Authors: Jennifer Close
“I’m glad you’re focused,” Elizabeth said. “Senior year is important.”
Max stayed in the apartment with her every night. She wondered what his friends must think. Maybe that they were fighting, that they’d break up soon. Or maybe that she was making him stay home, controlling every part of him. If she thought about it too long, her head hurt.
One afternoon, Max was at class and Cleo was walking around the apartment. She felt jittery, like she’d been drinking Red Bull. And before she could think about it, she pulled out her phone and called Monica.
Monica answered on the first ring. She probably thought something was wrong, since even when she and Cleo were a pair, they mostly just texted. They preferred talking in person.
“Hey,” Cleo said. She suddenly felt nervous. “I was just thinking about you and thought I’d call.”
“Oh, hi,” Monica said.
“I was—do you want to get lunch? I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Sure,” Monica said.
They met in the cafeteria. Monica looked thin, but she got a salad and she seemed a little less angry. The frown line between her eyes was gone.
A new girl that had transferred, Trish, had moved into Cleo’s old room and Monica said she was nice. “She’s clean—like almost OCD—so, you know, Mary and Laura like her.”
“That’s great,” Cleo said. She felt weirdly jealous, like she was being cheated on.
“So, how’s Max?”
“He’s good. He’s really good.”
Monica poked at her salad. “I can’t believe you guys are living together. It’s so grown-up.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Cleo knew she’d never tell Monica now.
Monica told her that she was almost definitely going back to Boston at the end of the year. “My parents want me close by.”
“That seems like a good idea.”
“Yeah, I guess. They want me to live at home for at least a year, which seems unnecessary, but whatever.”
Then Monica went on to tell her about a party they’d had at the house. “We got all these boxes of wine, and had people dress up like it was fancy, and Laura made Jell-O shots, which I’ve never had.”
“Really?” Cleo asked.
“Yeah, it was so funny.” Monica stopped poking at her lettuce and put her fork down. “Oh shit, we should have told you about it. I don’t know why we spaced on it.”
“That’s okay,” Cleo said. She wouldn’t have gone anyway. She couldn’t have stood to be sober at a party where Laura and Mary were fun and took Jell-O shots.
“I feel so bad,” Monica said.
“Really, it’s fine. Laura and Mary probably wouldn’t have let me in anyway, unless I spun the chore wheel and cleaned the bathroom or something.”
“Oh, them.” Monica waved her fork. “I think they’re over it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you know how they are. They get all bent out of shape, but then they get over it. You should have seen them with this party. They really went all out.”
Cleo picked up her drink and took a long sip of her Diet Coke through the straw, even though it was hard to swallow. Monica and her old roommates were getting along just fine without her. Better, really. They were having parties and Jell-O shots. How did she get here? How did she end up pregnant and friendless, about to graduate from college with nothing to show for it?
Monica was watching her, like she knew she was upset but didn’t know what to say. Cleo pulled the straw out of her mouth and set her drink down.
“That’s crazy,” she finally said. “I can’t imagine it.”
IT STARTED TO MAKE SENSE
to her now, how people that undergo terrible loss or tragedy manage to keep living. She’d never really understood it before, but the thing was that the body will shock you, so that
maybe you don’t believe it all at once. And then, if you keep moving, a day goes by, and then another. And since the worst thing you ever imagined actually came true, that becomes your reality, something else takes the place in your mind, and you continue on.
Once. One day she had forgotten to take her pill. And she’d taken it the very next day, just like she was supposed to. Just like they said to. In what world did that make a baby? In what world? Cleo never really did much wrong. She’d always been a rule follower. She always went to class, always did her assignments, did her reading, handed in her papers on time. The worst thing she’d ever done was get drunk in high school. And who didn’t do that? She’d forgotten to do the right thing for one day and that was it. Life was shit sometimes, it really was.
THANKSGIVING WAS GETTING CLOSER.
Every time Cleo saw a paper turkey anywhere, she felt like she might throw up. She thought often about the presidential pardon of the turkey. It was a weird tradition and when she was younger it upset her. It still did, if she was being honest. Why on earth would everyone gather to watch one bird be spared when there were millions of others being eaten for dinner? Were you supposed to feel really happy for that one turkey that made it when the rest of his family was getting their heads chopped off? It didn’t make any sense. It was cruel, really, and it made her stomach turn. It was enough to make anyone a vegetarian, and she found that she couldn’t stomach the thought of it. During those weeks before Thanksgiving, she stopped eating meat altogether.
WALKING AROUND CAMPUS,
Cleo just watched everyone and thought,
I fucked up more than you, and more than you, and more than you
. It was like nothing she’d done up to this point mattered anymore. Everyone else was free and she had a human growing inside of her.
Every day, Cleo thought about what it would be like after they told everyone. Max’s family would hate her for sure. And Elizabeth was going to be so mad, she couldn’t even imagine. She’d always talked about birth control, always made sure that Cleo knew what she needed to know. It was like she was telling her,
You were a mistake and believe me, you want to make sure you don’t do what I did
.
Maybe they were some sort of hyper-fertile family. It was possible. She could tell Elizabeth that it wasn’t her fault, it was biology. That would go over well.
Cleo hated when people were mad at her. She couldn’t stand to disappoint anyone. The thought of Elizabeth and Max’s family being so thoroughly disappointed in her made it hard to breathe.
Elizabeth used to always tell her she needed a thicker skin. “Not everyone is going to like what you do all the time,” she’d say. “Sometimes you have to say, screw you, and do it anyway.”
Senior year in high school, Cleo had decided not to play soccer. It had gotten to be too much, and she liked her other activities better, so it only made sense. She was sleepless for weeks, knowing that she’d have to tell the team, knowing that the girls and the coach were going to be disappointed in her. She hated disappointing people.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Cleo,” Elizabeth had said. “This is your life. You’re the one that has to live with the decision you make, not anyone else. Just remember that. What you do in life is yours and it doesn’t matter what other people want from you.”
It was sort of funny, actually, that for the first time in her life, Cleo was going to take Elizabeth’s advice, that for once she was going to do something that was going to make everyone around her angry as all hell. She repeated Elizabeth’s words to herself every night.
What you do in life is yours
.
Cleo thought that maybe when she told Elizabeth, she could point out how ironic it all was, how she was finally doing just what Elizabeth suggested. “That’s the thing about giving advice,” she could say. “It might come back to haunt you.”
CHAPTER
11
Martha’s new job smelled like death. Or actually, it smelled like dying, which was worse. Death was at least clinical and final. Dying lingered. It was urine-stained couch cushions and shirts with drool on them. It was labored breathing and fake cheery voices that tried to distract the patient from the fact that this was it—his life was coming to a close.
Her first day, Martha showed up to find Jaz scrubbing the wood floor in the den with Pine-Sol. “Just a little accident,” she said. Her voice was pleasant and no-nonsense, the kind of voice you would use when dealing with a child, to let them know that accidents happen, but they’re nobody’s fault, and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
Mr. Cranston sat in his chair and stared straight ahead, not acknowledging Martha or Jaz’s comment. Martha, unsure of what to do, stood in the corner and folded her arms across her stomach. “Accidents happen every day,” she’d said. Then she wanted to die, because Mr. Cranston gave her an accusing look that meant he thought that either she was a moron or she was against him.
“Mr. Cranston loves to read his papers first thing,” Jaz said. She wrung out her rag into the bucket. “Why don’t you go grab those for him—they’re by the front door—and go ahead and put them in the sitting room? When we’re done here, I’ll show you how to get breakfast ready.”
Martha nodded and almost ran from the room to the front of the house, where she picked up the
Wall Street Journal
, the
New York Times
, and the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. She was so grateful to get out of that room, that she almost hit her head when she opened the door.
When they met in the kitchen, Jaz told her not to get overwhelmed. “I’m going to be here with you for a couple of weeks until you get it down. Any questions you have, you just ask. I’m not going anywhere, so there’s no reason to get nervous, okay?”
Martha nodded and swallowed. Ever since her stupid comment about accidents happening every day, she felt like she might start crying. But Jaz was kind. And for that, she was very grateful.
“Okay, now. First thing you’ll do when you get here in the morning is make breakfast. It’s the only meal you’ll have to make, but he’s pretty particular about it. He has the same thing every day—two soft-boiled eggs and a piece of whole wheat toast. He used to have bacon too, but that ended about five years ago, when his cholesterol went through the roof. Every once in a while he can still have it, but don’t let him fool you into thinking that he gets it every day, okay?”
Martha nodded again. She was trying to remember everything that Jaz told her, and then, without a word, Jaz handed her a black leather-bound notebook and pen. The breakfast was just the beginning of the instructions. Lunch and dinner were prepared by a cook who came in a few times a week, and stored the meals.
Jaz opened the big shiny refrigerator to reveal shelves full of delicious-looking meals, stored in clean, labeled Tupperware containers. It was the kind of refrigerator that Martha would love to have, full of meals that made her hungry just to read the labels—cold salmon and homemade mayonnaise, mini beef tenderloin sliders with horseradish sauce, fresh arugula with shaves of Parmesan, and little lamb chops, tiny and perfect.
“Don’t worry about getting the food ready,” Jaz said. “The cook writes everything down on this pad over here, and you just follow her instructions. It’s easy. Also, there’s always plenty, so help yourself to whatever you want.”
Martha wanted to stand and stare at the shelves all day. They were so neat and orderly. Imagine having this be your refrigerator! You’d never find an old peach or a soft sweet potato in there, never find a block of moldy cheese and have to wonder when you bought it. Martha was still staring as Jaz shut the door.
The instructions continued. Mr. Cranston could go to the bathroom
by himself, but he sometimes needed help walking there, or getting up from his chair. He did not want or need help once he got there. “For now,” Jaz said.
He read all three papers every morning. He did not like to watch TV, except for the seven o’clock news, and sometimes
Jeopardy
if he was in the mood. If he was extremely tired, you could sometimes persuade him to watch a show; just suggest it like it was something you’d heard about and thought he would like. Nothing popular. No sitcoms. He did not like to watch shows where groups of adults lived together in the city and whined and acted like children. Stick to things like BBC miniseries, as long as there wasn’t too much melodrama.
He was an avid reader and would (at least twice a month) make a list of new books that he wanted. The local bookstore could be called—they had his account information—and they would drop off the books the next day. He had a computer, although he didn’t use it all that often. He did not e-mail. He did sometimes ask to dictate a letter, to an old friend or work acquaintance, which he would want typed up so that he could sign it. “He had a secretary for years,” Jaz explained. “It’s just something he’s used to.”
Mr. Cranston enjoyed crosswords sometimes, and did not like to be interrupted while he worked on them. He did not like to go outside, but Jaz insisted that he get out at least once a day, to go for a walk in his wheelchair. It made him feel like a baby, to be pushed around the block, but Jaz was firm. He needed fresh air and he knew it. If you were firm with him, he would be okay. Just a quick walk, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, down the street and maybe over by the park, but not
in
the park, because there were almost always children there, and they were so noisy, and he didn’t like to see the way that children were raised these days, like wild animals let loose. Why did they always have snacks with them, their grubby hands full of yogurts and drinks and crackers, like they were going to starve before they got home? “Just trust me,” Jaz said. “Stay out of the park.”
Ruby came over a couple of times a week, whenever she felt like it, really. She usually brought some sort of gift, a book, or a pint of frozen soup that she picked up. “She tries to help, bless her,” Jaz said. But
Ruby was often in the way. She insisted that he go on an outing with her, to the store, or maybe to a restaurant for an early dinner.
“Even when he was healthy as a horse, Mr. Cranston never shopped. Never. And he never liked eating out,” Jaz said. “That man would rather eat a peanut butter sandwich than sit in a restaurant.”
His son, Billy, usually came only on the weekends, so Martha would probably never see him, but when he did come he just liked to sit with his father and wasn’t a bother.