Counting Back from Nine Read online

Dinner at Christine’s

  I make it halfway through my first meal at

  Christine’s place before I start wondering how

  soon I can leave. Mrs. Oakey is a great

  cook but she is also a believer in

  interrogating her dinner guests.

  “You poor child. How are you holding up?

  And your poor mother, is she managing all right?

  It must be such a difficult adjustment for you and your

  poor, dear brother, with your father passing so suddenly.”

  What is she expecting? Does she imagine that I might

  get up on a chair and give a heartfelt speech

  at dinner? To strangers?

  Afterward, (no dessert, thank you, I really could not

  swallow one more bite)

  I follow Christine to her room,

  wondering why she didn’t warn me.

  She manages to blurt out, “Sorry!” before

  collapsing on her bed, laughing so hard she can hardly

  catch her breath. This annoys me until

  she gets herself

  under control and launches into a

  hilarious imitation of

  her mother, which, for some reason she

  delivers in an Irish accent.

  “Aw, you poor, pathetic creature!

  Is your heart so broken you can barely chew your food?

  Surely you’d like to tell us all about your

  innermost thoughts and feelings!

  Pay no mind to the fact that

  we only just met you

  four minutes ago.”

  The next hour is a blur of laughter

  and girl talk.

  Long Distance Scott

  I have to say that texting

  back-and-forth is less than

  satisfying and anyway,

  how many times can you

  text someone that you

  miss them like crazy?

  Hey! You up yet?

  Ya

  Anything interesting going on today?

  No

  Sounds familiar :)

  Lol

  At least you have a beach there, right?

  Ya

  I love beaches. Building sandcastles, and collecting shells and stuff

  Cuz your a girl

  I thought you liked that about me ;)

  Haha

  I sure miss you

  Me 2

  Well I guess I should get going

  K

  Bye for now

  By

  Being apart sucks.

  Neighbourhoods

  The streets give rhythm to my

  impatience, beating out thoughts of

  Scott’s return, a few more days,

  a few more days, a few more days.

  And what began as an aimless walk

  moves me with its own purpose until

  I find myself surprised, or not surprised

  at all, at the corner of Morgan’s street.

  I can see her house from here. It is

  a measurable distance, like the space between

  then and now, from the place where we

  were friends to this point where we are

  something not yet defined. It is a longer

  and shorter time

  than I can grasp.

  I now know that I did not, could not,

  would not believe

  this chasm could open between us.

  It did not seem real when she was there—

  in the hallways and classes and lunchroom.

  When at any second she could have

  looked my way and smiled and said,

  “Hey, Laren.”

  When normal was possible and I could

  still see a way back.

  So I stand where my empty heart and

  longing have brought me. A journey that

  pride will not let me complete.

  And I turn away.

  4

  I’m downtown, stopped before a window display of

  stained-glass lamp shades, when a man and his

  small daughter emerge from the store. Her face is

  grumpy and sleepy, but when he scoops her up, her

  little fists fly at his chest and she

  hollers that she can walk all by herself.

  Time shifts and another scene unfolds:

  one where I am the

  little girl.

  The child I was

  in this moment from my long ago

  has gaps where teeth have been

  and this makes the me-in-memory about

  seven. My class had just returned

  from a day-long excursion, a bus ride that

  began noisily, song-fully, joyfully, and ended

  with zombie children, sluggish and cranky.

  There’s a hazy recollection of feeling stiff and out of sorts, as if

  I’d just emerged from a cozy snooze, although I don’t

  believe I’d actually been asleep. I recall the

  bright light of the sun in my eyes as I took that

  last big step down off the bus.

  And then my father was there, lifting me up, but my hands

  shot out and I shoved myself away from his hold.

  “Don’t!”

  I have no idea what made me react

  that way. I only know it wounded him.

  In this memory, that is the only detail that is clear.

  Letter to Dad.doc (continued)

  I was getting some earrings out earlier when the birthday bracelet from you caught my eye and I slipped it on my wrist. Mom calls it the gift you sent me from the great beyond. And maybe it is. But an uglier possibility occurred to me while I stared at it.

  Maybe it wasn’t meant for me at all. Maybe it was for her. The Passenger.

  I’ll never know for sure, will I? Oh, I’ll wear it, and I’ll try to tell myself that it’s a final gift from my father. But part of me will always feel a bit like a thief.

  Funny thing—the first thought I had when I put it on was that I should write a note thanking you for it. So, thanks. I guess.

  Dee’s big Splash

  I can hardly believe my ears when Dee says,

  “So, bring him with you,”

  because she’s talking about that dreaded

  creature, the-nuisance-no-one-wants-around—

  the little brother.

  They have an amazing in-ground pool

  and with the sun blazing, her initial invitation

  seemed almost cruel as I explained that I am

  stuck home today, with Jackson.

  But Dee is unconcerned with the thought of

  a nine-year-old tagging along.

  “He’ll have fun,” she says.

  “The more the merrier.”

  I watch her laughing as he beats her at a game

  of water Frisbee. I smile as he trails along

  behind her to fetch lemonade and snacks.

  I think to myself: he adores her.

  Socorro

  I’m in my weekly meeting with Socorro when

  something inside me snaps. It’s odd because I

  wasn’t at some cathartic moment. It comes from

  nowhere, a tidal wave of words,

  rushing, crashing, tumbling over each other

  on their way out.

  “It’s so hard trying to sort through everything,” I say,

  putting away my tears. “I don’t know what it means to me.

  How can I? I didn’t know what it meant when it was

  happening. I didn’t even know it was happening. I thought

  my father was something he wasn’t.”

  “What is it that you thought your father was,

  that he was not?”

  “That should be obvious,” I say.

  “I thought he was a

  good person, a good father.

  I thought his family was

  imp
ortant to him, that he

  loved us more than anything.

  Me and Jackson and Mom.

  But if he was having

  an affair, that means

  none of those things are true.”

  “Does it?”

  I make my voice sound like I am explaining

  this to a small child.

  “Of course it does.

  What else could it mean?”

  His eyes are still as he

  waits for me to answer

  my own question.

  The Return of Scott

  I had not expected, when I

  opened the door to find him there,

  that he would seem more a stranger

  than my boyfriend.

  It is as if the month away has made him stronger,

  more commanding. Joy clashes crazily with

  a curious unease and my stomach quivers

  in confusion. His mouth hurries to mine.

  I will myself to find the thrill.

  He is so close. So close.

  The room tilts. Scott murmurs

  something, a smudge of words

  that I do not need to hear

  to understand.

  I am thankful that Jackson

  is home.

  Back-to-Normal Jackson

  Scott is here so instead of the usual

  lazy lunch, I make grilled cheese and bacon

  sandwiches with cold, sliced tomatoes,

  dill pickles and potato chips.

  Jackson watches Scott gobble his

  sandwich and says he will have

  bacon, too, the next time.

  At suppertime Jackson puts a

  single fish stick

  on his plate with his fries.

  Mom, for once, has the sense

  not to mention it. We eat in silence until

  Jackson breaks it with an announcement.

  “Guess what! I’m not a vegetarian anymore.”

  Just like that.

  Mother-Daughter Day

  I humour her because she has enough

  on her mind and anyway it won’t

  kill me to spend a day out

  with Mom. Besides, I

  could use some new

  clothes for school.

  By noon there are shimmering heat waves

  rising from the pavement and I am more than ready

  for a break even though I’m a little worried about lunch.

  It has crossed my mind that Mom might be planning

  a heart-to-heart, “how are you really doing?” kind of talk

  and today is one of my hollow days.

  I’d like to keep it that way.

  I’m dipping a chicken ball into sweet-and-sour sauce when

  she reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine.

  I wait, dreading what’s coming, but all she says is that she

  loves me and Jackson more than anything in the world.

  And then she cries.

  The Real Thing

  I love Scott.

  We are sitting at the table in his kitchen, eating hotdogs when

  I notice a little blob of ketchup at the corner of his mouth. It

  bobs up and down as he chews. So I reach over with a

  napkin and dab it, and he turns and smiles and looks

  into my eyes for a second longer than he needs to.

  And it hits me.

  It crashes into me.

  I love him.

  I love him.

  I can’t finish my lunch.

  I tell him I’m full.

  I am full.

  School and Other Miseries

  I swear that August melted under the blazing sun,

  soaked into the ground and drained away.

  Its bright new promise a yellow swell,

  a golden trance, while the moon

  conspired to distract us with

  thirty-one lazy winks.

  I can hardly stand the thought of early mornings,

  trying to focus on boring subjects

  dragging home stupid assignments

  hearing the Mother Brain Rules for school nights

  and worst of all is that Dad isn’t even

  here to negotiate.

  What?

  I wonder if could I even be a more horrible,

  selfish person. My father is

  dead and my big regret is that he

  can’t make things easier for me anymore?

  Except, that isn’t what I mean.

  It’s just one more gaping hole in the fabric of my life.

  A hole that cannot be mended or hidden. There is

  no way to un-rip something.

  Socorro

  My new math teacher looks at me

  warily when I pass her the slip

  that allows me to leave class for my

  weekly appointment with Socorro.

  I tell him, “You should have seen her

  face. I swear that she thinks I’m crazy

  or something.” And, of course, he

  asks, “How did that make you feel?”

  I think that over and then tell him,

  with a smile, “You know what? It kind

  of amused me, but it also gave me a

  strange sense of power.”

  There is a kind of freedom in

  having this

  one place in the world

  where I can say

  anything I

  want to.

  I like how he never tells me what

  I should think or how I should feel.

  I know he’s guiding me

  with his questions but

  it is always a path to

  my own solution.

  Letter to Dad.docx (continued)

  Remember the chats we used to have about school—the ones I tried to avoid? Well, this would have been a good time for one. Since classes went back in, a lot of the people who were snubbing me have come back around. And, to my surprise, it hasn’t meant much to me. In a way, I actually feel a little embarrassed for them.

  It’s different when it comes to Morgan. That’s been hard, and it’s felt hopeless for a long time. Until this afternoon, on my way to french class.

  I was heading toward the language department when I saw her coming down the hall toward me. For months she’s been acting like I don’t exist so I was startled to see her looking straight at me as she got closer. We were almost face-to-face when she offered a sad smile. And I swear I heard her whisper, “Hi,” as she passed. So, I got wondering whether I should give her a call or send her a text or something. It seems likely that she was giving me an opening because she wants to fix things between us. But what if I’m wrong? Or what if it was a trick?

  Trying to figure out what to do made my head hurt. And then it hit me—I don’t have to do anything. I let go and, just like that, all the troubling thoughts and questions floated away.

  Sometimes it’s a lot easier to just wait and see what happens. That seems to be my new philosophy. I’ve turned into Miss Inertia.

  Four-Tier Cake

  You never know when something will

  slam into you. Like today, at my cousin’s wedding.

  I hate weddings. You expect them to be romantic but

  what they mostly are is boring. You wait

  for pictures, you wait

  for dinner, you wait

  for speeches to be over, you wait

  for it to be late enough that

  you can leave without being rude.

  Jackson is seated on my left. Dad’s watch,

  too big for his wrist,

  sits halfway up his arm. There was a near breakdown

  over it earlier. He ran about wailing that

  he needed to wear Dad’s watch and

  he just had to figure out where it went.

  Luckily, I was able to “find” it. (Also lucky was

  how no one found that suspicious.)

  I
don’t think he will be careless again.

  At our table, Grandma and Aunt Rita are

  vying for that coveted title of The Person with the

  Sorest Feet. Grandma’s corns and bunions take us

  through the salad but Aunt Rita gives her a run for

  her money during the main course, when she

  parades out her swollen and strap-strangled tootsies.

  There is still no clear winner by the time our

  half-melted gelato arrives.

  The deejay’s voice takes over the room, inviting

  the newlyweds to the floor for their first dance as

  husband and wife. They gaze at each other like

  they are still posing for pictures, which,

  I suppose they are.

  I see a wet shine on Mom’s cheek.

  No doubt she is thinking back to

  her own wedding day, while the

  Father-Daughter dance takes me

  forward to mine.

  It is a new, raw moment of loss,

  knowing there will be no dance with

  my father at my wedding. He will not

  walk me down the aisle or lift the veil

  away to kiss my cheek before

  I turn to face my groom.

  As I struggle not to cry a small arm reaches

  across my shoulder and I feel Jackson’s

  head lean toward me. Sometimes I just

  want to grab that kid and squeeze.

  And then, a memory.

  Theirs, not mine.

  About me. And my father.

  3

  I was five (Grandma says six) and my