Surfacing (9 page)

“You do?”

Nathan nodded. “When I was little, I was standing on a chair at the stove. I wanted to make real oatmeal. So I reached over and stuck a wooden spoon into the pot to see if the water was ready. I tipped it right over. It spilled all over me and soaked my pajamas. That was the worst part — that it kept burning because my pajamas got wet and stuck to my skin.”

She didn’t look away, but Maggie was quiet.

Nathan’s parents were downstairs, but maybe with so many children, they weren’t that interested in what any particular one was doing at any particular time, especially if he was a teenage boy and he was home safe and not out driving. In any case, Maggie and Nathan lay on his bed, the blankets rumpled from their kissing and the sheet twisted at the bottom from not having been made for most likely several days. Their clothing stayed on, only their mouths exploring what was inside, what was hidden and so tantalizing that Maggie’s whole body shook. Nathan’s older brother and his friend, footsteps in the hall and a bouncing ball and a quick argument about last night’s game, had interrupted them. They sat up.

“I was in the hospital for two weeks. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever felt. And ever felt since. Burn scars are different than other scars, you know. They are ugly.”

Very slowly Maggie reached over, put her hands where Nathan’s were, and began to unbutton the top of his shirt. His collar opened, and she let her fingers drop to the next button. She slipped it outside its hole and made her way down his shirt without saying a word.

She spread the fabric of his shirt and exposed his skin to the bath of yellow light.

“It’s not so bad,” she said.

“I know it is.”

It wasn’t. The skin was taut and red in streaks, like anger. It was smoother than his other skin, without hair or pores, and twisted in places it shouldn’t twist, but it wasn’t ugly at all.

“Can I touch it?” Maggie asked. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It was a long time ago; it’s healed,” Nathan said. “I mean, yes, you can touch it.”

Maggie let her fingers spread across Nathan’s chest, his ribs, his skin, across the damage that boiling water had done. He wasn’t big, like a football player, nothing like Matthew, but Nathan’s body felt different from hers. Slight but solid, male. The surface of his scar was bumpy, hard and soft at the same time. Maggie let her head nestle in that spot just under Nathan’s shoulder and just inside his arm, where she fit perfectly, and where for the first time that she could remember, she allowed the weight of her body to be supported and the weight of her mind to rest.

The girls were shivering on the bulkhead, listening to Coach Mac give out the upcoming holiday-break practice schedule: basically, there would be no break for the swim team.

“OK, ladies. Hit the showers. Eat a big dinner; get your protein. Get your eight hours of
Z’
s, and be here at six a.m. tomorrow. Oh, and if anyone is late — any
one
— the whole team does IM drills. Fifteen hundred meters.”

There were appropriate groans and the patter of wet rubber pool shoes slapping the floor, heading to the locker room, the swell of weekend conversations. It was Friday. Even with the practice schedule, it was still vacation, and the excitement was palpable.

Maggie and Nathan had been meeting from time to time: at a football game and then heading off to walk the cross-county trails behind the school; at the Landmark Diner for swim-season-forbidden fries. Wherever they ended up, they ended up kissing, touching, looking closely at the other’s face and body.

And yet it was Thanksgiving vacation. Maggie had planned so long for this break.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Julie asked as she leaned to the side and yanked at a knot in her wet hair. Julie’s hair was curly, thick, and if she didn’t comb it out right away it would dry into Medusa-like coils.

“Nothing,” Maggie said. “How about you?”

“The usual. My grandparents are eating with us tonight. Wanna come for dinner? You know they love you, and it would take the focus off me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Maggie stuffed her school clothes into her bag, sat down, and waited for Julie to finish.

“Oh, I see. You’re waiting to see if Nathan boy is available?” Julie smiled.

“Not exactly,” Maggie answered. Sometimes she understood why girls cut themselves. What seemed so stupid, so obvious and pathetic even, made sense. The pain is real, and even if it doesn’t feel good, it feels right. She had wanted Matthew for so long. How would she ever know if she didn’t at least try?

Julie stopped brushing, righted herself, and held her comb like a gun at her hip.

“What, Maggie? What are you thinking? Please tell me it’s not about Matthew. Oh, please, you’re kidding.”

“Well —”

Julie sat down on the bench beside her friend. The steam from the showers remained separated from the cold air in the locker room and settled like fog.

“Matthew is a big ass,” Julie said. “I am truly sorry to be the one to tell you. But this Nathan seems nice, and the fact that he’s actually into you is a real bonus, don’t you think?”

Was he?
Surely as soon as Nathan really got to know her, he’d figure out she wasn’t worth the trouble.

It was all so ridiculous. She could hardly remember why she liked Matthew in the first place, but the sense of anxiety didn’t go away. It was like a riding a train that was going in two directions — one toward the unknown and the other straight into a stone wall. Wasn’t it better to crash on your own volition than sink slowly against your will?

It was hilarious, really.

“What’s so funny?” Julie asked.

“Nothing. I know you’re right. It’s just that I was so crazy about him last year, and that’s not really that long ago. I never really gave Matthew a chance.”

“A chance? A chance for what, Maggie? He’s got a girlfriend. And besides, he’s a dick.”

“Nothing. You’re right. I don’t care. I won’t even think about him again.”

“So c’mon.” Julie bent over and resumed working on her hair. When she stood up again, she said, “Look, you’re coming to my house tonight. Period.”

Julie’s parents were larger than life. They fought out loud; they laughed even louder. They kissed each other frequently, sometimes smack on the lips. The whole family ate with zeal and left the dishes in the sink for the next morning if the conversation was good. No subject seemed to be off-limits at the dinner table. It was nothing like her own home, and Maggie loved it there.

Everyone talked over everyone else, loudly, excitedly. Confessions and accusations were common. Exaggerations, enhancements, and contradictions flew across the table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers, rattling the candlesticks, especially when Mrs. Bensimon’s parents were visiting. The Bensimons were Jewish, and tonight was Friday night, Shabbat dinner at Julie’s house.

“Oh, Ma, for Christ’s sake, we have company.” Mrs. Bensimon was referring to Maggie, who had been sitting quietly through the entire argument, enjoying every minute.

Julie’s grandma Bobbie, Mrs. Bensimon’s mother, turned her attention to Maggie. “She’s not company. Maggie’s family here. What’s the matter with you, Deborah?”

“Of course, Ma, but not everybody’s interested in the functioning of your alimentary track, especially not at the dinner table. Speaking of which, have you been taking that supplement I gave you?”

Julie’s mother was a dietician.

“What supplement?”

“Ma, I brought home all those free samples. I put them right on your kitchen counter, remember? Last week? When Dad had his car serviced?”

“Last week?” Grandpa Bob didn’t look up from his chicken when he spoke. “I didn’t have my car serviced last week.”

“Yes, you did, Dad.”

“I think I would remember if I had my car serviced, sweetie.”

“You never give me free samples.”

“Ma, I did. They’ll keep you regular.”

“I haven’t been regular since the Korean War,” Grandma Bobbie said. Their real names were Robert and Barbara, Bob and Bobbie. Grandma Bobbie and Grandpa Bob.

“I lost my cell phone again,” Julie’s older brother, Jason, chimed in. He probably didn’t want to hear about the success rate of his grandmother’s morning rituals much either.

Mr. Bensimon, Julie’s dad, walked in from the kitchen. “Again, Jason? How many times is this?”

“We have insurance, don’t we?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Third time,” Julie offered.

“It still costs fifty dollars.”

“And it’s just irresponsible. It’s time you learned the value of something.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bensimon traded admonishments, none of which seemed to bother Julie’s brother in the least. Doing something wrong didn’t make you wrong in this family. It just added to the color and drama of the conversation.

“I’ve never lost my cell phone,” Julie added. “Doesn’t that mean I should
get
fifty dollars?”

“Did you check the lost-and-found at school?” Maggie managed to slip a tiny remark into the mix. She didn’t realize her question would cause the whole family to start giggling.

“What?” Maggie asked, smiling.

“Well”— Grandma Bobbie prepared to launch like a liftoff at NASA —“when Grandpa Bob and I were first married”— she looked right at Maggie —“and you can consider him your grandpa, too,” she went on, “we didn’t have a pot to piss in.”

“Ma —”

“We weren’t that poor, Deborah,” Grandpa Bob interrupted.

“Oh, really, Mr. Big Shot —”

“Just get to the story, Grandma.”

Everyone had a comment, and that carried on during the whole story. Not a sentence or two went uninterrupted, unchallenged, or unembellished, and by the time Mrs. Bensimon’s mother got to the end, everyone was exhausted from laughing, including Maggie. The gist of it was that Grandma Bobbie needed a pair of gloves, and, not being able to afford a nice pair, she walked into some fancy department store with her husband, headed straight up to lost-and-found and explained that she had lost a pair of leather gloves.

“What color are they?” the woman behind the counter asked.

“Brown,” said Barbara, who was not yet Grandma Bobbie.

“Black,” said her husband at the exact same time.

“Brownish black,” Barbara said firmly, and the woman pulled out a pair and asked if these were the missing gloves.

“Well, let’s see.” Barbara slipped them on and held them out in the light. “No, I don’t think these are them. Got anything else back there?”

By this time in the story, tears of laughter were streaming down her cheeks, taking half of her thick foundation and leaving a trail of black mascara behind.

This is what family is, Maggie knew, a collection of stories, half-truths, and raw honesty, a conglomeration of conflicting memories that somehow all add up. A place where no one is afraid to say what’s on their mind; no one is afraid to tell the truth. Or lie, for that matter, because it hardly made a difference. Love is love is truth is love.

Maggie didn’t come to my funeral. They wouldn’t let her. They didn’t even tell her about it. She was too young, they felt
. It will just confuse her.
I heard them talking, but, of course, parents protect themselves and pretend they are protecting their children
.

Sometimes I wonder if Maggie even knew I had died, or if she sat waiting for me — if she’s sitting there still — downstairs in the den, where we kept all our toys, our books, all the little dolls we made out of paper and felt and colored with Magic Markers. That afternoon, Maggie sat for hours, not moving until our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Tate, went down there herself
.

“You can’t stay down here all afternoon,” Mrs. Tate told her. “You need to come upstairs and eat something.”

“No,” Maggie said. She faced the wall of glass doors that led out to the backyard, where we used to sit cross-legged in the grass and play clapping games, like Miss Mary Mack and Itsy Meanie Teeny Eeny
.

“Now, Maggie,” Mrs. Tate said, “I insist. You’ve been waiting down here since everyone left for the —”

“For where?” Maggie looked up. “Where did everyone go?”

“Well, that’s for your mother to talk to you about.” And Mrs. Tate turned on her heels, back up the stairs. The swinging door into the kitchen banged shut
.

They were all at my funeral, dressed in dark colors, faces red and swollen, and Maggie was alone. She was alone in a way she had never been before. At the service nobody talked much, except for the reverend. He talked a lot and said nothing at all. The room was hot — too much air, too much carbon dioxide. The reverend went on and on. He read some poetry, the 23rd Psalm, and then he talked some more
.

“OK, Maggie. This is it.” Mrs. Tate had trouble with stairs, but she made her way down again. This time holding a plate of chocolate-chip cookies, warm from the oven. “With raisins,” she offered. “Your favorite.”

Maggie got up from the floor
.

“Good girl,” Mrs. Tate said
.

She took a cookie. It melted in her mouth. “I’m not a good girl,” Maggie said. The cookie was sweet and delicious. I know it was, and it made her instantly thirsty, but she didn’t ask for a drink
.