Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
Anyway.
We were there for a while, long enough for the cold to leak into the truck. I listened to the hiss of snow against the windshield and the creak of the truck and Mitch‘s grief, and I cradled his head against my chest and hung on. Finally, he sighed and pulled back, but he didn‘t let go, not completely, and neither did I.
―Oh, Jenna.‖ His voice was husky and tremulous. ―When I saw you falll. . . when you went down, I was frantic. I was so scared. I wanted to
kill
Danielle, I was that angry. I was furious.‖
―It was an accident. I should have been paying attention.‖
―No.
No
, that‘s a lie. I have eyes; I know what I saw. I know what she did. But, in a way, she did me a favor, too, because it hit me that if anything happened to you,
really
happened ... I don‘t know what I‘d do.‖
―Mitch.‖ I touched his face. His cheeks were wet; his skin jumped beneath my fingers. We were teetering on the brink of something. ―I‘m
okay
now. I‘ll be fine.‖
―But I won‘t. I‘m
not
, don‘t you see? Because I‘m in love with you, Jenna,‖ he whispered. ―I‘m in love with you . . . and I‘m so afraid to really let myself know what this means.‖
―Afraid.‖ I didn‘t understand. I couldn‘t catch my breath. My head felt filled with helium, and I was dizzy again and my mouth was dry and yet every inch of my body was suddenly alive and electric. ―Mitch, why—‖
―Because you don‘t know how long it‘s been since I‘ve wanted to say that to anyone. But I do and loving you changes everything—and I love you.‖ He pressed my hand to his chest so I could feel the hard, fast thump of his heart. ―This is what you do for me.‖
He guided my hand, slowly, to his lap and I heard the hitch in his voice, the low animal sound he made in the back of his throat at the instant I found him. ―This is what only you can do
to
me,‖ he said, thickly, pulling me closer. ―You‘re the only one, Jenna, the only one.‖
―All I see is you,‖ I said, and then my hands pulled at his shirt and his slipped beneath my clothing to cup my breasts but so carefully, as if I might break. But I needed the taut muscles of his arms and back and his full weight; I wanted all of him because at that moment I knew I was strong enough to hold him in this new and different way: in this and what we were in the love and the world we made together in this space, at that moment.
―Please love me, Jenna, please hold me, please save me,‖ and then he was groaning; his mouth was a fever trailing down my neck, his tongue teasing mine and then my breasts, his hands knotting in my hair, and then we began to move together, and there was nothing but this and this and this and this and him.
―Love me, Jenna, please,‖ he gasped. ―Love me, love me, love me, love me.‖
41: a
A little over a week later, it was Thanksgiving.
After Matt, Thanksgiving became all about Black Friday. Before Matt left, Black Friday was important but not all-consuming. Mom had more money on hand, her credit was good, and she had staff to handle most of the headaches. Then Matt left and things began to unravel. Black Friday became the reason why Meryl started coming down a day earlier, on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. If I‘ve learned to cook at all, it‘s because of Meryl, not my mom.
Now I don‘t mean that negatively, Bob; don‘t go all Freudian on me. But I defy any person, man or woman, to manage a store that‘s more than an hour away from home and on a shoe-string, and still have the energy to slap on an apron and rustle up some gourmet grub in a half hour or less. I admit: when Matt was still alive—
Well.
I had to turn off the recorder there for a second, Bobby-o, because I just realized something. I‘m actually kind of curious. This thing rewinds and I see the button to erase everything, but is there some kind of search function? You know, for phrases or certain words? The reason I‘m asking . . . I‘ll bet if I went back and reviewed everything I‘ve said so far, I‘ll bet good money this is the first time I‘ve said
when Matt was alive
.
Like I‘ve reached the point in my story when those words are okay to say out loud.
I guess, before Mitch, I‘d been in stasis, another little bubble alongside real time but in which, somehow, Matt fought his endless war. Well, Mitch broke that wide, wide open.
Matt was dead, and Mitch had pulled me out of a land inhabited by ghosts.
So whatever happens, Bob, you remember this.
If Mitch did nothing else for me, he did that.
So our routine at Thanksgiving now—with Matt dead and gone—went something like this. Mom worked her butt off Tuesday and Wednesday. Dad did the same. After Matt died, he frequently worked on Thanksgiving, too. Holiday traffic accidents are a shock trauma plastic surgeon‘s wet dream. We‘d do a guilt visit to Grandpa MacAllister either on Saturday or Sunday, depending on when Dad straggled back.
And, for once, I didn‘t care. Because I had Mitch and all that couldn‘t hurt me anymore.
Thanksgiving morning dawned wintry and cold: two feet of new snow on the ground under a full sun so fabulously bright I had to squint against the glare. I lay under my quilt and thought about Mitch, what he‘d said the week before. How our bodies fit together.
How I still felt. Even more than the morning after we‘d first slept together, I was transformed. I was a woman. I was loved and I loved someone in return. This kind of obsession was delicious and wonderful, and I never wanted it to end.
Eyes closed, I imagined that Mitch was there with me. What was it really like to wake up in the morning next to someone you loved? I wanted to find out. Mitch was down in Madison with one of his sisters for the holiday, and I wondered if maybe he was lying in bed, too, thinking of me. Then that stirred up more thoughts and other, better feelings.
I might have stayed there another drowsy hour, but the kitchen smells of coffee and baked apple pancakes (Meryl‘s specialty) were just too much torture to ignore. I rolled out of my warm bed. My ankle protested with a tiny little bark, then subsided. Definitely on the mend.
Whatever magic Mom and Dad had conjured together was still working because they slept late. So it was just Meryl and me in the kitchen. Meryl had the radio tuned to classic rock, and Robert Plant was singing about that stairway to heaven as I worked over the baked yams for a casserole.
Meryl said, ―You‘re looking better.‖
―Thanks.‖ I scooped out yam guts. ―The ankle only hurts a little bit.‖
―I wasn‘t talking about your ankle.‖ Meryl was patting the turkey dry. Before Meryl, I‘d never seen anyone bone a bird and there was a certain art to cutting so the skin remained unbroken. She squared the turkey breast-side down on the cutting board and picked up a boning knife. ―I meant you, in general. You‘re glowing.‖
―Oh.‖ I picked up another warm yam and sliced it open. Steam curled as I dug out baked yam and added that to a mixing bowl. ―It must be the running. School‘s going pretty well.‖
―Uh-huh.‖ Meryl cut a deep slit along the turkey‘s backbone from neck to tail then whacked off the tail and tossed it to one side for the stockpot. Deftly scraping the knife along one side of the carcass, she used her fingers to tug the flesh away from bone. ―So who is he?‖
―Uhm.‖ I debated whether to lie then thought that if I didn‘t mention names . . . ―It‘s kind of not official. I don‘t want to jinx anything.‖ It helped that this was mostly true.
―Mom and Dad don‘t know.‖ Also true.
―Oh, I don‘t doubt that.‖ Meryl started on the other side of the carcass. ―You aren‘t doing anything stupid, are you?‖
―You expect me to answer that?‖
―No. I just had to ask. Anyway, now I know: you
are
.‖
―Meryl.‖ I changed the subject. ―Mom and Dad are doing a lot better.‖
―For as long as it lasts.‖ By now, the turkey was an unrecognizable mass of flesh and skin, dangling legs and wings. Meryl worked the boning knife along the softer breastbone, being careful not to rip through the thin skin there. I squashed yams and stirred in butter and cinnamon. On the stereo, Sting said he‘d be watching me.
―Listen, I don‘t pretend to be an expert in romance. I‘ve never been married, never had kids. But I know your parents pretty well.‖ She paused to peer over her glasses. Her eyes were bird-bright. ―You ever get tired of the craziness here, you come live with me.‖
―I‘m okay,‖ I said.
―For now.‖ She cut through the joint of one drumstick and pulled out a thigh bone.
―A boyfriend can make you feel like you‘re invulnerable, that nothing can hurt you. But everyone has to come down from that high, eventually. Sometimes, when you do, it‘s not very nice.‖
―Mmmm.‖ I didn‘t know what to say. I wasn‘t sure what she was really saying.
Right then, I was more rattled that she could read how I felt, even if she thought I was in love with someone my age. I had to watch that. I was thinking so hard about that I missed what she said next. ―Sorry. What?‖
She washed her hands and then reached for a large, blue porcelain bowl filled with oyster stuffing. Spreading out the turkey skin-side down, she spooned gray stuffing blobs onto the dark, pink flesh. ―I said, that teacher of yours . . . Anderson? Your mother says he‘s taken an interest. He does seem to go above and beyond. First, the night of your mom‘s party and then driving you home after the meet last week.... Not many teachers I know would be willing to get that involved.‖
A little warning
ding
in my brain. Another thing therapy teaches you, Bob, is how to read between the lines and then feed people answers they‘ll accept. It‘s like makeup, Bob; there‘s an art to smoothing on enough truth so those ugly zits don‘t show. Or scars, for that matter.
So I shrugged. ―Well, I like him a lot. Most everybody does. But I kind of worry that I‘m imposing too much, you know? It‘s really embarrassing having to cover for Mom and Dad all the time. I feel like I‘m taking advantage of him, except Dad‘s been all over me to get close to my teachers for recommendations. What‘s worse is, I think some of the other kids think I‘m a teacher‘s pet and I don‘t want that either and . . .‖ I sighed. ―Meryl, I just don‘t know what to do.‖
And score one for counterintuitive responses. While I dumped brown sugar and butter into the yam mash, Meryl threaded a trussing needle and then gave me pointers on how to not look like a suck-up as she sewed that turkey back together again. By the time Mom and Dad stumbled down for coffee and warmed-up apple pancakes, we were onto my visiting her on the island during Easter break in time for spring lambing, and all talk of me and Mitch was over, covered, and done.
Everything that happened after that? I blame Green Bay.
The Packers played the early game and got their collective heads handed to them on a platter by Chicago. By halftime, when the score was 31 to 14 and Dad came storming into the kitchen to trade his beer for Scotch, we knew it was going to be a rocky afternoon. The turkey was out of the oven by the time Green Bay finished cratering. Twenty minutes later, Dad was grimly carving the turkey like it was brain surgery and spoiling for a fight. I think that‘s why he gave me white meat. He probably hoped I‘d complain and then he could yell and blow off steam and maybe stab the giblets, and we could get on with the meal.
The dining room was silent except for the sounds of people chewing and the click-click-tick of silver on good china. My father gnawed morosely on a drumstick. He looked like Og.
Even not having run for the last week, I was still starving and white meat just doesn‘t do it for me. So I reached for the other drumstick and said, just for form‘s sake,
―Does anyone mind if I—?‖
―Not so fast,‖ Psycho-Dad snarled. ―You‘ve still got food on your plate, young lady.
You finish that first, then we can talk about seconds.‖
My jaw unhinged. Mom and Meryl stared. Mom said, reasonably, ―Honey, you know she doesn‘t like white me—‖
―Stay out of this, Emily.‖ Psycho-Dad thrust out his jaw. ―I am sick and tired of the way you coddle her. She‘s over all that ....‖ He gestured with his half-gnawed drumstick.
Bits of flesh bobbed on strings of tendon and ligaments. ―That psychiatric bullshit. She‘s not going to break. She gets everything she wants. Didn‘t we get her that damn phone? And a car?‖
Mom stupidly, stupidly tried again. ―Elliot, dear. Please. Lower your voice.‖
―Mom, it‘s fine,‖ I said. ―I‘m not hungry.‖
Meryl put her hand on Mom‘s arm. ―Emily, I think . . .‖
Mom ignored us both. ―She‘s sixteen, Elliot. You‘re treating her like a four-year-old. You need to stop bullying people.‖
―I am not a bully,‖ Psycho-Dad seethed. He threw his drumstick onto his plate and swiped a heavy cut-glass tumbler, still a third full of Scotch. He drained the liquor in a swallow. ―I‘m her father,‖ he said, sucking air through his teeth, his voice thin and strangled with the alcohol burn. ―I pay the bills around here. I pay for the food on this table and the clothes on your back and that store. You‘re just lucky I‘ve done that for as long as I have.‖
If only he had stopped there, we might still have been all right. I do remember that he paused, just for a moment, as if thinking about what he wanted to say next. Maybe he even considered that silence would be kinder, although I doubt it.
Instead, Psycho-Dad gave this small, very satisfied nod and pushed on. ―But I‘m sick of it. It‘s time things changed around here.‖
―What‘s that supposed to mean?‖ asked Mom.
I scraped back my chair. ―I‘ll start clear—‖
―Sit,‖ said Psycho-Dad. He didn‘t say
stay
, but he might as well have. I sat.
Mom‘s eyes narrowed. ―Elliot? What did you mean
change
?‖
Dad‘s face was ruddy. He reached for a bottle, splashed wine into his glass and drank. Maybe he‘d pass out before he did more damage.
―Elliot?‖
Dad came up for air. His upper lip was wet. Red wine dribbled from the corner of his mouth like blood. ―I mean that I‘m pulling my collateral for your line of credit. That store is finished and I‘m done, Emily. I‘m done.‖