Stick Figure Redemption
MAGNOLIAS!
Of all trees in all places at all times, it had to be magnolias, here, now. And in droves. Lined in perfect symmetry on either side of the lengthy driveway, the Mississippi state trees stand tall like a hundred marines at attention. Kathy’s PT Cruiser rolls between them; through the passenger window, I observe the immaculate lawn, an abundant deep green, each blade trimmed with purpose and care. Like an arrow, the driveway leads straight and true, its tip piercing the heart of an old stone mansion. Or manor, rather. A stately manor: no shutters, no gutters, simple angles. This place would fit nicely in some boring BBC period piece. In fact, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to see Keira Knightley frolicking around in the fields, wrapped in a shawl, crying a little too passionately for the death of her sister’s husband. (They were secret lovers, see. God, Keira, just give it a break.)
We pass a sign written in colorful rainbow:
SUNRISE MOUNTAIN
REHABILITATION CENTER:
HOLISTIC CARE FOR SUBSTANCE ABUSE AND DEPRESSION
My misplaced epiglottis suddenly seems more misplaced than usual. “What are we doing here?”
Pulling into a wide parking space, Kathy shuts off the engine. “You wanted to see your mother.” She checks her makeup in the rearview mirror, then opens her door and slides out. “You coming?”
I flinch as the door slams. For a moment, I consider just living in the belly of the PT Cruiser. I could eat here, sleep here, raise a family. Anything to avoid stepping outside, facing this scene.
Suddenly, Kathy’s words from Principal Schwartz’s office ring in my ears: She’ll beat this disease. Eve’s a fighter.
I am a child. I know nothing about anything. And even less about everything.
Walt raps on the passenger-side window, grinning like a maniac, pressing the Reds program against the glass.
“Look!” he yells. “Just like your stick figure book!”
In something reminiscent of a preschooler’s homework, Walt has drawn the most glorious stick figure diagram in the history of stick figures, or diagrams, or basically anything ever. It’s a thousand times better than my “stick figure book.” Not one bit anemic. Three figures stand in front of explosive fireworks. Each one has multiple arrows pointing to various objects on, or around, their bodies. The figure on the left is taller than the others. He’s standing next to a truck, and has something draped around his neck. Above his head, written in all caps, it says MY FRIND BEK. Little arrows indicate the truck is UNKLE FILL, and the object around his neck is CAMRA. The figure on the right has giant muscles. Above his head, it says WALTER. An oblong object in his right hand is labeled MOWNTAN DO, and a square in his left hand is marked COLOURFUL CUBE. The figure in the middle is me. Above my head, it says MY FRIND MIM. I have crazy big shoes, labeled SHOOS (X-TRA STRAPS). I’m wearing sunglasses, labeled accordingly, and a backpack, labeled BAKPAK. On the ground next to me, there’s a stick labeled MIM’S SHINY—my lipstick.
We’re holding hands, smiling from stick ear to stick ear.
I read once that the Greek language has four words for the word love, depending on the context. But as I step out of the PT Cruiser and tumble into Walt’s perfectly huggable arms, I think the Greeks got it wrong. Because my love for Walt is something new, unnamed, something crazy-wild, youthful, and enthusiastic. And while I don’t know what this new love has to offer, I do know what it demands: grateful tears.
I cry hard.
Then harder.
Then hardest.
Behind me, Beck’s voice is a salve. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Beck, and we tell each other stuff.”
I pull back from Walt, wipe my eyes. “What?”
“Umm. Hello? She’s pregnant?”
I grip my backpack, and tilt my head, and—damn it, there’s my cute face again. It will be my undoing. “Oh yeah. That.”
“Oh. Yeah. That. Mim, that is pertinent fucking info. Also, it explains a lot.”
“Such as?”
He looks up at the top of the mansion’s high stairs, where Kathy has just walked through the double-door entrance. “Such as a certain disdain for a certain stepmother, for which a certain someone snapped at a certain someone else when that certain someone else brought it up in the back of a certain truck. You know of which certain instance I’m referring to, certainly?”
I hold back a smile. “You know—I think my best course of action is to just let the ridiculousness of that sentence marinate.”
He throws one arm around me, one around Walt, and leads the way toward the stairs. It’s a communal walk, full of life, love, and the pursuit of Young Fun Now. I am—north to south, east to west—globally slain.
“So you like the drawing, Mim?” Walt asks, cradling the program like a newborn.