Love and Other Four-Letter Words (16 page)

W
hen I unlocked our front door a half hour later, Moxie galloped out to greet me. I noticed that the raw patch on her back had some bloody crevices where she'd been gnawing it this morning.

“Mom?”

“Ummhmm,” Mom called from the bathroom, where she was brushing her teeth.

“What did the vet say?”

I heard the faucet running. After a minute, Mom appeared in the doorway, a dollop of froth in the corner of her mouth. She just stood there for a few seconds with this uncomfortable look on her face.

“What did the vet say?” I repeated, clenching my teeth.

“Sammie …”

“You didn't forget, did you?” I suddenly felt all the emotion from the past few days, from Kitty, from Phoebe, from everything, welling up in my throat.

Mom nodded solemnly as she pointed to where
Ten Days to Self-Esteem
was sprawled facedown on her bed. “I was reading … somehow the hours just slipped away. I called them a few minutes ago and they're closed for the day.”

“How could you? I left you that Post-it and everything!”

“These things happen. …”

“These things don't just
happen.
I asked you to do one small thing”—my tone grew louder as I snatched up Mom's book and flung it against the wall—“and you were too consumed with your emotional suffering to care for a poor dog in pain!”

Mom's face paled as she stared at the mark on the wall where her book had made contact. “I think you're overreacting … you're being completely unfair….”

“Unfair?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Do you want to talk about unfair?” I stormed around the apartment, the words springing off my tongue faster than I could think. I paused in front of the air conditioner, still in its box in the hallway, exactly where it had been since it was delivered two weeks ago. “Let's talk about how
nothing ever gets done around here unless I do it! Let's talk about how I have to worry night and day about our lives!”

Mom froze in the doorway, watching my tirade.

“I know separating with Dad is hard for you,” I shouted. “And I know starting over in this city is hard. But it's hard for me too. Dad leaving was the most painful thing …”

I paused. I'd never said it out loud before and it was making my throat tighten up.

And that's when Mom slipped into her sandals, not even pulling the straps over her heels, and grabbed her set of keys. As she started out of the apartment, I shouted after her, “Did you ever stop to think how any of this makes me feel?”

But she didn't answer. She just ran out, the toothpaste still on her face, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. As soon as I heard the elevator arrive, I slammed the door as hard as I could. And then, just because I felt like it, I opened the door and slammed it again.

Pacing around the apartment, my hair flipping wildly in front of my eyes, I didn't feel the least bit of remorse. In fact, when I noticed my dictionary sitting on the floor, I slid Dad's card out of the back, quickly scanned the note and dialed his phone number.

I hadn't expected to get his answering machine, but I was so fired up by this point that nothing was going to stop me. When I heard Dad's voice say,
Leave a message after the beep,
I spewed every thought that crossed my mind. All about how life is anything but fine, how Mom had fallen apart, and how, most of all, he had betrayed my belief that he was the one person I could always count on. I was in the middle of a lecture about washing hands of family responsibilities when his machine cut me off. Even though I'd said practically everything, I pressed Redial, listened to his message again and then shouted into the phone, “And by the way,
I'll
tell you when I'm done talking,
not
your stupid machine!”

After I slammed down the phone, I looked out the window for a while, feeling small and alone, yet strangely connected at the same time. I began humming this old Janis Joplin song, “Me and Bobby McGee.” There's this part where she sings,
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose
….

And that's when it hit me. Over the past few months, I've given up my entire life, my parents have orbited into a galaxy far, far away, my best friend has been completely self-absorbed and now my new friend wants nothing to do with me. But in this inexplicable way, it
all makes me free. Free to take risks I wouldn't ordinarily take because, in the end, I haven't got much to lose.

And that's when I realized I had one phone call left to make.

“Hello?” Eli answered on the second ring.

“Hey … it's Sammie.”

“Hi! Did you just get home?”

“Yeah …a few minutes ago.”

We were quiet for a second. I gripped the phone tightly in my hand.
Okay, Sammie, now or never.

“Eli?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking … about the Bear Mountain trip …”

“Yeah?”

“I'd like to come.”

“You'd like to come?”

“Yes.”

Eli launched into a description of trails and swimming holes, adding how they've got an extra sleeping bag and there will definitely be space for three in the tent. It must have been five minutes before he finally came up for air.

“Sammie?” he asked, right before we hung up.

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad you're coming.”

“Me too.”

After I got off the phone, I suddenly felt tired, more tired than I've ever felt in my life. I stumbled toward Mom's bed. My arms, my legs, even my eyelids seemed like they were full of cement.

The next thing I knew, Mom was pulling off my sandals and sliding my legs under the sheets.

“No,” I mumbled, “I'll move to the futon.”

“It's only seven-thirty,” Mom whispered, switching off the small lamp next to the bed, “you can stay right here.”

I opened my eyes. The room was pretty dark, but then I realized that the shades were drawn. Right before I closed my eyes again, Mom leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. For the first time in months, I didn't try to stop her.

T
hey always say there's a calm before the storm. In my case, the calm came after. The days following my outburst were uneventful, almost serene. Neither Mom nor I said another word about it, but in a way the air had been cleared. After months of tiptoeing around each other as if we were in a minefield, it was a relief to have finally set off the explosion.

And life after the bomb produced such surprises as:

1. Mom talking her way into an early-morning appointment at the vet's, where they gave Moxie a cortisone shot that reduced her irritation by sundown.
   

2. The super appearing in our apartment with a measuring tape, promising Mom he'd return soon to install the air conditioner.
   

3. Friday afternoon, when Uncle Steve called.
   

I'd been sitting on the futon leafing through
Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul,
which Mom had picked up at the bookstore a few weeks ago. It actually wasn't so horrible, especially this Maya Angelou poem in the beginning called “Phenomenal Woman.” There's this one part where she writes:
It's the reach of my hips … the stride of my step.
And then she goes on to describe the things that make her a real woman.

For some reason, it reminds me of Mom. The way she's comfortable in her body, curves and big breasts and all. I wonder if I'll be like that someday too. I hope so.

Mom was nodding and ummhmming. What I gathered from her half of the conversation was that Uncle Steve was inviting us out to Long Island for Labor Day, to swim in their pool. I began flapping the book in the air, trying to let her know that there was no way I would spend the weekend with the Original Asshole. And that's when Mom said something about how we'd love to, but unfortunately we had other plans.

“What other plans?” I asked as soon as she hung up.

“I don't know.”

Mom shrugged. “I just made it up.” “What about your Lincolnian code of ethics?”

Mom laughed. “Even Abe would blur the truth if he met Uncle Steve.”

She crossed the room and sat next to me on the futon.

“I was thinking,” she said, “maybe we could drive up to Ithaca over Labor Day weekend. I'd like to pick up my oil paints from the house … and if you want we can bring back your bike.”

“Mariposa?”

“As long as you promise to only ride it in the park.”

I was so shocked that I dropped
Chicken Soup
on the floor. I couldn't believe Mom had changed her mind about Mariposa.

Mom must have sensed my surprise because she quickly added, “I take that as a yes.”

I nodded, my mind racing ahead to whether or not I'd let Kitty know I was in Ithaca.

What has surprised me more than anything, though, is the fact that Dad still hasn't called, not since I left that message on his machine. It's not like I expected him to collapse at my feet, begging for forgiveness, but at the very least, I'd imagined a phone call, just to make sure things are okay.

Not that I even have an answer to that. Because they
are and they aren't. For instance, in the past few days, I haven't been having a difficult time breathing. And my throat hasn't been tightening every seven seconds, even when I think about how Phoebe hasn't shown up at the dog run all week.

As I got into bed on Friday night, I wished I had a fairy godmother who could sagely advise me about Phoebe. Suddenly I remembered this time when Phoebe and I were talking about religion.

Have you ever noticed that God spelled backward is dog?
she'd asked me, grinning mischievously.

I pressed my face into my pillow. I miss her so much it hurts.

Please, Fairy Dogmother, tell me how to make things better with Phoebe. Because at this point, whatever needs to be done, I'll do it.

I woke up at seven-fifteen on Saturday morning, an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off. I wasn't due at Eli's until ten, so I pulled the sheet over my head and attempted to drift back to sleep. But after lying there for ten minutes with enough adrenaline to run a marathon, I hopped up and tiptoed into the bathroom.

I stood under the shower for a long time, letting the hot spray massage my neck. As much as I'm excited
about going to Bear Mountain, I'm also pretty nervous. Like when I remind myself that I barely know Eli or Shay and have never even met Max and Ellen. Or when I remember how Eli said there would be “space for three” in the tent. Which obviously translates to Max and Ellen sharing one tent and Eli, Shay and me sharing the other. Which makes my stomach flip over, seeing that I've never spent the night next to a guy, let alone two at once. I hope I don't snore or kick or talk in my sleep.

The sooner I get there,
I reassured myself,
the sooner I'll stop worrying.

But all that accomplished was to make the next hour inch by so slowly, you would've thought someone had poured a bucket of tar over the hands of the clock.

7:35 A.M.: Pull on jean shorts. Cut tags off new mocha-colored tank top.

7:41 A.M.: Unload backpack to make sure I remembered everything. I did. Repack.

7:59 A.M.: Study reflection in mirror. Decide new mocha-colored tank top is too revealing around chest. Change into T-shirt.

8:04 A.M.: Bring Moxie downstairs for quick pee.

8:21 A.M.: Notice that toenail polish is half chipped off. Borrow Mom's nail polish remover and get rid of rest.

8:29 A.M.: Pick up book. Reread same paragraph three times and still have no idea what it says.

8:34 A.M.: Study reflection in mirror. Sigh. Change back into new mocha-colored tank top.

8:35 A.M.: Realize that if I don't instantly evacuate apartment, I might truly go bonkers.

Other than a scattering of cigarette butts, there were no signs of life on the roof.

Much better up here,
I thought, swallowing a mouthful of cool air,
much more peaceful.

Just then the door to the stairwell creaked. I glanced over my shoulder, only to spot J.D., a Yankees cap on his head, a baseball mitt in his hand. My knees nearly buckled out from under me. This was just like in my fantasy.
We'd run into each other on the roof one day, start talking, really hit it off.
…

“Hey there,” he said, flashing a sexy smile.

My pulse started racing. I wondered if I was entering the Danger Zone, which is what my old gym teacher called it when someone's heart rate exceeds 240, putting them at risk of cardiac arrest. Now
that
would be a mess. I tried to picture J.D. hunched over me, administering CPR.

At least you'd get to do mouth-to-mouth,
I could imagine Phoebe saying.

Yeah, but I'd be unconscious,
I'd tell her,
so it wouldn't really count.

“Sara, right?”

He asked me that the last time I saw him! “No … it's Sammie.” “Right,” J.D. said.

According to my fantasy, by this point we were supposed to be getting below the surface, each listening to what the other had to say, adult to adult.

“I just came up to check the weather.” J.D. punched his fist into his mitt. “I'd better motor if I'm going to get to my game on time.”

Motor?
Who says motor anymore? While we're at it, who
ever
said motor?

J.D. started across the roof. Right before he stepped into the stairwell, he turned and said, “Catch you later, Sara.”

As the door slammed shut, I looked out into Central Park. This is the third time he's gotten my name wrong.

J.D. plays baseball, so he knows the rules.

Three strikes and you're out.

Even if you have angular cheekbones and lips that make me want to suck on them all night.