A Million Miles Away (24 page)

“Stay awhile,” her father said, and slid a burger patty onto a large plate, flipping the others.

Kelsey sat, forgetting in her sleeplessness to take off her backpack. Her mother removed it. Kelsey almost recoiled at her mother’s touch, but didn’t. She and her mother smiled at each other cautiously.

“We need to talk to you about something,” her mother said.

Kelsey couldn’t imagine what it might be, but those words were rarely a good sign.

“We received something in the mail today,” her mother said, standing up and going to her desk.

Alarms flashed behind Kelsey’s eyes. She gripped the table. She had checked the mailbox on the way in; sure enough, it had been empty. Did they find the letter to Peter? Did they know?

“Surprise,” her mother said from behind her, and dropped an envelope next to her plate, sitting back down beside her.

It was stamped with the University of Kansas seal, and it was thick.

“You’re in!”

In the strange whirlwind of the past few months, Kelsey had barely remembered to apply. But she did, at the last minute, and from then on assumed she’d get in, because Ingrid had gotten in a few days ago, and Ingrid was, well, Ingrid.

“Wow,” was all Kelsey could say, scanning the official letter.

“Congratulations, darling,” her mother said.

When they were all sitting, eating barbecue burgers and slaw, Kelsey couldn’t help but take a moment to stare. Her parents had not been her favorite people, even before Michelle died, but now, the two of them sitting across from her, passing the wine bottle from one to the other, put a sweet haze on her sleepy vision.

Her father shook his head, smiling to himself. “I remember your first day of school.”

“Ha!” replied her mother. “What an ordeal.”

“One wanted morning kindergarten, one wanted afternoon.”

Kelsey laughed with her parents. “Then, like, two days in, we wanted to switch to each other’s class. I remember.”

“Fickle, you two. A couple of Geminis.” Their birthday was June twelfth, just one month after graduation.

When the plates were clean, as they always were when her father cooked, her mother looked at her father, then folded her hands under her chin. “We’re so proud of you.”

“But that’s not all—” her dad said, pointing at her mother, taking a sip of wine.

“Rob! Dammit. I wanted to wait until after dessert.”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging. “Oops.”

“I had these made,” her mother said, suddenly very formal. “I hope you like them.”

Her mom took out a box, and inside, Kelsey found a stack of invitations.

Please help us celebrate the graduation of Ms. Kelsey Maxfield
, they read in shiny gold lettering, the same that graced her stationery. Then the time and the place: their backyard, an afternoon in May, hours after she would be done with high school forever. The invitation was outlined in crimson and blue, KU colors.

Kelsey put a hand to her mouth, and embraced her mother with the other.

“Invite as many people as you want,” her mother said.

From across the table, her father said, “I’ll cook whatever you want, too. Doesn’t have to be burgers.”

Her mother added, “We could even have La Parrilla cater.”

As they continued chatting about the plans, Kelsey knew they were all trying to look forward to the celebration, just as much as they didn’t want to look behind it. Michelle’s absence hung in the small things, like the fact that her sister had expressly said she didn’t want a large, fancy party, or that when Kelsey had suggested a taco bar from La Parrilla last September, Michelle had turned up her nose.

Now Kelsey had no one standing in her way. She could make her graduation exactly how she wanted it to be. Kelsey would have to ignore what lay underneath the decorations and happy crowd and Mexican food: that without Michelle, it could never be exactly what she wanted, anyway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Meg was waiting for Kelsey in a high ponytail, a beater, and baggy basketball shorts, watching from the Farrows’ front yard as the Subaru pulled up to the ranch house in El Dorado. Kelsey got out of the car, looking around to the surrounding houses, pretending not to recognize her. She was making good on her promise to help Peter’s kid sister with her dance moves, but this time she was Kelsey, the less artistic, less academic party girl who didn’t share anything with Michelle but their DNA. Basically, herself eight months ago. She could do this.

This is the last time, she assured herself on the drive over, and she meant it. Her plan was to straighten her hair, avoid the parents, and speak as little as possible.

Meg waved. Kelsey approached her on the yard in her stark white Asics shoes and a Lions Dance Team T-shirt. “Kelsey,” she said, holding out her hand with a close-lipped smile.

Meg looked her up and down, and for a terrifying moment, right in the eyes. Her hand felt as if it had been in the air for hours.

Then Meg shook it. “I’m Meg,” she said, smiling.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Same here.”

Kelsey lifted her shoulders, gesturing ambiguously. “So…” She wondered if Meg could tell she was nervous. “Want to show me your routine?”

They went to the backyard where Meg had set up portable speakers, and Kelsey had to use every ounce of will not to look to the woods, toward Snake Country.

For an hour they worked on Meg’s difficulty with pirouettes. She was too hunched over and springy, an athlete more than a dancer, Kelsey observed, but that wouldn’t stop her. Her footwork was flawless.

“You just need to loosen up a little bit,” Kelsey said, rolling her shoulders. Meg followed suit. “Trust your balance, but don’t trust it too much or it will get away from you and you’ll fall all over yourself like this—”

Kelsey let her pirouette spin out of control, and she fell over on the grass. Meg laughed.

“Try again,” Kelsey said, and as she watched Meg, the back door opened.

Peter’s mother stood in the doorway. Cathy’s health seemed to have multiplied since a week ago when Kelsey had seen her motionless in her hospital bed. Her eyes were bright, and she maneuvered past the patio furniture with confidence.

“You girls working hard?” she called.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kelsey said. “Your daughter just killed a difficult turn.”

“Well, I can’t thank you enough for coming all the way out here.”

“No trouble,” Kelsey said, kicking an invisible spot on the ground.

“I met your sister, I’m told, but I haven’t met you.”

They went through the introductions, and Kelsey wondered how much Cathy remembered, mostly if she recalled the slurred hello in the hospital room, the last time she had seen her son. Her heart broke for the woman, who up close, still had slack on the left side of her face, a reminder of the stroke.

They sat down for lemonade, and Meg gushed about “Michelle” to her mother and to Kelsey, how much fun she was, how Peter was in “serious love.”

Kelsey tried to stay more curious than familiar as Cathy delighted in the fact that Michelle had run “the Kroger mile,” as she called it, swapping stories with her daughter about one time or another, like when Peter was supposed to get his assigned ingredients for lasagna, but brought back an entire frozen lasagna, instead.

Kelsey wished she could tell them that Peter had told her that story, too, on the way to the airport, and he still felt like he had been cheated out of a record time.

But that wasn’t Kelsey’s story to tell.

Several times, as the shadows grew longer across the backyard, Kelsey wanted to stand up and shout, beating her chest, I AM HER!

She wanted to run until she couldn’t run any longer, buried deep in Snake Country, and there she would find Peter, all of her sins forgiven, and they would walk together through the wheat toward the horizon, toward the rest of their lives.

For now, she had to be content to sip on lemonade until all of it was gone.

“I should probably be heading back,” Kelsey said. She turned to Meg. “You feel good about those pirouettes?”

“I feel real good,” Meg nodded.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” Cathy said, standing, pulling Kelsey in for a hug. “And thank your sister for me, too. Tell her to come by again, so I can meet her properly.”

“I will,” Kelsey said, and gave Meg a hard high five.

Maybe it was the fading light, but it looked like Peter’s sister had a strange sadness in her eyes that she didn’t have before. Kelsey must be imagining it. She imagined so much lately.

“Good luck! Let me know how you do!” she called to Meg as she exited the backyard.

They were good people, Kelsey decided, no way around that. Hopefully they were as merciful as they were good, but Kelsey had no control over their reaction. It was all in Peter’s hands now.

Godspeed, she said to the invisible fates at work, and hoped she wouldn’t be seeing El Dorado for the last time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mrs. Wallace’s sparsely attended class transformed into silhouettes as Kelsey stood in front of them, facing the projector. Her baby-doll dress and go-go boots, an homage to the artist’s muse, were bathed in the bright red-and-white light of a Campbell’s Soup Can projected on-screen.

It was her last day of school as a senior at Lawrence High, and she had chosen the subject of her final Art History presentation the night before, poring through Michelle’s old books, selecting the pieces that she liked best. It took her mind off of Peter, or rather, a lack of Peter. He had not emailed, called, or even been online for two weeks. It was torture.

Kelsey gathered herself, trying to concentrate.

“Rather than give you useless biographical facts that you’re probably going to forget, anyway,” Kelsey read off her notecards to the silent room, “I want to tell you what I find most interesting about Andy Warhol.”

She nodded at Mrs. Wallace, who changed the slide on cue. The slide showed a photo of the man, hair bleached white, sunglasses on indoors, sitting next to the girl she was dressed as, whom she had seen in many of his short movies.

“I first learned about Andy Warhol from someone I loved very much, who is now gone. My sister. She used to paint these beautiful scenes, like perfect paintings of our backyard, or our house, or the KU campus, but she did them in these wacky neon colors. I never understood why. I used to ask her why she didn’t paint them as she saw them. I thought she was just trying to be annoying.”

There were a few titters from the class.

“Then I saw this.”

She nodded at Mrs. Wallace, who changed the slide to show three identical rows of the old movie star Marilyn Monroe, each square a copy of her face, but the hues switched in each one, all displaying different, Technicolor combinations.

“This is called Pop Art, something Andy Warhol is famous for, which takes commercials or brands and turns them into art. Michelle was doing the same thing, sort of. She was taking something that everyone could recognize, like a house, or a porch, and using color to make people think about it differently. To make people realize what they were seeing every day was special. Andy Warhol did it through repeating the famous images over and over, or changing their color, and it made me think, well, anyone can do that.

“And I used to think that was bullshit, but actually, it’s exciting.” She glanced at Mrs. Wallace, hoping she hadn’t offended her. The teacher nodded, urging her to go on.

“As long as you have something that people recognize, just any ordinary thing, like the pop songs and dance moves I do, for example…” Kelsey felt herself blush. “You can tweak it a little bit, and suddenly it’s very special. Or you can tweak it a lot. The point is, you’re making people look at it twice. They latch on to something they know, but they think about it more deeply. They don’t have to love it, but it’s there.”

Kelsey had stopped reading off her notecards now.

“We let so much go by without acknowledging it’s there,” she said, and realized she was talking about a lot more than Andy Warhol.

“Anyway,” Kelsey said, clearing her throat. “People say Warhol was doing it for money and celebrity, and maybe he was, but he didn’t stop working after he became rich, so I don’t think that was it. He just wanted to make people look twice.”

She still couldn’t see the faces of her classmates, but she didn’t care if they had listened. She had said her piece.

“The end,” she said, and right then, Kelsey felt a sense of completion. She was done with high school. She had tried to keep her hopes up, but Peter’s silence had numbed her. She might not get the best grades, but none of her teachers would fail her, and she had gotten into KU. Most important, she was pretty sure she had found what she was supposed to find: that she could be an artist someday, too.

On her way out of the classroom, as the next student made their way to the front, she stopped at Mrs. Wallace’s desk. “Thank you,” she whispered to the teacher. “I’m going now.”

Mrs. Wallace whispered back, “Your presentation was a little short for my taste, but well done. Good luck, Ms. Maxfield.”