Tell Me Something Real Page 16

  Twelve

  Adrienne ditches me as soon as we walk into school, but not before giving me a hug and slipping the car keys into my hand. Her backpack bulges with paper and art supplies. A glittered piece of construction paper, caught in the zipper, sparkles in the sunlight as she walks down the hall with determined steps.

  Mrs. Albright gives me an encouraging nod as I climb the stairs to the piano. Annie Kilsgaard can’t take her eyes off me, and as soon as Suzie Hendricks sits down, she whispers into her ear.

  I imagine them murmuring through the winds, then the strings. A Greek chorus of gossip. I close the piano’s lid and then my eyes. I imagined this in the halls, in science, and in math, but not in here, not in the same room as the instruments, as Mrs. Albright. I feel the comfort of the car keys, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal, as I rise from the bench and rush out the door.

  I round the corner and find Adrienne taping a sign to the wall. In between posters announcing the first meetings of the debate team, yearbook, and drama, I spot her elaborate poster that reads, ZACH ROSSMAN GAVE ME GONORRHEA. She filled every inch of empty space with similar signs, some collaged, some painted, all profane, and all about Zach.

  ZACH ROSSMAN CAN’T GET IT UP

  ZACH ROSSMAN SODOMIZES LIVESTOCK

  ZACH ROSSMAN COULDN’T GET LAID IN A WHOREHOUSE

  I tug on her backpack. “Come on, take these down before you get caught.”

  “I don’t care,” she says, pointing to the door across the hall. “I want Zach to come out of biology and see my masterpieces. That should teach him to keep his mouth shut and leave me alone.”

  Before I respond, I hear footsteps.

  “Both of you, go to Dr. Whelan’s office. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you’re suspended. Is that clear?”

  I turn to find Mrs. Hacker, Adrienne’s English teacher, standing behind us. Of all the teachers, she has to be the one to find us? She busts students for sport.

  “Now.” She folds her arms across her modest chest.

  Adrienne gives her a scathing look before turning to me. “Sorry,” she whispers.

  I’m glad she doesn’t have to go alone. Maybe I can keep her calm, save her from suspension.

  The guidance counselor’s name is printed on a plaque, one large capital letter followed by smaller capital letters, the same lettering as on Dad’s business cards. DR. DONNA WHELAN.

  Her door is open, but we sit in the corner. Adrienne slumps next to me and sketches another defaming sign. I see Dr. Whelan, but she doesn’t see us. I don’t know much about her. She started last year. She came from New Mexico, and I think she looks a little like a cactus. Plump, with enough water to survive a drought. I watch as she picks up her misting bottle and sprays water on ancient, distorted orchids, some beyond blooming, which line the sill of the blazing windows.

  Adrienne mutters “bitch” when Mrs. Hacker appears. She is the self-proclaimed savior of our school. She fixates on a student, and then, once or twice a semester, she schedules urgent meetings with the school counselor and principal to discuss how the disturbed student is on the brink of some emotional break.

  Everyone knows the story of how years earlier, Mrs. Hacker spotted warning signs in a reckless, introverted boy who wore a uniform of Toughskins jeans and Hanes T-shirts, each with a philosopher’s name scrawled on the shirt with a permanent marker. It’s school legend. When he wore his Nietzsche shirt all week, the English teacher phoned his parents and asked how things were at home. After a string of events, long altered by time and embellishment, the student was found ready to dive off the roof of his father’s office building. Since then, Mrs. Hacker has had a deep, one-sided connection with the troubled youth of our school.

  Clearly, Adrienne and I are the newly ordained problem students.

  Mrs. Hacker huffs past us and twitches into the counselor’s office, hands fluttering about her body, patting her hair, and smoothing her skirt. She looks like the nervous Chihuahua that lives on our block.

  “Good morning, Dr. Whelan,” she says.

  “Hello.”

  “Mind if I close this?” Mrs. Hacker doesn’t wait for an answer before swinging the door shut, but the door is new and thin, and I hear every word.

  Dr. Whelan asks, “Who’s the topic this morning?”

  “The Babcock girls. Adrienne is the real problem.”

  I hear the thump and I know Mrs. Hacker collected Adrienne’s signs.

  “Shit,” Adrienne breathes. “I used up all of Marie’s construction paper for nothing.”

  I raise a finger to my lips. “Listen.”

  “Is she taking art?” I hear Dr. Whelan ask.

  “How would I know?” Mrs. Hacker responds.

  “I was under the impression that you monitor the emotional state of our students,” Dr. Whelan says. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  I assumed she knew we’d been sent to her office, but when the door opens and Dr. Whelan sees us, she looks surprised.

  “Adrienne, are you taking art?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Klein’s studio class. Since freshman year.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be with you both in a moment.”

  She walks into another room and returns with two files. After she closes her flimsy door, Mrs. Hacker says, “Dr. Whelan, don’t you find these at all disturbing?”

  “Maureen, didn’t her mother die over the summer? Of course she’s disturbed. Thank you for bringing these to me.”

  “Don’t you know? She wasn’t sick. The mother is insane. They had her institutionalized. This family has a history of mental illness.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

  Everything is quiet.

  “Don’t you need to get back to your class?” Dr. Whelan asks.

  Mrs. Hacker opens the door. Glaring at us, she shakes her head, clucks her tongue, and warns, “I’ll see you in class, Adrienne.”

  Dr. Whelan waves us in. “Come.”

  I stand first, aware that I obey her not because I feel obligated, but because I actually want to. By the time we make it into her office, she is standing behind her desk and flipping through the stack of Adrienne’s signs.

  “Impressive,” she says.

  Adrienne and I sit and wait for Dr. Whelan to say more, but she continues to look through the posters. I watch as Adrienne crosses her legs a couple of times and sweeps her hair away from her face.

  It’s like Adrienne can’t stand the quiet. “I hate Hacker. Everyone does,” she blurts.

  “This isn’t about Mrs. Hacker. This is about your behavior.”

  Dr. Whelan looks at me. “Tell me your name again?”

  “Vanessa.”

  “And do you share your sister’s artistic inclinations?”

  Adrienne plants both of her feet on the floor. “She tried to stop me. She didn’t have anything to do with this. She didn’t even know.”

  Dr. Whelan raises a hand. “Despite the impression Mrs. Hacker gave, you are not in trouble. You’re not going to get detention and I’m not going to call your father unless this emerges as a pattern. Clear?”

  I nod, scared to say anything that will change her mind.

  “I want to hear how your classes are going, how it is being back in school. I understand your mother has been struggling.”

  Adrienne scoffs. “Nice euphemism.”

  “Isn’t it a struggle?” she says, without sounding condescending. “I understand you both are having a difficult time at home.”

  I break eye contact and look down. My hair falls into my face. Talking with Mrs. Albright is one thing, but I suddenly feel claustrophobic, like detention might be better after all.

  “Adrienne, it looks like you’re excelling in art.” Dr. Whelan holds up a poster before opening a folder. “They’re well done. You have talent. It looks like you do well in English and math, too.

  “Art isn’t enough, though. You’re a senior. In two or three months, your college applications will be due. You have good PSAT score
s. By December, you need to take the SATs and apply to schools. If you continue to behave this way, you’ll alienate your teachers. You already have a problem with Mrs. Hacker. Most college applications require three letters of recommendation.” Dr. Whelan pauses and looks at Adrienne, who taps her foot against the floor.

  “I suspect college hasn’t been on your—or your family’s—mind.”

  Adrienne and I both shake our heads.

  “That’s understandable. But you need to think about it now. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

  Adrienne glares at her. “You have no clue what I will or won’t regret.”

  Dr. Whelan points to the diplomas and awards on the wall. “Let’s say I can make an educated guess.”

  Adrienne exhales and shrugs. I lean over and whisper, “Listen to her. We don’t want her to call Dad.”

  “Your sister is wise,” Dr. Whelan says, looking at me.

  She opens the other file on her desk and panic fills my chest. What if there is something about the conservatories in there? I haven’t told Adrienne yet, not after what happened yesterday.

  “Vanessa, it looks like you’re working closely with Mrs. Albright. Your grades are strong. Stay focused on that.”

  I exhale loudly, causing Adrienne to give me a questioning look.

  “In a year or two, you both may not want to be limited to attending a junior college here in San Diego. You’ll want options.”

  “You have no idea what we’re going through. And my top school is here. UC San Diego.”

  I wonder if Adrienne intends to sound so harsh, as if all adults are suspect.

  “No, I don’t know,” Dr. Whelan says. “But you won’t get into that school unless you do well now. Can I ask you something?”

  “Do we have a choice?” Adrienne asks.

  Dr. Whelan laughs. “Not really. Have either of you talked to anyone about your mother? A therapist?”

  I want to tell Dr. Whelan about Caleb, about Barb, and how they know everything but vanished. How as I fall asleep, I have long conversations with Caleb in my head, ones I can’t bring myself to have on the phone.

  “No,” Adrienne says. “No shrinks. And besides, we’re sitting here because I told my idiot boyfriend and he told the school. Hence the signs.”

  “But you two talk to each other, correct?”

  Adrienne turns to me and nods.

  “Vanessa, have you talked to anyone?”

  “Mrs. Albright.”

  Adrienne raises a curious eyebrow, with a frown that tells me she feels betrayed.

  I look at the clock. Half past nine. My eyes return to the floor.

  “Are we done yet?” Adrienne asks.

  “No,” Dr. Whelan says. “It’s not acceptable to post these flyers. I know you’re upset, but you can’t launch a public campaign against Zach. You can still make posters. You can make the posters about anyone—Zach, your mother. Anyone. As many as you want. Just don’t post them in public places, especially school.”

  “You want me to make more posters?” Adrienne asks.

  “That’s not what I said. But I think it’s good for you to release your emotions. I’d like you to make an art project about how you’re feeling, and then we’ll meet to discuss your work. I’ll invite Mr. Klein to join us. Vanessa, you too. I’ll talk to Mrs. Albright.”

  “When am I supposed to make this magical healing artwork?” Adrienne asks.

  “Due tomorrow. Come here after last period.”

  I look at the clock and stand.

  “Do we have to go back to class?” Adrienne asks.

  “Yes, you do. Vanessa, looks like you missed most of yesterday. Are you feeling okay, all things considered?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Check in with Mrs. Albright at lunch. And Adrienne, please watch your language.”

  “Yeah right,” Adrienne says before we exit the office.

  I haven’t told Mrs. Albright about the piece, the notes written on the clinic brochure. I need to remove the knot in my stomach, the ache in my chest, and only finishing it will help. I embrace the assignment, to compose something—anything—that expresses emotion, regardless of length. I can’t play at school, not now anyway, so she grants me permission to compose at home.

  With the quilts returned to the linen closet, my spinet sits naked in the dining room, yet I hold on to the old worry that my playing will wake Mom. I’m not one to obsess about whether I locked the door or turned off the stove, but now I wander through the house worrying that Mom is still here, sick, needing me. There isn’t enough room for two nightmares—leukemia and Munchausen’s. We should only have to suffer through one, and I choose the former, the honest death.

  An old medicine box sits in the corner of the garage. I don’t bother with newspaper; I don’t care if the glass breaks. I stack frame upon frame, any photo with Mom, starting with the triptych in the kitchen, leaving only two rooms untouched: Marie’s bedroom and Dad’s study.

  Mom’s room suffers the most. Not only do I remove her pictures, but her things as well, her most precious possessions arranged atop her dresser and bedside table. Jewelry, books, knickknacks. The engraved sterling hairbrush and mirror. Volumes of poetry with pressed flowers tucked within the pages. Artifacts no longer sacred. Rubbish. I’m not trespassing, I tell myself. I am ridding the house of bad spirits. Of menacing ghosts and memories. It’s her or me—something I feel to the core. If I’m going to live in this house, if I’m going to feel a sliver of peace, just enough to make music, maybe even sleep, then she has to go.

  Bare walls, with exposed nails and sun-bleached paint, darker where pictures once hung. Years of lies buried in a box. I hide them in my closet, in the same place I stored Caleb’s things.

  A test. I dial his number. Maybe I can hear his voice—just his—without evoking Mom. He answers on the first ring, sounding loud and angry.

  “It’s me,” I say, knowing his tone is intended for someone else.

  “I thought you were my dad.” His voice barely softens. “He’s leaving us for good.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yeah, the whole thing was bullshit. He made it sound like he wanted to move to San Diego too. They saw a realtor today and it turns out that all he cares about is the money from selling the house. He wants to stay in Seattle. He’s divorcing my mom. He’s such an asshole.”

  “Oh, Caleb. I’m so sorry.”

  “I kind of thought that if he saw me when I was better, he’d stick around.”

  “Did he tell you why he’s doing this?” I ask.

  He lets out a bitter laugh. “No, but there’s a garbage can full of beer bottles that should have given us a clue. I missed him so much that I forgot how he always stayed out drinking with his friends. He wasn’t around that much before I got sick. And now he acts like I’ll go back to being the same guy I was before. Like none of this ever happened and we can be buddies. He doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know who I am now. I don’t think he wants to.”

  “Maybe he will,” I say.

  “You of all people know that’s probably not going to happen.”

  At the clinic, the moment Caleb woke from an infusion, he was confused, asking where he was, looking tired and hopeful, almost smiling. A nanosecond of amnesia. Then, in a flash, he’d touch his arm, the puncture mark left from the IV, and run his hand over his head.

  When it comes to my mother, I never have a moment of relief, not a fraction of a second. I suspect it will be the same for Caleb. There’s something inescapable about abandonment, an ever-present feeling of dread, an edge. I want to take his hand, to walk side by side in our grief, but there’s something else about being unwanted: It leaves you feeling completely alone.

  My eyes rest on a stray photo, unframed, from Marie’s first day of kindergarten, serving as a bookmark in a cookbook. Mom, smiling down, holds Marie’s hand. I barely see her eyes, but her smile, wide and proud, dominates the picture. I shove it into my pocket, hiding her face. “So wh
at now?”

  “You know my mom. She’s all business. She rented a U-Haul and we’re leaving as soon as it’s loaded.”

  “You’re coming back.”

  “Yeah, this week.”

  As I walk across the kitchen, the telephone cord stretches into taut coils. I pull out a chair. My hands relax, spreading open on the kitchen table like jellyfish. He’s coming back. “I didn’t know if that was going to happen.”

  “I promised you I would. Hang on.” I hear voices and a door open and close. “My mom just came home with boxes. I’ll call and let you know what day we’re getting there, okay? I have to go. Miss you.”

  The same sheets cover my bed, and as I bury my face into the blankets, I catch the faintest scent of him. My hand reaches for his Space Needle shirt tucked under my pillow, and I pull it over my head, feeling buoyed enough to finish my piece.

  I haven’t written much, but more than I remember as I copy the notes onto a fresh sheet of music paper. Unlike with the Stravinsky, my fingers don’t struggle with the keys. My makeshift exorcism allows me to remember Mom on my own terms, as she really is. Not the woman in the photos, but the woman who prefers a hospital gown to a party dress. I think back to the day I met Caleb, before seeing him in the courtyard. I had walked up the stairs, delivering Mom to Lupe, who dressed her in a gown and helped her into bed. Mom had smiled as she extended her arm, offering her vein like a gift. The needle went in smooth and quick.

  After running through the piece a few more times, I retrieve the cassette recorder and play for keeps, filling one side of the tape and then the other. Just as I finish, Dad opens the door, home early with Marie.

  There was an incident at recess. Scrapes and scabs cover her knees and shins, but she refuses to say what happened.

  I kneel down to inspect her wounds, all minor, all clean. “Do you need a Band-Aid?” I ask.

  “I’m okay. You should know that I forgive them.” She says the same thing about Mom.

  “Why don’t you change, and I’ll see if I can get the blood out of your skirt,” I say.

  I follow Dad to the living room, where he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. In slanted cursive, Marie wrote, Children say that people are hung sometimes for speaking the truth. A drawing of a girl, wearing a peasant dress, dangling at the gallows.