells we’d scattered like mulch around the rose bushes more than ten years ago. They were dusty and cracked, half buried in the dirt. A few stray blades of grass poked through.

I didn’t get out of the car right away, but pressed my back against the seat and closed my eyes. I was starting to feel dizzy.

“You don’t look so hot, Sash. You wanna come back later?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” he leaned across the center console and placed his large hand over mine. I pulled away and shook my head.

“No,” I whispered.

I peeled myself off the seat, slipped through the squeaking chain-link gate, and climbed the steps, gripping the rail to steady myself. The porch creaked and bowed underfoot. For a moment I thought I was falling. By the time I reached the doorbell, my hand was shaking so hard I could barely ring it. No answer.

I rang it again, pressing my ear against the window to be sure it was working; still no answer. I peered in through the blinds, but a leggy spider plant hung in the way. What I could see of the room was hazy and dark.

“This was a mistake,” I said, back at the SUV. “Let’s go.”

John held out a pen and paper through the window. “Hey. Don’t give up.”

“She’s not home,” I said. “Maybe we can come back some other time.”

He didn’t move. Finally I took the slip of paper and pen and wrote, “Hi Mom, it’s Sasha. I’m in town for a few days. If you’d like to get together, you can call me on my boyfriend’s cell phone, 555-1818. We’re staying with a friend in Arlington. I hope you’re doing OK. I love you.”

I dropped the paper into her mailbox and shut the lid tightly, my hands lingering on the cool metal for a moment before walking away.