“I do remember one thing,” I said, gazing at him with a soft smile on my face.
“What’s that?” Evan encouraged.
“My dad made me this swing out of a piece of wood that he hung from one of the trees. I would pump so high my toes would touch the branch above. I’d tilt my head back and close my eyes; it was the most amazing rush. I was convinced that’s what flying must feel like. I spent hours on that swing.”
Evan smiled affectionately. I allowed the warmth of the memory to fill the emptiness.
“Sometimes, I wish I were back there, when everything was perfect and I was happy, swinging my life away."
19. Waiting for Friday
"Did I totally screw up last night?" my mother asked as she poured her coffee. "I did. I completely embarrassed you. I was nervous, and I drank too much wine, then told too many stories. I am so sorry, Emily. Tell Evan―"
"Mom, I mean, Rachel." She looked up at me with her lips pressed together. "It was fine. I promise."
"You didn't look fine," she recalled, eyeing me nervously. "You looked mortified."
"I wasn't." I smiled in attempt to make her feel better.
Her nervous guilt got the better of her, so she questioned, "Are you sure?"
I didn't know how else to convince her, so I just nodded.
"I'm sorry I can't make it to your game this afternoon."
"I understand. You have to work."
"Do you mind that I invited myself to Evan's game? Was that a bad idea? I really want to see him play. I was honest about that."
"It's okay," I laughed, wanting her to take a breath before she fell over. "You were great. Really. And I don't mind if you go to his game on Saturday. You can bring Jonathan too, if you want."
Her eyes shifted away from me and fell to her coffee cup.
"What?" I pushed, noticing the pinch between her brows.
"I'm not sure what's going on with him," she murmured. "I think he's keeping something from me." My chest panged to see her so distraught. "Does he say anything to you, you know, when you're up at night?"
I shook my head, not confident that I could answer her. After all, I would be lying.
"What do you talk about?” She asked it like she was being left out of a secret club or something.
"Not much really," I offered. "Sports, commercials, how we wish we could sleep."
"Do you know why he can't sleep?" She watched me closely. I shrugged and looked away. "He doesn't tell me anything. We don't really talk about our pasts. It's good, you know, because it hurts me to think about it, but I wish he could trust me enough to tell me something."
I nodded, my voice paralyzed with guilt. I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I should have told her that he was moving to California. That he had a painful past too that was hard for him to share. I should have let her know that it had nothing to do with her and that he really cared about her. But she'd probably wonder why he was telling me all this and not her. And then I wouldn't know what to say―especially since I wasn't sure how to explain why I've talked with him about things I've been avoiding with anyone else in my life. So I stayed silent, watching her face twist with uncertainty and doubt.
"When do you see him again?"
"Friday," she answered with a sigh. "I'll ask him about the game then."
"I'm sure it's nothing," I finally said, feeling even more horrible for trying to comfort her with a lie.
"Well, I should go," she acknowledged, looking at the microwave clock. "Text me the score, okay?"
I nodded, and as I watched her walk out of the kitchen, I could feel the heat turning in my gut. I was angry with Jonathan. Angry that he put me in this situation. Angry that my mother was being tormented by his inability to just tell her the truth.
I pulled out my phone and texted him, You have to tell her!
I received a response when I arrived at school, In NYC til Friday―I will, promise!
Friday couldn't come fast enough.
"Hey!" I heard when I opened the door that night. "So happy you won!" I found my mother on the couch, curled up with a wine glass in her hand, still in her work clothes.
"Hi," I responded solemnly, dropping my things by the stairs.
"That's an excited face," she noted sarcastically, leaning forward to pick up the wine bottle and empty it into her glass. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I replied unconvincingly. I wasn't up for talking about seeing Analise by Evan's side after the game tonight, and how miserable I was that he'd offered to drive her home when I was hoping to spend some time with him. I didn't want to feel this way... jealous. And there wasn't any reason I should. But the rationale didn't relieve the slithering in my stomach every time she looked up at him with her big Bambi eyes. So, I deflected, "How are you doing?"
My mother laughed humorlessly. "I'm fucking great."
She couldn't see my face as I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, picking up the intonation in her voice. She was drunk.
Instead of going to my room to work on my English paper as I had intended, I joined her on the couch, hoping to comfort her enough so she wouldn't keep drinking.
"It was my highest scoring game," I told her, trying to assess just how far over the edge she was. Her head swiveled toward me, rocking slightly. She smiled lazily, the effort pushing her eyes into slits. She was pretty far gone.
"That's awesome, Emily," she praised in her drunken drawl. "I wish I could have seen it." She took a long sip of her wine, keeping her eyes closed for a moment after she'd removed the glass.
"Sorry about this," she gestured to herself. "I didn't have dinner, so it got to me."
I nodded, wanting to take the wine glass out of her hand. Instead, she drained it in two large gulps. I widened my eyes as she tipped her head back, determined to get every last drop.
"I'll take that for you," I offered, holding out my hand.
"Thanks," she smiled, her teeth tinged purple. She handed me the glass and I took it into the kitchen, finding a second empty bottle on the counter. I sighed with a shake of my head and set the glass in the sink.
My phone beeped. Can I come over?
I hesitated, not sure how to tell Evan "no" without it coming across wrong. Trying to get this paper done. See you tomorrow, okay? I looked to the bottle again and pressed Send. I didn't want him to see this. To see her.
Okay, he texted back. I returned the phone to my pocket as I walked back into the living room.
"You must think I'm pathetic," she uttered, her heavy tongue making her words jumbled. She ran her hand across her face, clumsily pushing her hair behind her ear. "That I'm like this over a guy."
"I don't think that," I said calmly. I watched as she breathed in deeply through her nose with her eyes closed, having a hard time forcing them open. "Why don't I help you upstairs to bed?"
"Yeah," she breathed, "getting tired. Should've eaten."
I offered her my hand to help her from the couch. She grabbed onto it and hoisted herself up, swaying slightly. "Whoa, head rush."
I shut everything off―the disappointment, the frustration, the anger―and just focused on getting her up the stairs without wiping out. She crawled into the bed, and I removed her shoes before covering her. She pulled the blankets under her chin and looked up at me guiltily.
"It's not because I like him so much," she offered. "That's not it. I mean I do like him a lot." She took a deep breath, her eyes watering. I swallowed hard, stung by the sadness surfacing in her eyes.
"I don't want to be alone." Her lower lip quivered, and she rolled away from me.
Her words punched me in the chest. Her back shook as she began to cry. I bit my lip and hesitated, tempted to touch her, to try to console her. But I quietly walked out the door, shutting it behind me.
My mother's sobs could be heard through the door. Still incapacitated by her words, I slid down the door frame and hugged my knees into my chest. The anger and disappointment were replaced with heartache. Tears slid down my cheeks as I listened to her cry.
I'd done this before. We'd done this before. I spent most of my childhood listening to her cry. Her cries haunted me, still echoing through my head when I tried to sleep that night.
~~~~~
"Are you okay?"
"Huh?" I shook out of my stupor to find my locker door wide open and Sara staring at me.
"You've been staring in your locker for forever and haven't touched anything. What's going on?"
"Didn't sleep much," I replied. My mother's cries were still ringing in my head. Half-forgotten memories pulled at me, the nights of tantrums, full of rage and pain―I used to hide under my covers, shaking. I blinked to force myself back into the bustling halls.
"What else is new?" she grinned, bumping me with her shoulder. "Want to sleep over tonight?"
I opened my mouth to say yes, but I didn't. Jonathan wouldn't be back until tomorrow, and I wasn't so sure it was a good idea to leave my mother home alone.
"How about Saturday?" I offered instead.
"Okay." Sara closed her locker and headed to class. I grabbed my books and went to the computer lab, skipping Political Theory to get my English assignment done. The assignment I never touched last night.
I fought through the rest of the day and faked pleasantries with Analise in Art class, wishing the nail assignment was done already so Evan could take back his place next to me.
"Are you staying for Evan's game tonight?" she asked, bright and eager.
I nodded. I didn't bother to ask if she was staying, because I already knew that answer.
"Maybe we can sit together," she chirped happily.
"Maybe," I forced pleasantly, not looking up from aggressively hammering the nail into place.
Her sunshine and rainbows smile was too bright for my emotional hangover. I was afraid I'd have to squint to look at her, so I kept my head down―making it look like I was concentrating on my work. She let me be for the rest of class.
Evan was waiting for me at my locker with his backpack over his shoulder.
"Hi," he said with a smile that shook me from my funk.
"I'm so happy to see your face right now," I sighed, throwing my arms around his ribs and burying my head into his chest. I inhaled and let his clean scent release the tension in my shoulders.
"Uh, okay." He laughed and squeezed me back. "Bad day?"
"Something like that." My face was still pressed into him, muffling my words.
"What are you doing after my game?"
I looked up, my arms still wrapped around him. "I have practice."
"That's right," he remembered. "We're getting something to eat after, and I was hoping you would come."
"Sorry," I offered with a grimace, finally releasing him. "But I'll see you tomorrow night after my game, right?"
"Of course," he smiled. "It's our date. Are you going home first to change, or are you doing that here?"
"I was hoping to shower at home. Is that okay? Or will that make us late?"
"No, that's not a problem. I need to do the same thing anyway. That should give you enough time, don't you think?"