Hand Me Down (32 page)

“He attacked her,” I say.

“So she says,” Mom says.

“She’s married to a cop and Terrance has a record,” I say. “People will believe her.”

“Anyway,” Mom says, and I picture her waving her hand in dismissal. “It’s possible you’ll both be home soon enough.”

“Even after what he did, you’d let us live together?”

Mom says, “I could really use your help.”

“Have you told Jaime?”

“You’re such a good big sister,” she says. “Noah and Jaime need you.” I hear the stiffness in her voice and my heart hurts. It would be so easy to go home. To let myself believe the fantasy that we’d all be happy living together. “We all need you,” Mom says. “And I truly do miss you, Elizabeth. You’re so far away now.”

My eyes fill. I’ve been exposed to a better life here, but it’s so hard to refuse her offer. My throat swells like it’s trying to tell me to shut up, but I say, “I don’t think I can come back.”

“I don’t understand,” Mom says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all year?” Mom says. “To live with your family?”

“I do live with family,” I say quietly. “I miss you though.”

“Well then come home,” Mom says, frustration edging into her voice. “I thought you’d be more excited about this. You were so upset when you had to leave.”

This makes me want to stay with Tammy even more. I shake my head. “I have a life here now,” I say. A life where I’m a priority to someone else, not a backup plan. “I don’t want to have to worry about being uprooted if you’re forced to choose again.” As long as Terrance needs fixing, he’ll be Mom’s number one concern.

She whispers, “But this is your home.” Her speech is soft and
stilted, a sound I recognize from all the times I held back bubbling tears.

I exhale deeply and realize, even though it wrenches my body like a shock wave, Mom’s isn’t really my home. “Not anymore,” I say. I will probably never live with her again.

I call Jaime the next
day to see if Mom gave her the same option to go back. She hasn’t even heard that Terrance is in jail again. “That’s awesome,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “He even got his ass kicked by the woman he assaulted.”

“Good,” she says. “I hope it really hurt.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Mom said we could live with her again.”

Jaime says, “For how long?” and I half-smile. She’s learning. It’s kind of sad to hear her so distrustful, but I’m glad she’s upped her guard. She has to grow up, too, and I can’t always be there.

“I told her I wanted to stay here,” I say. “I figured you’d want to stay at Deborah’s.”

“Yeah,” Jaime says. “Even though Ashley’s a total brat sometimes.”

“Just make fun of her braces.”

“And Aunt Deborah wants me to learn guitar.”

“Well, you like to sing,” I say.

“I wish I could sing with you,” she says. “Our harmonies sound better.”

“I’ll come visit soon,” I say. I think of Ashley and her rude faces
and Winston’s behind my back digs that he thinks I can’t hear. “Or maybe you can come here.”

“Not when it’s snowing.”

“Whenever you want,” I say. “Maybe for the summer.”

Jaime says, “Will Tammy make us eat health food?”

I laugh. “We can cook whatever you want,” I say. “Either way, we’ll see each other soon, okay?”

Jaime says, “It’s been, like, a week,” and I realize the ache I usually feel when we’re apart is muted. Our orbits are still connected, they always will be, but now our bond seems able to withstand greater distances.

“Call anytime,” I say. “And write me back for once.”

“Writing is boring,” she says.

“You can write anything,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Yesterday Aunt Deborah said maybe I need to start therapy,” Jaime says, her voice a little lower. “As if there aren’t other people in this house who need a shrink.”

“What did you do?” I ask, thinking of my visit to the church counselor’s office, her neat stacks of files on her cherrywood bookcases, those of us with damaged minds described on paper and categorized into nameable ills.

She says, “I picked out a black T shirt at the mall.”

I laugh. Jaime’s crime isn’t the same as my sinking consciousness over the summer, and I don’t think Deborah will actually make her go sit on that fake leather couch and answer vague questions from the small woman in her fancy chair.

“It’s not funny,” Jaime says.

“But you’re still okay, right?” I say. “And you know you can call me if you need me?”

“I’m fine,” she says, and I don’t ask her again.

That night, after Tammy and
I play badminton and watch a movie with bowls of fresh fruit and whipped cream, I get under my green sheets with my blue comforter folded at the foot of my bed. The crickets have kicked their melodies into high gear, and cool breezes waft in through the open windows. I write in my journal for as long as my brain needs to vent like I’ve been doing every night. Sometimes I make future plans in the gold-lined pages:
play guitar and sing in a band, write a book, visit the Parthenon.
When I turn off the light and my fake stars cast green shadows that mingle with the white glow from the real stars outside, I often pray for Jaime, for Noah and Matt, for Mom and Deborah, and even Dad. I ask the universe to keep them safe, and I don’t think it matters where the ideas go exactly, as long as I send them out into the world.

“Hey,” Tammy says, sitting on the edge of my bed, the lines of her strong bones and lean limbs smudged and backlit by the hall bulb. “I wanted to say good night.”

I smile. “Good night,” I say, rolling onto my side to face her and snuggling into my crisp sheets. I breathe in and let out the air slowly, savoring this moment, this place I never expected to end up but am so thankful for.

“So,” Tammy says. “Can I wake you up early tomorrow for a hike?”

“Totally.” I missed our Sunday morning rituals, sanctuary without church, support without conditions. I’m looking forward to walking mountain trails, watching plant shadows move like living paintings on the uneven dirt as our feet beat in harmony with the birds and bugs. When I close my eyes in the dark now, I visualize nature. Images with echoes I can almost hear of rushing rivers and lakes lapping grainy shores lull me to sleep.

“We should bring our sketchbooks,” I say. “And the watercolors.” Tammy raises an eyebrow at me. “I’ll even wear one of your nerdy fanny packs to help carry everything,” I say. I can’t wait to witness the leaves starting their descents from tall branches, watch the tree-lined hillsides fade from shades of green to yellow and orange. I want to capture the beauty beyond what I can hold in my memory.

Tammy laughs. “For the last time, lots of hikers wear them.” She pushes at my shoulder with her fingertips. “But, sure, let’s make a day of it.” She looks down at me, her blue eyes shadowed, and tilts her head. “You must not have gotten outside much at the Cranleys’.”

“You have no idea.” I missed the fresh air, the elevation, the open sky, the smell and sound of snow runoff rushing over mossy stones, floating through fields of wildflowers and groves of pines, birch, and oak, and diving under logs. The water doesn’t complain about where it ends up or how it gets there; it just continues on its way, absorbing little pieces of everything it touches as it rides the current. I want to learn to cultivate peace like that, to worry less about what’s around the bend. “I missed our hikes,” I say. “And our talks.”

Tammy’s eyes shine and she smiles. “Me, too.” Her hands fuss with the creases in the linens for a minute, and then she rests her right hand on my knee. “It’s great to have you back,” she says, squeezing my leg.

My heart swells. I would choose Tammy to be my family even if she wasn’t my blood relative, and I know she feels the same way about me. I smile a genuine grin, show all my teeth. “It’s good to be here.”

Tammy lies down next to me on her back. “There was an emptiness without you.” I move closer to her warmth and close my eyes. She sighs. “Even when Sam was here.”

In our peaceful silence, I listen to Tammy breathe. It’s not as familiar as the higher-pitched whine of air through Jaime’s small nose, but it’s comforting, a chanting rhythm of air in and out through lungs and nostrils, the reassuring sound that proves I am not alone. Someone I love is close.

Tammy breaks the pulse of her breathing and says, “I think I got so used to your footsteps, your socks and hair clips all over the house, your silly TV shows…” She takes my hand. “I liked being a part of your everyday life.”

“I liked that, too,” I say, and think about my anxiety on that first plane to Utah. I never thought I’d find a home here, but it feels like this was the path I was meant to take. I say, “Do you believe in fate?”

Wind stirs the trees outside and the bushes we planted on the patio below, and the whooshing sound of rustling leaves quiets the crickets. An owl hoots and the crickets begin their chirping at a lower volume, like some of them are now too scared to sing.
Tammy shifts on my fold-out bed, and I peek at her. Her eyes are open and she’s staring at my mostly faded green stars.

“I believe in choices,” she says. “What’s great about life is that other people’s choices can surprise you, make you realize things you might not have known otherwise.”

“Like how Mom’s mistakes brought me here?”

She nods. “But if we’re happy, why worry about how we ended up where we are?”

“Are you happy?”

“Are you?”

“Sort of,” I say. “Mostly. Now.”

“Me, too.”

“When I think about the future,” I say. “All the things I can still do.”

She smiles at me. “Me, too,” she says.

An herb-scented breeze fills the room and shuffles the papers on my desk. I shiver. Tammy sits up and pulls my comforter up to my neck. She kisses the top of my head and smooths my hair behind my ear. She says, “I think this is exactly where we’re both supposed to be.” She brushes my chin with her forefinger and thumb.

It feels good to be the one getting tucked in, to let someone else stand guard. She says, “Sweet dreams,” and I think that might finally be possible. Tammy moves away, but I know she’s not going far.

I say, “I love you,” as she closes my door partway and leaves the hall light on without me even asking. Soon, I may not need the glow behind my eyelids to fall asleep. It gets easier each night here. “You’re a great mom,” I mumble and close my eyes.

“I really thought I could be,” she whispers. I feel the air shift above my skin and then a kiss on my forehead, and the scent of Tammy’s honey lip balm wafts into my nose. Her voice, “I love you, little girl,” carries me through the night.

After our morning hike, Tammy
goes to aerobics and I take a long shower in my private golden bathroom. Clean and dressed, I walk the borders of Tammy’s house slowly, soaking in the stability of the sameness. Tammy’s art still tempers the white of the walls in the living room; the dustless glass curio cabinet still stands proudly as protector of Tammy’s international souvenirs and mementos from her travels. I hope someday I can fill my own house with beautiful reminders of the places I’ve visited, the adventures I’ve experienced.

My bare feet slide across the white carpet to the couch, where the cushions are plumped and clean. The purple chenille throw is folded and draped across a pile of floor pillows in the corner. The TV still hides behind the wood cabinet with sliding doors, the fake logs sit ready for burning in her gas fireplace, the recessed lights above my head cast soft glows across the spotless surfaces of Tammy’s possessions. The kitchen walls are the same sage green Tammy and I painted together, the purple and blue-green teapot painting is as dramatic as the day we hung it. The room still looks lovely, as glossy and fresh as a magazine spread.

I breathe in the smell of this house: the herbal freshness, the clean, rain-washed scent of her laundry detergent. I bask in the quiet. No SEGA video game beeps or hip-hop music, no barking
dog, pep talks from Deborah, or bellowing requests from Winston. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the twitter of birds outside. I step onto the patio under the bright blue sky and stand in the shadow of the brick building Tammy and I share, surrounded by growing evidence of our garden labors. Somewhere a dog barks, and a lone cricket impatient for dusk strums its legs.

I know life here won’t be perfect. I know that soon winter will arrive and dust the world with ice. The frost will invade my chest again, my fingers will freeze inside my gloves, and my body will want to hibernate beneath a nest of soft wool blankets until I learn to thaw myself out, figure a way to keep my blood pumping against the cold. I know Sam will return and spout speeches about the merits of hat wearing, cook pork chops, and glare at me when Tammy’s not looking. I know his presence will remind me that this arrangement is not quite solid, that nothing here is really mine, including Tammy.

But in this moment, I stand tall and focus on the slack in my shoulder blades, the loose muscles in my arms and back that have been freed from the flexed tension of a persistently active fight or flight response. My neck feels longer, my jaw relaxed, and I haven’t chewed on my nails in days. I focus on little things like the church bells singing in the distance, the jug of hibiscus sun tea brewing on the patio table, the letter from Rachel sitting upstairs on my desk awaiting my reply.

I exhale in one long, even release, smiling at no one and stretching my hands above my head in a yoga sun salutation. The air is thick with heat and smells like dry grass and dusty rock. At the horizon, the sun dazzles the mountaintops with a white-gold
sheen, like they’re jewels too big to harvest. Soft breezes stir aromas of creek water and tree sap into my nose and swirl the hair around my head. A hummingbird flits by our climbing vines, close enough that I can hear the thrumming of its beating wings, the sound of constant motion against the wind, and then it flies away, its feathers catching the sunlight and shimmering pink, green, and gold as it disappears.

I breathe the earth-perfumed air, bare feet planted solid on bumpy and still-warm concrete, lift my face to the heavens, and feel grounded.