Authors: Estelle Laure
“Ten minutes!” Shane yells at Melanie. “And I don't want to have to tell you twice.” Her phone vibrates. She checks it. Shakes her head. “Guys are stupid, don't you think? Always coming when you don't want them, running when you do.”
I smile. Nod. Of course they come to her. She's all dark and exotic and self-confident but accessible. She looks like fun.
“You got a boyfriend?” she asks.
“No.”
“You gay?”
“No!”
“Homophobic?”
“Oh my gosh!”
She makes fun. Giggles.
“Working?” she asks.
“Me?”
“No. Your parents. That's your sister, right?”
“Yes.”
“So your mom is working?”
“No.” Why did I say that?
“Where is she, then?”
I shrug. My throat gets bigger than it has room for.
“You on your own?”
She says it like it's the simplest thing, and her questions are so rapid-fire that I don't have time to think.
“With her?” she asks.
I don't say anything. Even though I know that no response is a response, I won't say it out loud. I don't know this girl, but something deep inside says
trust her
. My quiet doesn't seem to matter to Shane, who looks at me sharpish. It's useless. I can already tell she's the kind of person who sees things as they are. Something in the angle of her head.
“I had this friend, Janine, back home, I mean in Hoboken. She took care of her two baby brothers forever. They had this whole thing going with welfare, though. Her mom was on it, so when she split, Janine got the checks. It worked for a while. Hard on her, though.” She pauses. “You on welfare?”
I might projectile.
“I'm hungry, Lu,” Wren calls to me. “Can we go to Eden's?”
No, we can't go to Eden's.
“My mom's a nurse in Flemington,” Shane goes on like she didn't hear. “That's how we got here to the damn boonies. She only works three days a week, but crazy hours. Mostly weekends.” Points to Melanie. “So I have that little piece of work to deal with those days, then my own job the rest. Not bad, though. She's all right.” She takes a stick of gum from her purse. Offers me one. I actually accept it, and it's yummy. “All right for a hot mess.” She leans into me with her shoulder. Nudges me in a way that would usually make me want to push back. I don't, though.
“So you take care of her?” I try. “When your mom is at work?”
Shane smiles like she won something. I know it's because I finally said a complete sentence. She leans in.
“Yeah, it's a pain in the ass some days, but you do what you gotta do.”
“What you gotta do,” I say, thinking of all the things I gotta do.
“You're all kinds of locked up, you know that?” Shane says. She looks at me. “You need to loosen up.” She peers at me, gives me a good once-over. “You got enough money?”
I immediately almost cry.
“You could get a job,” she says. “You know Fred's? He's looking for a busser, like, now.”
Yes. I know Fred's. Everybody does. Reviewed in every major magazine, so people come from all over. Fred is supposed to be some kind of crazy food god with a posse of busty babes at his side. I've never been in there. Part performance art, part Mexican restaurant, all wild. Or so legend has it. Scary.
“Oh,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I see. You're too good for that place.”
That's not what I meant.
She signals Melanie from across the park, and Melanie completely ignores her. “Too bad,” she says, lifting her sunglasses to check her phone again. “I made two hundred last night.”
Two hundred pays electric. In one night?
Wren skips over, takes my hand. “Let's gooooo . . .” she whines. “I'm hungry.”
“Feed that? Need a job,” Shane says, standing. “Get your butt off that swing, Mel. We gotta go!” Blows a bubble and snaps it at me. “When you get off your high horse, come into the restaurant. I think he'll hire you if you come in quick. We just lost someone. Threw her apron on the floor and walked out. Couldn't take the heat.”
“I'm not . . .”
“I know about your dad,” she whispers so Wren can't hear. “He's crazy, right?”
I know my face changes color.
Wren lets go of me, runs to meet Melanie.
“It's all right.” Shane taps my shoulder. “Everyone's crazy, girl. You learn that after a while. Just depends which kind and whether you want it or not. That's what you decide. The rest is out of your hands.”
“Look what Melanie taught me,” Wrenny says, and she and Melanie do some kind of jumping-slapping-their-own-behinds thing that is surprisingly complex and rhythmic for a couple of nine-year-olds.
“Awesome!” I say, trying not to show that my pulse got all wonky when Shane mentioned Dad.
We clap, and I grab Wrenny's backpack from next to the bench. Rub my hand along the silent, soon-to-be-turned-off cell phone in my pocket and my very last ten-dollar bill.
“Fred's?” I say. “You really think he'd hire me?”
“Atta girl,” Shane says back. “You got a phone number?”
Trust. What does it even mean? You hand somebody the knife to stab you with when you trust them. I know this much is true. I jitter and skitter, but Shane can help me put food in my fridge, keep my lights on, keep the cable for Wren's cooking shows, keep us together.
My hand may have been shaking, but I had to give that stranger-girl the knife, even knowing how sharp it might be.
Digby holds one knife.
Eden another.
And now Shane.
That's a lot of knives.
I feel the prickle-tickle of the blades at my throat and hope the hands holding them are steady.
So . . .
With my last ten dollars I buy:
half a pound of ham
one loaf of white bread (the only kind I can get Wren to eat)
two Cokes (don't you judge me)
iceberg lettuce (I know: no nutritional value)
one apple (Fujiâthe only kind I like, never mealy)
We eat our sandwiches outside, because it's just too nice to be cooped up. We gulp down our sodas, and while Wren talks and sings, I remember when Eden and Digby lived next door, how our porch was communal since our houses were connected. When we were smaller, Eden and I would leave stuff for each other on the white railing that divided our porch in half. If Eden forgot her shoes at my house, I would just stick them there and they'd be gone the next time I looked. Back when I had time to read, Eden would leave books on the railing for me with little sticky notes on pages she liked. Eden and Digby lived on the pretty, functional side, while I was stuck in the warped, funhouse world. Because let's face it, we used to be a family when Mom and Dad were around, but we were never
them.
I never thought any of it would change. I didn't understand yet that everything always changes. It's a law of the universe. I wish someone had told me that. I wasn't paying close enough attention to the fact that they were there. They were a permanent fixture. I thought they'd stay forever.
But they moved on while we slipped backwards.
Then came Mrs. Albertson with her curlers and her bottomless glass of lemonade, which is what she is holding now as she eases onto the rocker where Eden's lounge chair used to rest against the house's brick face. She nods her head at us. “Hi, girls.”
We wave but keep eating. We are hungry.
“How's everyone?”
“We're good.” Wrenny shoves the last of her sandwich into her mouth. “Want to see what I learned at the park?”
She launches into her dance moves. Right now they look more perverted than amazingly impressive. Must there be so much gyration?
“Mmmm,” Mrs. Albertson says, her judgment wedged between her wrinkles.
I need to sweep the porch.
“How's your mother?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say. The sandwich gets too big for my mouth, won't go down when I try to swallow. “Busy.”
Wren leans against the back of the porch, goes utterly still.
“Haven't seen her lately.”
“No, she's working a lot. Got a job nursing in Flemington. Crazy hours.” It just came out.
“Oh.” Mrs. Albertson takes a sip of her lemonade, looking confused. “I didn't know she was a nurse.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Before she had Wren. She's been working really hard to get her degree up-to-date in New Jersey and everything, and now she did it. I'm really proud of her. She's working so much. She's so tired from working so hard for us.” Overkill.
Take it down a notch.
I don't ever talk this much. It will look suspicious.
Wren taps her finger along the rail. Hums loudly.
“Well, tell her I said hello,” Mrs. Albertson says.
“Will do,” I say. I never say that. “And how are you?” My heart is beating speedy quick, and I just want to go inside, but I don't want to look like I'm running.
“Oh, I'm fine. Still wondering why on earth I bought this house. When Geoffrey passed and all five kids were gone, it seemed logical to downsize a bit. But my legs are only going to get worse, you know?” She rubs at her thigh. “I should have considered the stairs.” She takes another sip from her glass. “I suppose I ought to be grateful that I can still have sugar. No diabetes yet.” She knocks on the railing and smiles.
“I guess we all have to be grateful for the little things.” It seems like the right thing to say.
Mrs. Albertson leans so far forward that I can see the wrinkly, wobbly cleavage she hides in her button-down shirts. “Yes, Miss Lucille,” she says. “I do believe that's all there is.”
I shuffle Wrenny past the flapping screen door, through the scratched-up wooden one, and into the peace of our brokedown palace. Well, peace, I guess that's debatable. More hushed than peaceful. A weird silence takes over. Wren is almost never this quiet.
As we pass through the house I see:
The tile needs replacing, and the toilet seat has come loose in the bathroom.
The doorknob on the back bedroom has come off, so you need a screwdriver to get it open whenever it accidentally shuts all the way.
Something is wrong with the water heater too. Hot water only comes when the dishwasher is on, which can't be right.
The other night, the towel rack just came off the wall when I was trying to put the towel up after Wren's bath. I need to put it back.
This house has been possessed by some pissed-off spirit that knows my parents are gone and has decided to rip everything apart.
We crawl into Mom's bed, and I flip on the good ole Food Network. Blessed be, Wrenny's favorite show is on. The Barefoot Contessa smiles beatifically at us. She roasts her roast as Wren relaxes into me.
Mom was going to paint the sky in Wrenny's room. That's how she put it. A week before she left she got a hundred sample squares and let Wrenny pick out the color. Mom actually got the paint and everything. I thought she was better, and then she tried to see Dad that last time, and when she found out he had been released and left instructions for his information to stay confidential, even from his wife, it all went to hell. She completely lost it. But for a day or two before that she seemed really excited. Motivated to put the pieces back together or something. I thought we had her again.
Wren chose I've Got the Blues as her color. Said she wanted the sky in her room since she only has a little window in there, and Mom said if it was sky she wanted, then sky she should have.
The unopened cans are still sitting under the foot stains from Wrenny lying with dirty heels against the wall. I guess it's moot, though, that it never happened. My sister hasn't spent a night in her own room since Mom left. Neither of us has. We've been in Mom's room instead, since it has a bed that fits the both of us and the TV is in there. I think at first we were keeping the bed warm for her, but now it's warm for us. Together. The door to Wren's room is mostly closed, except for when she goes in to get something or put something in. We like it that way.
Shadows fall. Wren holds on tight.
When Mom would put her to bed, she'd sing her a song or read her a book until she fell asleep. Some nights when I got into bed early, their pillow talk was like a fan humming laughter and music to carry me to my dreams. Me? I stare at the ceiling, one hand on Wren's back. Air in. Air out. Life.
Mom left with a single suitcase and a computer bag, said she was going to gather her thoughts and she would be back soon. She said we could reach her by phone and that she would call every day either way. When we asked where she was going, she said she didn't know. She must have known something though. She was going somewhere. Gave us a freezer full of food and a few hundred dollars, told me all the bills were paid for the month, and then walked out. She was a little slurry, kind of wide-eyed and dull. She barely hugged us when she got into the cab to the airport.
It was like we weren't there, like we were ghosts. But by then she was a shell. The Mom I knew was already gone, had been for a while. So saying goodbye wasn't so much saying goodbye as it was letting go of the last of something that was a fading memory anyway.
She never called.
Now Wren holds me around the waist, almost unconscious. She rests her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells like wet dog, not because she actually came into contact with a wet dog but because (I have discovered) little girls smell like wet dog when they don't wash their hair and their tween hormones come out of their skulls. She drapes her arm over my stomach, hits the mute button on the remote.
“Mom's not a nurse,” she says, muffled into me.