I remember sitting in the hospital parking lot in the middle of the night.
I remember ten-year-old Sarah walking me home.
I remember Mexico. Parts of it. Enough of it. I remember what I need to remember.
I want to call Bruce but I text him instead. I pull out the scrap of paper from my wallet and enter his number into my contacts. I don’t put his name on the contact; just the letter B.
I want to call you later. Will you be home? This is Sarah.
I get a reply almost instantly.
I’m home all day. Please call.
I’ve never had a more invigorating shower. It feels like I was reborn last night. Like staying up all night changed me. I feel like I am more than I was. I feel like I am less than I was. It’s very hard to explain.
Everything fell apart a month ago.
Over silliness and drama. Over something so stupid.
But who’s to say what’s stupid and what’s not stupid when your life falls apart? Some people fall apart over TV shows. Some people fall apart over a breakup. Some people fall apart over someone eating the last bowl of Apple Jacks. I fell apart because of the annual art show. No one noticed I was falling apart before then.
I stay in the shower for a long time—enough time to get the week’s dirt off me. I think about asking Mom to find me a therapist or something. I can’t talk to anyone about anything. I can’t talk to Carmen because she’s the weed connection. I can’t talk to Dad because he doesn’t mind the sliver of tissue stuck to the TV. I can’t talk to Mom because she wants us to have fun now. I can’t talk to anyone in school because I don’t go there anymore. I wanted to talk to Alleged Earl, but I lost my chance, and if I would have taken the chance I would have asked him all the wrong questions anyway.
Bruce.
Maybe I can talk to Bruce.
I decide it’s best to talk to him outside of the house.
Dad isn’t around when I go downstairs. Mom is just stirring after her night shift and I hope I didn’t use all the hot water.
I walk out the door and to Rittenhouse Square. I sit on my bench—the one with the disfigured hand drawn in front of it.
I watch a bunch of kids who are my age walk the path up the middle of the park. They are a pack. Boyfriends and girlfriends. Holding hands. Giggling. Having fun. Too young to be like the college girl in the park last night. Too old to need supervision. I hear one of them mention a movie. I decide they’ve just gone to see it. I decide they’ve all been friends since primary school. I decide that they will all be at one another’s funerals. They have something I don’t have.
It’s not as simple as the art club fissure or the shit Miss Smith did to Vicky. It’s not about the art show even though it is about the art show.
It’s about lies and trust.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never wanted a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend for that matter. Bruce had it all wrong in Mexico. I won’t end up with a typical guy because I’m not going to end up with anybody. Since I can remember, I wanted to live alone and make art. Selfishly. I wanted to make art and not care about anything or anyone else. I know this is abnormal for a sixteen-year-old human being.
I’m supposed to be like them.
I don’t trust anyone. Not even myself.
I dial Bruce. It doesn’t ring even once.
“Sarah?”
“Hi, Bruce.”
“Oh my God, Sarah,” he says. And then I can hear him crying—not sobbing because Mom and Dad never taught us how to sob. But he’s emotional.
“Hi,” I say, because I can’t figure out anything else to say.
He sniffles. “Hi.”
Sweet Sixteen
I decide not to dawdle.
“Did you ever get your degree in psychology?”
“Not quite,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Are you really a religious freak?” I ask.
“A what?”
“Did you get naked in a river and get baptized?”
“Holy shit,” Bruce says.
“Did you?”
“They brainwashed you.”
“But did you?”
“To my knowledge, I have never been baptized in a river. Or anywhere.”
“Huh,” I say. “So I guess the only thing I know about you is that you’re a crappy kayaker.”
“And an awesome big brother.”
“You haven’t called me in six years.”
He sniffles again.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Let me talk,” he says. So I shut up. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Bruce?”
“I should come visit.”
“You should call Mom and Dad.”
“Not them. You.”
“We live in the same house.”
“I can stay in the B&B.”
“What B&B?”
“I always stay in the one on Pine.”
I’m not computing anything Bruce is saying. When has he stayed at the B&B on Pine? “Why don’t we start over?” I say. “Why don’t I say How are you? and then you tell me how you are?”
“Okay.”
“How are you?”
“I’m good. Life is good. How are you?”
“That’s not an answer. Good? Life is good?” Six years have passed and I get Life is good. His voice sounds deeper than it used to. He sounds grown-up. I say, “Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? A job? What are you doing out there?”
“Not married. I work with kids.”
“You’re a teacher?”