Authors: Clare James
“Never?”
“Nope, not really.” I tell her.
We talk about that for a bit, not getting any
closer to understanding any of it, and soon we’re out of time. Thank God. I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I want nothing more than sleep, but I still have a full day ahead of me.
The day stretches
on forever until my class with Noah. I’m completely consumed by my shrink session and the fact that Amy invited my mom and Stephen to Christmas—a horrifying thing to think about, especially after the Thanksgiving fiasco.
Once I’m settled in class,
I take out my book and try not to dwell on any of it since I have only a few precious days of peace left in my immediate future. And the moment Noah walks in, it’s easy to do. His eyes find mine and all thoughts of Christmas and my morning therapy session disappear. Noah stops at my desk and gently touches my hand as he turns the book over. It’s a book of poetry by Maya Angelou.
“Good choice
,” he says before taking his seat.
I fight the impulse to get up and jump into his lap.
“Okay, guys, settle in,” Professor Sands interrupts. “I know everyone is dreaming of holiday gifts, pigging out, and sleeping in, but let’s try to finish class on a productive note. As I mentioned earlier in the week, your job today is to find a piece of writing that best describes where you are in life at this moment. Don’t be shy, nobody will read your essays but me. And as long as you put some thought into it and those thoughts are authentic, I promise you’ll all do well. So let’s get to work. Pick a few of your favorites because we’ll be doing some exercises before the big essay is due.”
It’s hard to concentrate with Noah behind me, but as
I read Maya Angelou’s poetry I become engrossed. A few times tears threaten to spill down my face. They don’t. I am in control. But it’s like she’s talking right to me and I feel good reading the words. They make music in my head and wrap around my heart in a warm embrace.
After class
, I pull out a box from my backpack. Hanukkah doesn’t start until Sunday, but I want to give Noah his gift on our walk home, before he leaves for Boston to visit his grandparents. I hope it’s not too much, but I found a first edition of
The Catcher in the Rye.
W
hen it’s time to go, Noah holds up a finger signaling me to wait while he passes me to get to Jenna. My heart breaks a little. Most days I’d almost forgot she was in our class—at least until she needed him. I wasn’t in any place to make demands, so I graciously took the sloppy seconds. This is the real world after all.
I put the box back in my bag and he
ad out, fighting the rejection in my head.
“Tabby,” Noah calls after me.
I turn to him.
“I’ll stop by later,” he says. Then he’s back to Jenna.
Whatever.
I ca
n’t fault him. He already explained his relationship with Jenna and told me he wouldn’t let her down. He told me all of this before we got involved. I had a choice in the matter. And I chose him. Still the nasty feeling in my chest grows on the way home. At least now there are a few things I can do to prevent it from taking over or from taking me under.
At home, Noah texts me but I brush him off with a quick note to tell him I’m going to the center. I quickly change clothes and head out.
As Michael says, “Your slate has been wiped clean
, Tabby.” Since I started dancing again, I almost believe it. I can’t wait to see Michael in a few days. Having him by my side might just make the visit with Mom bearable.
Once I get to the center, I put my ballet slippers on. Then, I wipe my slate clean and dance. There’s no Noah, Jenna, or upcoming visit from Mom. It’s just me, my body, and the music. My breathing accelerates and I start to break a sweat. Endorphins kick in. I sweat out the bad and breathe in the good. I start to feel like me again.
“Holy shit!” A deep voice breaks my focus.
“Have you been keeping something from me, Tabby?” Noah says.
“Oh, I’m just burning off steam,” I say not knowing how long he’s been watching me. “I’m finding healthy ways to deal.” He gets my
group
reference. I’ve told him a little bit about it, mainly to keep him off my back.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a
professional
dancer?” he asks.
“I’m not,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”
“Like hell you aren’t. You need to join a group or squad or whatever you call it. That was incredible.”
“
It’s a company.” I laugh. “And that’s not for me anymore,” I add, more seriously this time. “That was my old life, Noah. I don’t want to go back to it.”
“But you could get a scholarship for colle
ge. And maybe it would help with other stuff too.”
“No, this is enough. It does feel good, it does help, but it also brings back a lot of memories.”
“Please do me a favor.” He moves closer and rests his hands on my arms. “Think about it.”
I nod and
my body instinctively moves closer to him. I am completely and utterly in love. I can’t stay mad at him and I don’t want to fight the past anymore. I want to focus on the future.
“Do
me
a favor,” I counter. “Show me what you got.”
I turn up the music.
And we dance.
That’s what we call p
rogress.
But b
efore Noah and I can
progress
any further, his parents call. They’ve upped their departure time for the Boston road trip because of a storm front moving in, so we have to make our goodbyes quick.
There are no Hallmark moments in the real world
.
THIRTY-THREE
On Christmas afternoon, Dad and Amy rush around the house. They have been for hours. It’s weird. Amy is never frazzled, but the thought of hosting a holiday dinner for my mom and Stephen has her on edge. The Nelson clan left Illinois this morning and are due anytime. I feel sick, but I keep it to myself.
I help set the table with the silverware. Amy’s made everything look great. Each place setting has a card with a famous quote about the holidays. They’re wrapped with a sprig of evergreen from the yard. Mom’s quote is from Dickens:
I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.
A little subliminal note for Mom, we’ll see if it works. My place setting has a quote from Helen Keller that says:
The only blind person at Christmastime is he who has not Christmas in his heart.
As I toy with it, I see some writing on the back. I flip it over to read a hidden message meant for my eyes only. It’s quote by Victor Borge:
Santa Claus has the right idea, visit people once a year.
I laugh. You gotta love Amy; the lady is good.
The rest of my family arrives early afternoon and after an hour of uncomfortable small talk and togetherness, we sit down to eat.
Amy made a traditional turkey dinner with the works. I was in charge of the mashed potatoes and I’m now realizing they are quite lumpy. I doubt anyone will notice. Dad and Amy seem pretty uptight; Mom has a minuscule portion on her plate; Michael won’t realize it as he inhales the food; and Stephen is just too much of a gentleman to say
Boo.
“Tabby,” Mom says as I’m feeling my way through the lumps of potatoes. “Stephen and I were wondering if you’d like to come home for the rest of the holiday break. We could give you a ride back on Sunday. Maybe you could see Megan and come to church
—”
“What?” I interrupt, rather rudely I might add, but I’m not sure I’m hearing her correctly. I can’t believe my ears. She wants me to
go back to that place? Visit with my so-called best friend who dropped me the second my
trouble
became public? My mother has clearly lost her mind.
“We miss you at home, honey,” Mom continues with her plea to get me back to Illinois. A small fire ignites in my belly and burns just below the surface. I think about blowing off Mom’s suggestion and making up some school excuse. I can’t and worse, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in control. My jaw clenches and my hands ball up in fists. I try to hold it all in, unsuccessfully.
“You could’ve fooled me,” I say almost laughing
. Sarcasm. Yes, sarcasm is much better than anger. “You’ve come to see me, what? Two times in almost five months. Your only daughter. This is my home now, Mom, and I have no desire to go back to that hellhole in Illinois!”
“Well, I just thought
—”
“You thought wrong.”
“Tabby, what’s wrong? Why are you so angry? I thought you were still seeing someone to help with these issues.”
“And that’s just the way you like it, isn’t it?” I spit. “Someone else taking care of my
issues.
Always someone else. But what about you? Where do you come into all of this? Oh that’s right, you don’t want to know. Pretend none of it is happening so you don’t have to be responsible. You wanted me dating that asshole, Thomas. You bent all the rules for him. And when he hurt me, you let him get away with it.”
“Tabby,” she fumbles. “What happened affected everyone, Stephen’s business. I—”
“
Yes, Stephen’s precious business. God, Mom, you just don’t get it,” I say defeated. She really doesn’t and I’m not sure she ever will. “Just forget it. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”
I stomp off into the living room
and stand by the window, drawing a Christmas tree in the condensation.
Michael comes in and adds his own artwork to my drawing.
“Are you okay?” he
asks, drawing a star on top of my tree.
“Yes, fine,” I say. “
I’m better now that I finally let her have it. That’s been building for a long time, but let’s talk about something else for once. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Really?” he asks.
“Yes, I’d say it’s about time, wouldn’t you?”
“
Well,” he says. “I’ve decided on a school.”
It takes me a minute to process.
“What? Where? Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, happy to focus on my brother for a change.
“Let me
take those one at a time,” Michael laughs. “Yes, I’ve finally decided on a college. The U of M, and I’m not talking Michigan. It happens to be located right here in Minneapolis. And, oh yeah, I just got my acceptance letter yesterday. I wanted to give you the news in person.”
By the time he finishes his sentence, I’m jumping and screaming and doing a happy dance. It’s going to be a merry Christmas after all.
W
e make it. The holiday is officially over and nobody died. I’m lying on my old bed relishing in Michael’s news when Amy comes in.
“Hey
, babe, how are you?” she asks.
“Not too bad,” I say. “I was prepared fo
r the worst. And Michael’s news? Wow. Somehow it turned out to be a good day.”
“Yes, it has,” she says
, snuggling in with me. “Ya know, Tab. I think all this time I’ve been blaming your mom and Stephen for everything that happened last year, but I think your Dad and I need to step up and take our lumps.”
Wait just a minute. Is she
turning on me? Feeling bad for my mom.
“What’s this all about? Do you think I was too hard on
Mom?”
“Nooooo. No. No,” Amy says.
Thank the Lord.
“Sometimes I don’t know what that woman is thinking, you had every right to say what you did. But, you know,
maybe if your Dad and I were there for you—giving you what you needed—maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so bad. Instead, we smothered you with hugs and kisses. I thought we could love it away. I wanted so bad to take care of you and to make it all go away, but I never asked you what you needed from me. I’m so sorry, Tabby. I want you to tell me what you need. Can you do that?”
“This,” I say grabbing her hand while we lay in bed. “Just this.”
“I have a lot to learn about what it means to be a parent,” she says.
“Well, you’re about a million times better than my mom,” I tell her.
“She’s trying too, Tabby. She really is trying.”
THIRTY-FOUR
After Christmas, I go back with Jules back to Mud Puddle. I sip my coffee cautiously as we gather around a table in the back room, afraid I’ll spill with my trembling hands. This is my third time joining the group, but I have a feeling something’s up. I think it’s
my
turn to do the talking.
“How are your butterflies?” Becca asks the group.
We all show them off. They’re still living.
I have three, but only show the one on my arm named Michael.
I have two others on my ankle.
Noah and Jules.
We sit and sip our coffees, making small talk before we dive into business. Reece doesn’t beat around the bush.
“So Tabby, are
you ready to tell us your story?” she asks.