Wintergirls (12 page)

“See? I told you. There’s always a catch. What is it?”

“We play hearts, not poker.”

When I get home, Jennifer and Dad are snuggled on the couch in front of the gas-fed fireplace, flames on low, chick flick playing on the big screen. Jennifer is massaging lotion into Dad’s right wrist and hand. All the extra typ-ing on his overdue book must have aggravated his carpal tunnel.

“Where’s Emma?” I ask. “She’s not in bed already, is she?”

“She’s sleeping over at the Grants’,” Jennifer says.

“Against my better judgment.”

“Why?” I ask.

Jennifer pours more lotion into her palm. “Her last soccer tournament is tomorrow, all day. She’s going to be exhausted. I still think we should have kept her home.”

“Let the child have some fun.” Dad winces a little as Jennifer kneads his wrist. “In ten years, no one will remember how she played in this tournament.” He looks up at me. “Were you at the library again?”

“A friend’s house. Mira’s,” I lie. “We studied a little physics, but mostly we played cards and ate pizza.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dad says, beaming. “You haven’t done that in ages.”

Jennifer keeps her eyes on her work, the pads of her thumbs rubbing circles into the heel of his hand. “How was your meeting with Dr. Parker?” she asks.

None of your freaking business. “Good. I’m glad I went. We talked about Cassie.”

“Excellent,” Dad says. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Thanks. I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”

“Hang on.” Jennifer sets his hand in his lap and finally looks at me. “What about the funeral?”

I pause in the doorway that leads to the hall. “She said it was a good idea. I’m going with Mira and a bunch of girls from the drama club.”

“If you feel uncomfortable,” Jennifer says, “don’t hesi-tate to leave. If you change your mind and want one of us to go with you, it’s not a problem.”

“I’ll be okay.”

As I turn to leave, Jennifer adds, “Wait, one more thing.”

I turn back around.

“I talked to your mother again today,” Jennifer says, ignoring the look of surprise on Dad’s face.

“Yeah?” I have a bad feeling about this.

“I promised her I’d try to convince you to spend the night at her house tomorrow.”

I knew it.

“I don’t want to,” I say. “I don’t see any point.”

“I know,” Jennifer says. “You’re an adult, you make your own decisions. We’re beginning to figure that out.”

She smiles a little and it softens her words. “Sometimes being an adult means doing the right thing, even if it’s not what you want.”

“I don’t see how it’s the right thing,” I say. “Mom and me can’t talk without screaming. It’s better if we’re not around each other.”

“You haven’t spent time with her in months,” Jennifer points out. “Maybe that’s changed.”

Dad’s head goes back and forth, like he’s watching a tennis game but doesn’t understand the language being spoken by the announcers.

“Just one night,” Jennifer says. “Think of what a good example you’d show Emma—how to deal head-on with things that make you uncomfortable. Everybody has to learn how to do that.”

It’s cheating to bring up Emma like that. Advantage: Jennifer.

“Fine,” I say. “One night. But you tell her. I hate talking to her on the phone.”

I take a long shower and wash my pushy stepmother and my confused father and the smell of cheese, sausage, and motel out of my hair.

I did win one thing today. I shot the moon in hearts and beat Elijah. I’m picking him up at ten tomorrow. Neither one of us is up to the memorial service at the funeral home. We’re going straight to the grave. The drive will give me the chance to explain the confusion about my name, if he shuts his mouth for more than thirty seconds.

Maybe we’ll run away to South America after the funeral and raise goats.

Cassie grows braver every night, coming sooner, staying longer, freaking me out more and more. Once her coffin is tucked into the ground and the magic prayers are said and flowers are laid on top of her, she’ll go to sleep forever.

But I need to get some sleep. I pop a sleeping pill and tiptoe down the stairs in my robe for a mug of chamo-mile tea.

The movie has finished and Jennifer and Dad are talking quietly, the Weather Channel droning in the back-ground. I pause at the corner of the kitchen, listening for kissing sounds. I hate walking in on them when they’re making out.

I peek around the corner. No kissing. Just talking, each of them occupying a corner of the couch with pillows in between.

Husband: You’re overreacting. She’s a little stressed, but she’s trying.

Wife: She doesn’t look good.

Husband: You see the scales every week.

Wife: I wish she’d go in for a checkup. Have some blood work.

Husband: We can only suggest it. To be honest, pushing the issue might make things worse.

Wife: Chloe wants her to move back in.

Husband, picking up remote and adjusting flames of fireplace: Not just visit for a night?

Wife: She’s afraid Lia is out of control again. I agree.

A couple months with her mom might help get her back on track.

Husband: You were the one who convinced me to let her move in. You can’t change your mind just because she’s hit a rough patch. What are you going to do when Emma goes through this? Send her to Chloe’s house, too?

Wife: Don’t be ridiculous. Emma and Lia are very different people.

Husband: She had pizza with friends tonight. She’s fine. You and Chloe are blowing this out of proportion.

Now, what time do we have to get up in the morning?

Cassie is waiting for me upstairs. She heard everything.

I try to ignore her, but every time I turn around, she materializes in front of my eyes. We slide into the computer and scroll through the chorus.

When the house is asleep, I turn off the music and light a candle. Cassie sits on the windowsill and watches as I draw three razor lines, perfectly straight, on my right hip.

Now it matches the left.

On my way to pick up Elijah Saturday morning, I stop at a store to buy a map and a compass. The GPS is on my Christmas list, in ink. What I really need is a crystal ball, but nobody sells them around here.

I open up the compass box as soon as I’m in the car.

The compass is defective. No matter how I hold it, the little needle spins and spins around the dial without stopping.

I want my money back.

Elijah spends more time talking about his plans to drive south after Christmas than navigating. We get lost right after leaving the motel and waste time driving on roads that aren’t on the map. When we finally pull in between the stone griffins at the entrance to Mountain View Cemetery, we’re late.

A thin man in a long black coat and a black cowboy hat points me to a small parking lot. My car is the third one there.

I get out, wishing I had worn sweatpants, because the air smells like snow. I tug at the hem of my dress and shiver. This girl looked almost pretty in the mirror this morning: clean hair, decent makeup, antique silver earrings, a spider-gray short-sleeved dress (size zero) that fluttered just above her knees, and killer high heels. I forgot about it being thirty-seven degrees out.

“You sure we’re in the right place?” Elijah asks as we close the doors.

The man with the hat walks over to us. “If you folks hustle, you might make it up there before the graveside service begins.”

“Up where?” I ask.

“Up that hill,” he says, pointing to a steep road. “The Parrish service is at the top. You’ll have to walk. All the parking spaces up there are filled. Good day.” He gives the tiniest of bows and walks back to his position at the gate.

“I’ll never make it in these,” I say, pointing to my shoes. “I can barely walk to the bathroom in them.”

“So why’d you wear them?” Elijah asks. He’s wearing dark jeans, work boots, the shirt and tie he wore to the wake, and a camouflage jacket. His earring is a solid black plug.

“They look good.”

“No, they don’t,” he says. “If they hurt you, they’re hideous.” He hunches over slightly and bends his knees.

“Come on,” he says. “Jump on my back.”

“What?”

“I’ll carry you up there. I mean, it’ll probably kill me, but I’ll go out in a blaze of glory.”

“That’s not necessary.” I open the trunk of my car and root around until I find a pair of old high-top sneakers, dingy white and covered in blue-ink flowers drawn during History class. “I’ll wear these.”

I sit on the bumper, take off the heels, and put on the sneakers, which smell like they’ve been cooking in a trunk full of garbage for a year or so, but they make my toes happy.

I stand up. “Sophisticated, huh?”

Elijah takes in the sneakers, the dress, and the fact that I’m shivering. He takes off his jacket and gives it to me. “Don’t even think about arguing.”

His jacket is heavy with the heat from his body and smells like gasoline and boy. “Thanks.”

“Now,” he says, eyeing me up and down a second time.

“Now you look good.”

I don’t feel good by the time we make it to the top. The fresh cuts in my hip are aching and I’m certain one of them has opened up and is bleeding. Every step closer to Cassie makes me colder and weaker. It’s affecting Elijah, too. He walks with his head down and hands shoved in his pockets.

The crest of the hill is covered with hundreds of black-backed beetles gathered for the carrion feast: kids from school, teachers, the parents who show up at everything.

The members of the stage crew are grouped in threes and fours. The soccer team is one solid block, most wearing their team jackets. I don’t see my mother anywhere.

“How close do you want to be?” Elijah quietly asks me.

“As close as we can get.”

He sighs. “Okay. Follow me.”

We make our way through the crowd toward the white pavilion tent. Cassie’s parents and other relatives sit inside on plastic chairs, listening to the minister, who stands with one hand on Mr. Parrish’s shoulder.

The coffin is covered with a thick blanket of pale pink roses. It’s resting on a metal brace like a hot cookie sheet cooling on a rack. Strips of fake grass are supposed to hide the brace, but the wind has peeled them away.

I stand on my tiptoes. If we were closer, we could see to the bottom of the hole.

Cassie’s parents can. The mouth of the grave is inches away from their feet.

A beehive-shaped pile of dirt is mounded behind the tent, waiting for the end of the service. The grave diggers will dump the dirt in the hole to keep Cassie from floating to the surface and running away.

The mountains to the north have disappeared under a snowstorm. Down here the wind screams over the rows of thunder-colored headstones. I close my eyes.

Cassie’s pet mouse, Pinky, died the summer before
fourth grade
. She cried so hard I thought we were going to have to call an ambulance, or at least my mom. I helped her downstairs. Her mother was off somewhere, and her dad was in charge, watching the Red Sox play the Yan-kees. He told Cassie to stop crying. He’d put the corpse in the trash after the game.

Cassie held it together until we got back to her room, then she threw herself on her bed and wailed, “I don’t want to put him in the trash.”

“We won’t,” I said. “We’ll give him a proper funeral.”

I used a spatula to lift Pinky out of his cage and lay him on Cassie’s favorite blue bandanna. I rolled him up like a mousy burrito and tied it with yarn. I told Cassie she should carry him, but when she touched the bandanna she shrieked. I put on oven mitts and carried Pinky to the side yard. Cassie followed with a little shovel.

The easiest place to dig was in the middle of her mom’s rose garden. We took turns scraping away the new mulch and digging a hole between two bushes, one marked
Mor-dent Blush
, the other
Nearly Wild
, each sign handwrit-ten with a calligraphy pen.

I faked a little Latin and chanted most of the Lord’s Prayer. Cassie added long “ooooommmms” that she claimed was Chinese. (Her parents encouraged her to explore other cultures.) While she omed, I laid Pinky in the hole and covered him with dirt.

“Sure hope a dog doesn’t dig him up,” I said.

Her face crumpled.

“Hang on.”

I ran across the street and grabbed a plastic bucket of beach stones from my room. We laid the stones on the grave, spread mulch on top, and chanted a couple more prayers. We stood, holding hands, eyes closed, and swore that we would never, ever forget our special Pinky.

The summer after that one, her mom’s Nearly Wild won the Greater Manchester Rose Grower Association’s grand prize. The newspaper did a full-color spread on the garden and
the Parrishes threw a party to celebrate.

The preacher stands at the head of the coffin and puts out his arms to call down the gods. He thanks everyone for coming, and then his voice drops and it’s impossible to hear him. A few more late stragglers rush up the hill, trying to move quickly without being seen. One of them is a tall woman in boots and a long mink coat, her yellow hair pulled back in a flawless French braid, prescription sunglasses that she doesn’t need because the clouds are black and low.

My mother.

I move behind Elijah. “Block the wind for me, okay?”

“What?” he asks. “Sure.”

I count to ten, then peek out around his shoulder. She’s standing at the edge of the crowd, just past the soccer team, nodding and half smiling at the people around her.

Some guy walks up to the preacher and whispers in his ear, maybe explaining that no one can hear a word the guys says because of the wind blowing.

The preacher nods and shouts, “Let us pray!”

I lean my forehead against Elijah’s sturdy back.

The day we buried Nanna Marrigan, I walked behind
my mother through the cemetery, her hand shooting out from time to time to warn me about tripping on ex-posed roots. I was thirteen. We passed under dying oaks, sharp-eyed crows pacing on their branches, and by teenage angels frozen in marble, cobwebs strung from their heads to their thin shoulders.

Nanna was waiting in her coffin, next to the fresh hole dug at the back of the cemetery, where they planted the new dead. She had picked out the coffin and the hymns and the prayers. She demanded that people contribute to the library instead of sending flowers.