Never Enough (21 page)

Even though silent sipping was normal for us, today it felt longer and quieter than ever before.

*   *   *

Claire stormed past me and up the stairs when I got home, and I had to think for a minute what it was about. I’d forgotten all about our breakfast episode.

But then I had another sickening thought: If Shayleen had heard about Josh and me, had Claire heard too?

Claire didn’t sit with us at dinner, leaving me to do the dishes, even though it wasn’t my turn. I padded for the kitchen without complaint, and was actually glad for the solitude.

She must
hate
me. What kind of a person sleeps with her
sister’s ex-boyfriend? And only weeks after they’d broken up! I’d been so angry with her this morning, but it wasn’t even her I was really angry at. I was mad at myself. And I was way too embarrassed to talk to her about what I’d done.

Dishes were the least I could do.

*   *   *

The next morning, when she still wouldn’t look at me, I decided my only escape was the Arts Club.

Marcus and I spent the next few days practically taking over Armando’s business. We learned where to call to order the coffee and syrups; we paid the heat and light bills; and we divvied up the profits according to Armando’s directions. It didn’t work out to much more than we’d made before. In the early mornings before we opened, we repainted the walls, still in bright yellows and oranges, but covering all the dings and dents from years past. We sanded, by hand, every piece of furniture in that place and varnished them up to look antique-brand-new. We even hand-painted an
ARTS CLUB CAFÉ
sign that could be seen from the main road. The place had needed a facelift, and the whole process felt cathartic.

The more I distracted myself with physical work, the less I thought about Josh. It seemed to get a bit easier each day to put him out of my mind. Josh didn’t drop by the café, and as days passed I stopped wanting him to. He didn’t call the house, either. At least, not that Claire had mentioned. Then
again, she probably wouldn’t have mentioned it. She still hadn’t spoken a word to me, and I felt sick every time I had to go home and face her.

Armando’s visits to the café became just that: “visits.” He worked a few hours here and there to give us a break, but he never stayed long. Marcus and I each had our own sets of keys, and although Armando’s phone number was pasted beside the old black rotary-dial phone, we never used it.

“I’ve been thinking of adding a few items to the menu,” Marcus said, scanning the chalkboard above us. He had also given me his phone number. I think it was an act of reassurance, to let me know he was still working toward opening up. I stuffed the number into my book bag, but knew I’d never actually call it.

“Any specific ideas?” I prodded.

He pulled up a Saran-wrapped bundle of biscotti from under the counter. “This.”

I stared at the package, which had a handwritten note about the macadamia nuts and chocolate variety. “Yum.” It was almost dinnertime. My mouth watered. A lot.

“You know how cops are known for hanging out in doughnut shops?” he said. “Uncle Armando says that in his small Italian town, they were known for scarfing back biscotti.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, he always laughs about it like it’s some kind of big
joke. ‘
Polizia
, biscotti, ha, ha, ha,’” Marcus mimicked Armando’s accent, which made me burst out laughing. “So that’s our first item for the menu,” he said. “But we need more. Help me brainstorm and I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

Marcus’s enthusiasm was contagious. It reminded me of when we’d first had the idea for the photo-set. I sat down to help him make a very long list. Scanning the food items, my eyes settled on lemon squares, Claire’s favorite. At least they used to be. She almost never ate meals with the family anymore, and I’d assumed that was because she was mad at me. But maybe it was still about her eating. Maybe she still
wasn’t
eating.

“You okay?” Marcus asked, breaking me from my daze.

I shook my head. “Claire . . . she hardly eats at home anymore.” The words spilled out of me, like they’d been waiting to be released forever.

“You worry about her a lot, huh?” he asked, and for a second I felt offended, like he was criticizing me, but when I looked over, I sensed something else: Envy.

“You don’t have any brothers or sisters, do you?” I asked.

He shook his head, looking even sadder. I knew he wanted to understand. To help.

“It can be good,” I said. “But it also can definitely be hard.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

I had never, in my whole life, been so happy to get my period. As I practically
skipped toward the café, I tried to thank God with at least the same fervency I’d pleaded to Him to not let me be pregnant. In a way, it felt like that chapter in my life was over. I could let my mistake with Josh go, or maybe even pretend it hadn’t happened.

When I turned the corner, Marcus was coming from down the block in the other direction. I waited so we could walk the rest of the way to the café together.

“C’mon,” I said, not wanting to give him time to notice my giddiness so I’d have to explain it.

“Someone’s in a hurry. Had an extra serving of Wheaties this morning, did we?”

“Yeah, well, forgot to comb our hair, this morning, did
we
?” I gestured at Marcus’s windblown dark hair.

We both laughed as we got to the door of the café.

I still worried about Marcus, and spent much of my time at the Arts Club trying to gently get him to talk about his problems at home. I couldn’t help imagining him not showing up again—or worse, showing up with something more serious than a bruise.

After another promise that Marcus would take me to his place soon, I headed home for the day. There weren’t any cars in the driveway, and I looked up at the cloudless expanse of sky. It was too nice to be inside. Instead I headed around the side of the house to the backyard, pulling my camera from my bag as I walked.

To my surprise, Claire was stretched out on a towel, wearing only a bikini. I stopped in place.

Our backyard was private, not only because of the tall shrubbery separating us from our neighbors, but also because Mom had lined most of the back windows with plants, to give them as much sun as possible, so it wasn’t easy to just peek outside. It must have been the privacy that enticed Claire to shed her clothes, because I hadn’t seen this much of her since swimming lessons in middle school. And even then, she’d worn a one-piece.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to see this much of her now.

I’d always known Claire to be skinny, but this was something
different. Even from twenty feet away, I could see a network of veins under her skin. Her whole body had a bluish-gray hue. She lay flat on her back and her hip bones jutted out like salt and pepper shakers on an otherwise empty table. Her eyes were closed, so I stood there gawking at what appeared more like a science experiment than my hot teenage sister.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I pulled my camera to my eye. My hand rotated the lens into focus, and for a second I thought I had seen it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. With all the greenery as her backdrop and her hair swept over one shoulder, it actually made a really beautiful shot.

When I clicked the shutter, even though it was quiet, Claire’s eyes shot open. She must have felt me there. She sat up and glared at me. I pulled my camera behind my back, then darted my eyes over to the shrubs.

“What are you looking at?” she said, defensively.

“Uh, nothing. I d-didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

Claire threw a towel over herself, holding it tightly around her chest with one hand. With the other, she gathered her clothes and book. “I just wanted a little privacy. I guess that’s not allowed around here.”

“I’ll go. I’m, uh, I’m sorry, Claire.”

She started to cry and she folded over her knees so I couldn’t see her face.

“I don’t know what to say.” I inched toward her. “There’s
obviously something wrong, but I don’t know how to help you, Claire.”

When she looked up, her eyes were red—not just the whites, but even the pupils had a reddish glow. “You want to help, Loann?” It came out more like a growl than her normal Disneyland voice. “Just leave me alone.” She dropped her head onto her knees again and covered it with her scrawny arms.

I watched Claire’s back pulse for a minute, then stepped out of the yard feeling shaken. I turned and ran for the bridge.

I was tempted to call Marcus, but I didn’t want to mess things up there, too. As my feet dangled over the edge, I questioned myself over and over again.
Why did I just run away from her? Don’t I care about my sister at all?

I balled my fists. I did. I loved my sister. It was just hard to remember that when we were fighting. But she needed help.

I walked almost all the way across town to the nursing home where Mom works. I hadn’t been there since last summer, when they had an employee picnic. The administration lady didn’t recognize me, and told me to wait in the lobby while they paged my mom. I paced back and forth across the lobby floor about a million times.

“Loann!” She came rushing toward me, her arm outstretched and face contorted. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I just wanted to talk to you,” I said, needing to calm her down. I mean, it wasn’t like someone had died.

She looked between my probably red eyes and my fidgety fingers. Her worry didn’t seem to lessen.

“It’s Claire,” I said. “There’s something . . . she hasn’t been eating. She looks awful, Mom.”

I could feel the administration clerk’s eyes on me. Mom blinked a couple of times. “Oh,” she said finally, nodding. “Okay, well, I’ll talk to her, honey.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Of course I’ll talk to her.”

I let out a breath.

Mom glanced toward the administration desk and turned her body slightly to shield our conversation. “Is that . . . why you came all the way down here?”

I swallowed. Nodded. She wouldn’t understand the severity of it until she saw it herself, but I hoped she at least had some idea by the way I could barely talk.

“I’ll be home for dinner,” Mom said. “Do you want to wait and I’ll give you a ride?”

I hesitated for a second, but then agreed. Maybe if Mom and I walked into the house together, we could be a strong front. We could talk to Claire about how much she’s changed and what she’s doing to herself.

Claire was making her way from the kitchen with a big casserole dish of steaming food when we walked in. She already had the rest of the dinner on the table: chicken, potatoes, rolls, and corn. She sat in her usual chair with her hair
tied back, fitted cardigan zipped halfway up, makeup drawn with precision.

“Hi, Loey.” She smiled.

Claire isn’t mad at me anymore?
I concentrated on my cutlery.
She probably will be again soon.
“Hi,” I forced out.

Mom sat too and we silently helped ourselves to food. The tension at the table was palpable.

“Thank you for making dinner,” Mom said. Her eyes were on Claire’s plate, which was filled with food tonight.

Claire took a bite of her potato. “Sure,” she said with a smile, like she did this all the time. “I didn’t know if Dad would be home.” She motioned to the place setting she’d put out for him, but he hadn’t been home at dinnertime for at least a week.

Mom was fixated on eating her corn, not bothering to respond. I could see she was trying to figure out how to broach the subject of Claire’s eating, now that she was apparently eating properly.

“So, Mom. I wanted to talk to you about something,” Claire said.

We both stopped eating.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware,” Claire said, looking at Mom, and not at me, “but Loann has been going after Josh.” She paused and I felt my face, my whole body, rush with heat. “My ex-boyfriend, Josh,” she added.

I tried to swallow my bite of corn, but it wouldn’t go down. Shaking my head, I tried to get some words from my brain to my mouth, but neither of them was working right. “It—it wasn’t like that,” I said.

“Look, Mom,” Claire went on. “I’m not mad, but we both know Loann has been jealous of me for a long time.”

I couldn’t believe she was talking about me like I wasn’t even here. From what she’d just told Mom, I wasn’t sure how much Claire knew—did she just think I liked Josh, or did she know I’d actually slept with him? But when she took a glance in my direction and looked down my body, I could tell. She knew everything.

“She obviously just wants to see my faults,” Claire went on. “You know, to make herself feel better.”

“No!” I shouted at Claire, then Mom. “No! This is not about me!”

Claire spoke over me. “I just think maybe you should have a talk with her about Josh. I wouldn’t want to see her get hurt.” She finally met my eyes then, with a tilted head and smile that was anything but sympathetic.