“I think it’s funny when someone offends me?”
“I know you do. You’d be looking straight into that camera, your eyes wide with disbelief, getting a laugh. You know what else? If I was in the audience, I’d be laughing with you.”
The show of my life. Who gave him a seat in the audience?
Kellan points at a votive on the counter dissolving into a molten mess. “That’s going to leave a stain.”
I yelp and blow it out.
He lifts his back off the wall. “Oh, and the fact remains that your mom and Erik are totally a couple. You might be a brainiac, but you’re the least aware person I’ve ever met.”
“Now I’m truly offended,” I say, frowning energetically. He smiles, mocking and irresistible. We stand like that, me scowling, him smiling, until he wears me down and I laugh.
Suddenly Erik lurches across the room to us. “Did you kids see my bike helmet in the dining room?” he slurs.
Mom insists he’s in no condition to ride, and besides, they’re expecting torrential downpours. Perhaps Kellan could give him a lift?
Kellan’s eyes bore into me. My face gets hot. He doesn’t want to leave. Do I want him to leave?
I shake my head. “Go.”
Kellan disappears into the front hall looking for his coat. I pace, trying to pull myself together. Erik staggers in first, jacket over his shoulder. Kellan follows behind and Mom chases after them, forcing the pumpkin onto Erik, saying he needs fall decorations because his condo is as spartan as a monk’s. I don’t ask how she knows what the inside of his condo looks like. They climb into Kellan’s truck as I stand in the doorway waving. Mom sprawls on the couch, minutes from sleep. Smoke from a neighbor’s coal stove laces the air, and I breathe deeply as I walk down the driveway to move Erik’s bike into the garage. Back inside, Mom snores. I tuck a blanket under her chin and walk around blowing out votives, greasy wax puddled on countertops. We can chip at it with butter knives tomorrow, I think, shutting off the nineties grunge music and dragging myself upstairs.
I reach for the picture tucked into my mirror. It’s the same picture Liv has of middle school graduation. It’s a gorgeous shot of her, her rosy cheek squished against my pale one. Easier times. It was never really the same after that, when Deborah began focusing on every thing about Liv: a gradual shaping of the way she looked, the friends she made, the clubs she joined.
From the top of the stairs I listen to Mom’s woolly snores. In her empty room, the coat she wore to work still lies across her bed. I feel a finger-flick at my thawed heart: single mom, lonely mom, only able to laugh when I leave the room and after two and a half bottles of cabernet. I really am a drag.
But fascinating. Mostly, morbidly fascinating. Any girl can have an apple face, or boobs since fifth grade. But she can’t be an ironic heroine survivalist.
I grab my notebook and flop onto my bed.
Things I Know About Kellan MacDougall:
- Loves to be fed
- Wants to know what it was like in the woods
- Would laugh with me
My notebook falls to the floor with a satisfying flutter. I lie back and drift off, Kellan’s voice curling around me, until I’m distracted by the feel of something solid underneath my butt. My fingers graze the sharp point of the little tinfoil wedge. I unpeel it carefully, and the numbers are faded, but I grab my phone and type them as best as I can make out, giggling.
Hi I type.
Immediately, the telling ellipses appear on my iPhone screen. Three little circles, three little hooks to keep me tuned in. My breath hitches. Three words appear.
Is this Julia?
FIVE
356 Days After the Woods
It’s nearly eleven a.m., and Mom is home sick, scraping candle wax off the counter with a butter knife. “Remind me never to order from the new Indian place again,” she groans, picking at the fossilized mass. “Clearly the tikka masala was bad.”
I murmur in agreement, reminding myself that I should be relieved. She wasn’t supposed to be home on my day off, but her debilitated state will make ducking out easier. Still, seeing her vulnerable makes me feel worse about where I’m going.
The knife crashes to the floor as she cups her mouth with both hands.
“Do not puke!” I yell.
Her hands fall slowly. Her face is green. “I’ll be okay,” she whispers faintly.
“I beg you to go back to the family room and lie down. I’ll scrape the wax and put away the dishes. I can’t clean around you. Puke, and there will be more to clean.”
Mom touches her fingertips together and bows to me, wincing from the pain of gravity. A whoosh as she collapses onto the couch. “Tell me again where you’re going?” she calls weakly.