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Noe seemed to think I’d come close to dying. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe there was a famous movie where the girl died, or she was imagining a more dramatic procedure than had actually taken place.
i’m fine, I texted back.
i have to call my mom now.
poor dear.
thinking about you.
call me as soon as you get home.
When I ventured into the kitchen, Pauline was boiling a pot of herbs on the stove for me to drink. I thought of Ava’s roommate. I guess some of that stuff was good to do and some of it wasn’t. Pauline said it was mostly chamomile, with valerian to help me relax.
“Sometimes I forget what it feels like to be seventeen. I fought with my mom all the time,” said Pauline.
“What about?” I said.
Pauline rolled her eyes. “Clothes. Music. Swearing. Lev.”
We sat in her kitchen eating muffins that Lev had baked that morning. I started to think that Pauline had changed her mind about calling Mom and the knot in my stomach relaxed, but after we’d finished our muffins Pauline reached for the phone.
“Are you ready?” she said, then shook her head. “Stupid question.”
Mom drives a lot faster than a bus, especially when she’s angry.
She cried, called me an idiot, and said she would be there in five hours.
68
WHEN I HEARD THE CAR DOOR slam in Pauline’s driveway, my heart jumped. A few seconds later, Mom burst into the house without knocking. Her hair was disheveled and she hadn’t taken the time to grab a sweater even though it was ten below. Our eyes met, and it was like someone had switched on a heat lamp. My body went hot all the way from my hair follicles to my intestines.
“I can’t believe you,” she shouted, and then she wrapped me in a hug that almost knocked me down.
69
I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT the boy in red swim trunks.
I wanted to tell her about the cold hand and the sandwich halves.
I wanted to explain that ever since Ava had told me (I only ever thought about Ava telling me, even though the two tellings happened within a week), my body couldn’t always summon the energy to eat or bleed. That it wanted to shrink, even though I coaxed it to grow.
I wanted to explain that if I hid things from her, it was because I couldn’t stand to see Mom hurting any more than she could stand it in me.
It was winter-mixing. Rain mixed with snow. The trees were a ru
Thanks for everything. Half Moon Mountain was the best. Then we’d left.
Now Mom was being too quiet.
“Where does he live?” I said.
“Who?”
“Scott.”
Long pause. I looked down at my lap, conscious of having invoked a demon. At the sound of his name I could feel the car fill with icy air. Sorry sorry sorry, I thought, wishing I could take it back.
It was always like this, on the extremely rare occasion I tried to talk about him with Mom. Like lifting a rock to see the insects underneath, and seeing them scurry around in a panic. Feeling bad because all they wanted to do was stay safely hidden under their rock. Sometimes I felt like Mom regretted telling me. At least my questions back then were dumb and harmless, not these ambushes that made her think about a person she’d rather forget.
Sorry sorry sorry, I thought, sorry sorry sorry.
I don’t know why I thought it was a good time to try for a conversation. Maybe because things were already so raw.
Mom named a suburb of a suburb of a big city an hour and a half from our town. “Why do you want to know?” she said tightly.
“No reason,” I peeped.
I squished myself against the window and stared at the road.
70
FALLING ROCKS, SAID THE SIGNS, AND I wanted to be one, tumbling angry forever.
YOU ARE IN BEAR COUNTRY, said the signs, and I wanted to lumber down riverbeds in pajamas of meat and fur.
ICE ON ROADS, said the signs, and I wanted to be that deadly, to kill without warning, out of nowhere, invisibly.
The city said ENTER, the bridge said MAX WEIGHT 1.5 TONS, and I felt myself heavy, breaking the spans.
I flinched when we passed a sign that said the name of his town.
I could feel him in the car with us, sucking up all the air.
I wanted to push him out the door, but I didn’t know how.
71
WHEN IT GOT DARK, WE STOPPED at a diner in a town I didn’t recognize. We ordered tomato soup. Neither of us was very hungry. It came with hard white bread rolls and frozen packets of butter on a plate.
“Are you mad at me?” I said.
“I don’t know yet.”
We ate our soup in silence. The waiter came by with more coffee for Mom. I listened to it splashing into her mug. Behind us, a pair of truckers was watching a football game on TV. I thought about the regional park. It seemed like there was always a sports game going on in the background when Mom and I were having a bad time. I snuck a peek at her face. The emotions there were too complicated for me to read. Strain. Exhaustion. Exasperation. Hurt. I looked back at my soup and felt the minutes drag.
“I guess it’s my fault for embarrassing you with the condoms,” Mom blurted at last. “How were you supposed to tell me after that?”
I blushed. I couldn’t stand to see her feeling guilty for something I’d done.
“How long did you know?” said Mom.
It was a relief to be talking again. Better than that long, strained silence in which God-knows-what thoughts could be lurking. “Only since the day before I left for Maple Bay.”
Mom shook her head. “Jesus,” she said. “Well, at least you were somewhat responsible. Ava’s not the worst person you could have asked to help you. And Pauline says you didn’t even try to lie to her. I’m just sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Our eyes met over the empty soup bowls and then we both looked away, as if the pain of co
We walked to the cold car and got back on the road.
It was too dark to see the trees now, and soon we were home.
72
I TOLD NOE IT WAS TOO late to come over, but she insisted.
“Mom?” I said sheepishly, hovering in her bedroom door. “Noe’s coming by for a few minutes. I think we’re going to go for a walk.”
Mom grumbled her acquiescence, and I went downstairs to wait by the window until I saw Noe appear at the end of the block. I slipped out the door and ran to meet her. Our bodies collided, and I thought of the loons who wheeled through our town on their a