Six
“Hello? Ava? Are you dreaming about making sweet love to Colin Firth in the Mr. Darcy outfit again?” Tex snaps her fingers in front of my face.
“What?” I'd phased out.
“Ha, I knew that would get your attention.” Tex and I are doing inventory after hours at the bookstore, her punishment for coming home late from a party the week before. I'd declined going, and she told me all I'd missed was a bunch of people getting wasted and passing out and getting her boob grabbed by some guy she'd never met. She'd only had one beer, but her parents acted like she'd done a keg stand naked and posted the pictures online. I volunteered to stay late with her to avoid going home.
“Just thinking about stuff.” I'd picked up my phone last night a hundred times to call her and talk. To tell her about my mother, or the cemetery incident, but I hadn't. I couldn't seem to find the right words to say, so I hadn't.
“And things?” Creepy cemetery guys are the things to my mother's stuff.
“Pretty much.”
“You've been doing that a lot lately.” There are so many things I want to tell her. To have her listen and hug me and tell me it was going to be okay. To speculate about who the guys were and come up with more and more ridiculous personas until we laugh so hard we have to sit down.
“I know that face. That's the Ava's-thinking-about-something-serious face.”
“Just everything. Prom.” The truth is I'm not a prom kind of girl, and Tex knew that.
“Try again. Is something up with your mom?” she says, crossing her arms. I don't fool her for a second. She's hit part of the answer, but I'm not giving in. I can't do this now.
“I'm sorry Tex. It's just stuff. Okay?” I hate snapping at her.
“You know you can tell me anything, right? And that I'm there for you? No matter what, and even if you killed someone I'd defend your innocence until my dying day?” She puts her hand on her heart to show me how serious she is.
“I know.” I've come to think of my two secrets as Thing One and Thing Two. Kind of like in Dr. Seuss. They're annoying and they jump up and down and beg to be let out. To be told. I lock them away, but they rattle the bars of their cages. I tell them to shut the hell up.
We finish up late and I drive home with the heat turned up. I've been cold ever since that night. Tex blasts some weird German music that makes my ears hurt. Her car had also been taken away for the week, so Jamie and I are taking turns driving her around.
“How can you listen to this stuff? I don't even know what they're saying.”
“Are you kidding? These guys are awesome. You don't have to understand the lyrics.” She jams her head, and I worry she's going to get whiplash.
“Tex?” I say when we get to her house.
“Yes, my dear?” I open my mouth to spill everything. To let it all out so it doesn't fester and burn inside me anymore, but I can't. The moment passes and I shut my mouth.
“That skirt makes you look fat. I thought you should know. Since I'm your friend.” I put my hand on her arm. She throws it off, and punches me.
“You are such a bitch! If anyone's fat, it's you. I mean, can you say thunder thighs?” She slaps my leg.
“Ho.” I glare at her.
“Slut.” We drop our serious faces and laugh. Those words, supposed to be used as insults are teams of endearment. She gives me one last smile before she's out of the car and up the steps on her porch. She waves before she goes inside and I wave and honk as I pull out.
I turn on the radio, cranking it up. I don't even care what it is. Once again, I've chickened out of telling her.
When my mother was first diagnosed, it took me a whole week to tell Tex and Jamie. I finally did it when we went out to get pizza after one of Jamie's track meets. We were discussing what the most unusual but delicious toppings are for pizza. Tex had just made the case for ranch dressing when I blurted it out. Just like that. They both stared at me, which made me cry. Tex had taken me out to Jamie's truck while Jamie paid and got to-go boxes. We'd ended up sitting in the parking lot while I told them everything. Once I started, I couldn't stop. That's how I am with secrets. Once I start to let it out, all this other stuff comes with it. Sometimes it's stuff I never even thought about, or knew I felt.
After they'd hugged me and we'd had that moment the only thing I could feel was embarrassed. I didn't want to do that again.
***
My mother calls me in the middle of school the next day on my new phone, saying she wants to take me out shopping. I can't refuse, even though it means missing English. Part of me doesn't want to go with her, because I'm too tired to keep on my happy face. On the other hand, she's never called me out of school to go shopping before. It seems extravagant.
“Where are you going?” Tex says when I meet her in the hall after geometry.
“I have a doctor's appointment.” The lie comes easily. Some are harder than others.
“Lucky you.”
“Oh, yeah.” I use my finger to make a gun and pretend to shoot myself in the head. I tell her I'll see her later and shuffle off to the office. I come around the corner and see her waiting. I have to put my shoulders back and put on my happy Ava face.
She's got her everyday wig on, and she keeps putting her hands in it. I hope no one notices. She turns and sees me, her face breaking out into a smile, which makes my heart do this squeezy thing that makes it hard to breathe.
“Hi, ma fleur. Are you surprised?” She gives me a hug, right there in front of everyone passing by, planting a loud kiss on my cheek. I'm only slightly mortified. Her cheeks have too much blush on them, but it's not her fault she's lost so much color in her face that she has to paint it back on.
“Yeah,” I say, dying a little inside.
“I feel like a bad mother, but I figured we should have a little girl time, what do you think?” She takes my arm as we walk out together.
“Sure.” I smile and she squeezes my arm with fingers bony and frail.
We go all the way to Portland, even though the Brunswick Mall is only a half-hour away. She cranks the radio, and rolls the windows down, even though it's chilly. I wish she'd stop putting her fingers in her wig, but maybe she's remembering what it was like to have her hair blowing in the wind. That makes me sad and I turn to look out the window, not wanting to think about it. Every moment now is tainted with the specter of death looming in the background, his black fingers tugging on the corners of our moments.
She takes me to every clothing store we usually avoid, pressing me to pick up anything that even remotely strikes my fancy, exclaiming about how good it looks on me. She forces me up to the counter, handing her card to the salesperson. I wish she'd believe me if I told her these things don't mean anything to me. The one thing I want neither of us can buy, unless someone's perfected a working time machine, or a way to freeze moments and put them in jars. I'd have a shelf of them in my room.
She hugs me from behind and whispers how beautiful I am into my ear. I lean back into her, even though the closeness overwhelms me. When she buys me a huge cookie and then shares it with me, I'm as gooey as the chocolate chips and almost tell her all about the creepy cemetery guys. Thing One meeting Thing Two. My mouth stays shut.
She's having a harder time the later it gets. Her steps slow and aren't as bouncy. I can tell she's tired.
“I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. Do you mind if we go home?” She leans heavily on me, using my arm as a support. I have a bunch of bags to balance me out on the other side, which probably weigh more than she does.
“Sure, baby.” She pulls me in for a hug and I hold on tight. This is the third time she's hugged me today. Is that what I'm going to do now? Count the number of hugs I have left?
I offer to drive back, but she turns me down.
After dropping her keys and purse by the door, she gives me a tired smile and says she's going to rest. Dad's still at work, and the house is quiet. I haul all the things she's bought me up to my room where I have to cram them in corners in my closet. If she's going to be doing this a lot, I'm going to need a bigger bedroom.
I go downstairs and knock on her door. She's out like a light, breathing softly.
My feet don't make a sound on the carpet as I walk into the room. Soft peach light greets me; it's her favorite color. The curtains move as a soft breeze breathes into the room, making it the perfect lazy afternoon. I walk around the bed and look at her face. It's relaxed, peaceful. She mutters a little in her sleep. I take one finger and run it over her head. I twist one of the brown wisps that passes for her hair around my finger. She moves a little and I let go.
Her eyes open and she starts, seeing me standing next to her.
“Is something wrong?” Her eyes are wide with alarm. Mother's instinct, to assume the worst.
“No. I just came in to check on you.”
“You don't have to do that. I'm fine.” She yawns.
“I know.”
The words that I need to say hang between us, invisible as a spider's web until the sun hits it.
“I love you, my Ava-Claire.” Her arms reach for me as she props herself up her elbows.
“I know. I love you too.” I sit down on the edge of her bed.
“You're going to be okay. You're my strong one. My miracle.” Doctors had told her she couldn't get pregnant, but she did. She almost lost me a few months in, but I'd survived.
Without Dad to monitor us, we finally venture into the minefield. I think about changing the subject, but don't.
“I don't think I can do it,” I say, my voice trembling. The tears I've been trying so hard to keep deep down in my reservoir bubble up my throat.
“You can. We're never given more than we can carry.” I take her hand. I can't look at her.
“It isn't fair.” My voice hurts.
“I know, baby.” She sits up and pulls me toward her. “I know.” Her soft words release something in me and I can feel the tears release. In this soft peach room with her arms around me, it's nearly impossible to push them back, but I have to.
“You and Dad will take care of each other.” I don't say anything and I don't let go. “Nothing in this life is ever truly lost.” It's a quote from a poem or something. They'd always irritated me, those little proverbs and bits of wisdom. Now I want to collect them, to write them down so I have them with me when she goes. My mother is going to die.
“I would never leave you. If I had the choice. I want you to know that.”
“I do.” She pulls back and looks at my face. There are tears in her eyes, but they haven't spilled over yet.
“I tried. It just wasn't enough.”
“I know.” I feel like I'm saying the same things over and over. I hope they matter.
She changes the subject.
“What are you doing this weekend? Anything?” There's always some sort of party, if I wanted to go. Which I don't, unless Tex is going to drag me.
“I don't know. Probably nothing.”
“I don't want you not doing things because of me. You're a teenager and I want you to act like it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she puts her hand over it.
“Go out. Have fun. Bring back good stories. Meet a cute guy. Dance. I want you to have a good time.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. If I didn't know better, I'd say my mother was trying to get me laid.
“Okay.” She pulls me in for hug number four.
Tex is finally un-grounded, so it's her first chance to get out and go to a party. I'm glad she waits until lunch the next day to accost me, even though everyone is talking about it the minute I walk into school. I hadn't bothered to eavesdrop on the details. I want to talk her out of it, since a party is what had gotten her grounded in the first place, but she's insistent. With my mother's blessing, I have to go, but I make Tex sweat a little.
“Come on, it's going to be fun.” She says this every single time, and it's not always true.
“Where is it?” Location, location, location.
“Sam Weston's. His parents are going to New York for their anniversary.”
“Don't his parents go away every weekend?” I take a bite of my salad. I'm not hungry, but I don't want to start eating disorder rumors.
“But he doesn't have a party every weekend,” she points out.
“Who else is going?” This is also a determining factor. Certain people, like Joe Silar, make for a better party. He always has too much to drink and ends up with a video online that gets thousands of hits. He even has his own YouTube channel for his exploits, entitled “Joez Show.” Super classy.
"Uh, everyone who matters," she says, like it's obvious.
“So, pretty much anyone who isn't a total loser.” Not that many people have exclusive parties. The more people show up, usually the more alcohol does.
“Come on, please?” She bats her eyelashes at me, like that's going to make a difference.
“I don't know,” I say, trying to make my face look indecisive. Deep down, I don't give a crap about it, but my mother wants me to go, for whatever reason. I don't want to disappoint her.
“What don't you know about?” Jamie sidles up to our lunch table and plunks himself down. We rarely see him at lunch; he usually has a meeting or goes out with his sports buddies. He plucks a chip out of Tex's bag and chomps down on it. Jamie eats enough for five people, but he burns it all off doing sports. Loser.
“Sam Weston's. You in?”
“Might as well. Have you recovered from the last time yet, Ave?” I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm. At the last Weston party I'd tripped over the keg, causing it to roll down the hill and into a pond. It had been a few months ago, but I was still known as the girl who killed the keg. It's a wonder they don't bar me from coming to another party.
“I'll stay away from the keg this time.” I give him a wink. He returns it.
“Does that mean you're coming?” Tex is practically jumping up and down, flapping her hands like a bird.
“Yeah, I'm in.” She squeals and hugs me. I am so not into it.
“Want me to pick you up?” Jamie asks.
“What about me?” Tex punches him on the arm. He winces and rubs it.
“Fine. I'll pick you up too, Tex.” Jamie doesn't drink, ever, so he's usually our DD. He's also really good at driving Sam's mom's minivan full of drunk people without getting distracted. A valuable skill.
“Sweet.”
There's not much to do in Maine for teenagers except to hang out at Seagull Stop, our equivalent of a 7-Eleven, or build a fire and get drunk. The only other alternatives involve Family Game Nights and movies at the library, or hanging out in cemeteries, my activity of choice.
I needed to stop thinking about him. I'm usually able to shove the other less-pleasant memories far down into my subconscious where they will no doubt cost me years and thousands of dollars in therapy. Not him. I wake up in the middle of the night and I swear I can hear his voice.