“Yes, honey?”
And all at once, I can’t even help it. It just spills out of me. I tell her about the party and about how it wasn’t my idea but I still let it happen, so I’m sorry for that, but I think I kept it under control okay, and don’t worry, the house is fine, and everyone made it home safely and responsibly. But how the party came to a screeching halt when we discovered that Callie made this model of an island. I describe to her the vibrating expanse of the sculpture, with the almost blooming blossom things, the way it trembled, the way Callie’s hands trembled over it. My voice catches on the words and feelings that are coming up from my chest and propelled out of my mouth, into the receiver, up to the satellites, and then into my mother’s ear.
I power past these trips and falls and tell her about Stan and Ted, who they are and how they came to the house after Stan and I found out that Ted was also building an island at the exact same time Callie was. I tell her how, after a lot of careful debating, Stan and I decided to take our siblings and go, to figure out what they needed. Because they’d built those sculptures of what seemed like exactly the island where Dad was when he found them, and they kept pointing to it and trying to get in the car, and in the end, all we could think was that they wanted to go there. Home. To their home. And then before we knew it, they were running to the car, and then they were in the car, and so we figured that was it, they wanted to get in the car and go somewhere, so we drove. We just drove. It was the only thing we could think to do for them.
I tell her about the diner, how I decided, or I guess already believed, already knew, that I wanted—that I want—to do this because of Callie. Because of craving that closeness and feeling of sisterhood and finally, for once, maybe being able to do something for her. I talk about agency, how Callie and Ted and everyone like them seem so trapped in these bodies without language, with no way to ever really tell anyone anything, ever, not about themselves, or the weather, or the weather inside of themselves. Nothing. Not a thing, not once, not ever, not never.
And then the bear. Oh my God. I tell her about the bear, and I just barrel through it because I can’t even stand to think about it or to have her ask me about it. So before she can ask I tell her not to, and I tell her that we’re fine, but we’re all really rattled. Even Ted looks rattled now, like he wasn’t prepared for any of this, for his actions, for the bear, for the highway, for this life.
“But,” I tell her, “they are trying to go somewhere. I know they are. It’s like they’re being pulled, and they’re pulling us in that same direction. They need to go home, to their home, they know that we can take them there, that we can do this thing for them. Mom, this is a chance for me to do more than just chaperone her around a world she isn’t equipped to engage with.” And now my throat is closing up on me, and the words are sort of hiccupping out. “This is me enabling whatever it is she feels to be her sense of purpose. I’m sorry,” and I start sobbing and trying to talk through it, which barely works. “I know this sounds crazy. You’re probably freaking out. But this just feels so important. And I’m responsible, remember?” And I take a moment here, because I’m crying. “You and Dad said it yourselves. I am. I’m a good kid, and it’s not just because I know how to work around things. It’s because I have no real interest in trouble, and I don’t invite it. How often do you get to do a good thing, like a genuinely good deed, for someone you love? Mom. I’m scared. But I’m mostly happy because I can help Callie.” And I start wiping the snot from my nose and the tears from my face and trying to do that thing from earlier where I try to remember how to breathe.
It doesn’t work, though. My heart is racing all over again, and I just wish it would stop, but it won’t. The line is insanely quiet. I have no idea what is coming, and I am terrified. I keep breathing into the stark silence, but I know she’s still on the phone, because I can hear something gathering inside her.
Then, suddenly: “Turn around, Lorna,” she says. “Now. Right now. Get in the car, then turn the car around, and go back home. Please. Please, Lorna.”
My eyes dart to Callie, and my heart starts jumping even more. What?