Liars and Fools (19 page)

“Voilà,” Tom said, sliding a steaming plate of eggs in front of me. “Scrambled eggs special deluxe.”

I stared down at the eggs for a few seconds and watched them blur.

“Fiona? What are you thinking?” Joni tilted her head, trying to see my face.

“I'm scared I'll forget.” I looked at Joni through the haze of tears. “Not completely. You know. Just, like, some things.”

She balanced her mug on the giant stack of magazines on the kitchen counter. “I want to show you something. Just a minute, okay?” She left the room, throwing an anxious glance back over her shoulder. “Eat those eggs, okay?”

“Eat up,” Tom agreed. “Come on. Get something warm inside you.”

I took a bite of hot cheesy eggs. And another and another. I was starving. I'd wolfed down the whole plateful by the time Joni came back.

She put a photo album down in front of me on the kitchen counter. “It's something I've been putting together. Just for myself, I guess, though I imagined I'd give it to you someday.”

I stared at the album. Dark blue cover with a cutaway circle in the center and my mom's face looking out at me. An old photo, one from before I was born, with Mom looking right at the camera, smiling, or maybe even laughing, mouth slightly open, chin lifted and head tilted back in that way she had. I ran my fingers lightly across the dark blue cover.

“You can…” Joni gestured at the book. “If you want to look at it.”

I nodded and opened the cover, expecting to see another picture. Instead, I saw Joni's big loopy handwriting.

To Jennifer, who will always be my Little Sister.

I remember you coming home from the hospital, so
much smaller than I expected. Mom let me choose your
middle name: Michelle, after the Beatles' song. I used to
dance around the house with you in my arms, singing it
to you. I remember helping you learn to walk: holding
your hands around and around the kitchen table, you
insisting on more, more, more, and screaming in frustration
as your white socks slipped on the linoleum.
I was sixteen; you were just past your first birthday, but
even as a baby, you were determined to do things your
own way.

I swallowed hard. “You wrote that?” I flipped ahead. Pages and pages…

Joni's face was several shades pinker than usual. “I know it isn't brilliant writing, but it wasn't meant for people to read. It's a memory book.”

“Wow. This is all about Mom?”

“My little sister,” Joni said. “I can't believe how much I miss her. Every day.” Her eyes were wet, the wrinkles around them shining with tears, but she smiled at me. “I won't forget her, you know.”

I realized that I hadn't actually thought that much about what Mom's death had meant to Joni. She'd always been there for me to lean on, but she must have felt almost as bad as I did. “She was amazing, wasn't she?” I said.

“The best.”

Tom cleared his throat again. “Look, I've been sitting over here telling myself to stay out of this, to mind my own business.”

“Sounds like good advice,” Joni said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Maybe you should take it.”

I looked at him curiously. Tom doesn't speak seriously all that often, and he hates conflict, but Joni sounded almost angry. She sounded as if she knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

Tom dropped the frying pan into the sink and turned to face us. He pointed at Joni's memory book. “It's just…oh, come on, Joni. I know you loved her, but Jennifer drove you crazy when she was alive. You're saying you don't want to forget her, but honestly? Sometimes I think you already have.”

I listened, torn between wanting to put my hands over my ears—
la la la la I can't hear you
—and wanting him to say more. To talk about Mom and make her feel real again.

Joni stood up. “Tom. Stop it.”

He turned toward me. “I loved your mom. You know that, right?”

I nodded.

“Jennifer was probably the most energetic, fun, passionate person I have ever met. You know how people talk about trying to live in the moment? Well, she did that. Life was one long series of great moments for her.” He shrugged. “And she was also one of the most selfish, stubborn people I've known.”

“Tom! How can you say that?” Joni's face flushed an angry mottled red, and she glared at him furiously.

He glared right back. “I don't think you're doing Fiona any favors by putting Jennifer on a pedestal. You know what she was like.”

There was a long silence. Finally Tom turned away from Joni and looked at me. “I don't mean to upset you,” he said. “I loved your mom. But you know what? She wasn't perfect.”

I couldn't force a single word past the lump in my throat, but I nodded to let him know it was okay. I understood. Maybe I should be angry like Joni was, but it was weird: what I felt was more like relief. We'd been reducing Mom to a cardboard cutout of herself. And Mom was anything but a cardboard cutout. “I know,” I managed at last. “She could be pretty set on getting what she wanted.”

Joni slammed her memory book shut and looked at me like I was the worst kind of traitor. Shaking her head, she stalked out of the room, clutching the book to her chest.

“Don't worry,” Tom said. “It's me she's mad at, not you. She'll get over it.”

I watched the empty doorway. I couldn't remember Joni ever walking out on me before. “I overheard Dad say something one time, before Mom left. He said he'd had enough.” I looked up at Tom. “Do you think that they were going to get divorced?”

Tom shook his head. “People say things when they're upset.”

“They fought a lot.”

“Like cats and dogs. But they stayed together, didn't they? Anyway, there's not much point in speculating. I'd put that thought right out of your head, if you can.”

“Okay.” Obviously Tom couldn't know for sure, but his words still made me feel better. I wanted to believe that my parents would have worked it out.

“Truth is,” he said, “Jennifer was the baby of the family and spoiled rotten by her parents and by Joni. She was a bit too used to getting her own way. Used to drive Joni crazy sometimes.”

I remembered Mom shouting at my dad:
All I'm
trying to do is live my life the way I want to. To follow
my dreams.
I bit my lip. “Tom? Isn't it a good thing to try to live the way you want? To not let anyone get in the way of your dreams?”

Tom scratched his chest. “Well, I'm not saying it's a bad thing, chickie. But it doesn't hurt to pay a little attention to how your choices affect everyone else. Try putting yourself in their shoes once in a while. No man is an island, and all that.”

“Mom did think about other people,” I said stubbornly. I knew he was right. Mom had thought about me, though maybe not always very clearly. But she didn't think about Dad.

“She loved you,” Tom said. His eyes were shining and pink-rimmed. “And I miss her too, Fiona. I miss having you and her and Peter over here, playing games and laughing and eating too much. I miss Jennifer's laugh. I miss arguing with her. I even miss her stupid stubborn pride.”

I swallowed. “Me too. Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm going to talk to Joni, okay? Make sure she's okay.”

He nodded. “You do that, chickie.”

Joni was sitting on the edge of her bed, crying. She looked up when I walked in.

“Joni? Are you okay?”

“Just sad,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Which is okay, right?”

I nodded. “Please don't be mad at Tom.”

“Oh, he can be such an idiot sometimes. No sense of timing.”

“I don't want you guys to fight.”

“Don't worry. It wouldn't be the first time.” She gave me a halfhearted smile. “I'll get over it. Sorry I stomped off. I'm just not ready to hear him talk about Jennifer like that.” She tilted her head, studying my face. “Has he upset you? He can be so insensitive sometimes.”

“No. Not really.” I sat down beside her. “It sort of helped, in a way. There's this way everyone talks about people after they're dead, like they're suddenly perfect. And it was kind of nice to have someone not do that. It made Mom seem less far away, somehow.” I looked up at her anxiously. “Sometimes I even have trouble picturing her face, you know?”

“Ahh. Yes, I do know.” Joni stood up, walked over to her bookshelf and pulled something off a pile. “I have something for you. If you want it.”

She handed me a book. Big, square, dark blue. A square picture in the center: a tiny sailboat with ocean all around it.

I opened the cover. Blank pages.

“I thought perhaps you could make your own memory book. Writing, photos, whatever you want.” Joni sat back down beside me. “I bought it ages ago, but I wasn't sure…”

“I love it.” I already knew what was going on the first page: a picture of me and Mom together on
Eliza J.
It's not a great picture; Mom took it, holding the camera out in front of us, too close and not very straight. But we're both laughing, and the wind is blowing our hair across our faces. I remembered that moment so clearly. It was one of those perfect sailing days. “I wish Dad hadn't sold
Eliza J
,” I whispered.

“I know.” Joni patted my knee. “You know, I don't mean to sound like I don't see how hard that is—but there will be other boats. If you really want to sail, you'll make it happen. You're like your mom that way—determined. But
Eliza J
wasn't the only boat your Mom loved, and she won't be the only one for you either.”

“Dad won't even let me sail,” I reminded her.

“Give it time,” Joni said. “Give it time.”

twenty-four

Joni called ahead first to check whether Kathy was there.

“You have to go home either way,” she told me. “But you might as well feel prepared.”

When she told me that Kathy was spending the evening at home with Caitlin, I felt relieved for about a second before I started getting anxious about being alone with Dad. I knew he'd be expecting me to apologize for worrying him, and I guess for technically stealing the boat. It hadn't felt like stealing—
Eliza J
was mine, no matter what it said on paper. Of course, I knew I shouldn't have taken off in the boat, but I was too mad about Dad selling
Eliza J
to tell him that I was sorry.

Anyway, I
wasn't
entirely sorry. I felt bad about scaring everyone, but in a way I was glad I'd done it. Glad, glad, glad. Even if it was dangerous, even if it was selfish and irresponsible, even though I'd needed help to get home. In some crazy way, it had been exactly what I needed to do. Every time I thought about being out there alone, just me and
Eliza J
skimming across the waves on our way to Sidney Spit, I felt a flutter of excitement and beneath that, a steady warmth. Someday I would sail around the world. Even if Dad wouldn't let me sail now, at least I had my dream back again. No one could take that away.

Joni drove me home, and to my surprise, she gave me a big hug goodbye, crushing me against her cushiony warmth. I held on tightly for a few seconds before letting go. “Thanks, Joni.”

“Love you, kiddo.” Her voice was gruff.

“Love you too.”

“Now get in there. It'll all work itself out, don't you worry.” She looked me in the eyes. “He loved your mom, you know, despite their differences. And he loves you too.”

I nodded and blinked away tears. Then I got out of her car and headed inside.

Dad was in the kitchen making dinner. Pizza. It was something Mom used to make pretty often, but I robin stevenson couldn't remember Dad ever making it before. We usually ordered in or went to Paul's Pizza Palace. I leaned against the counter and watched as he sprinkled cheese over the other toppings.

“The pepperoni goes crispier if you put it on top of the cheese,” I told him.

“Am I making this pizza, or are you?”

“Sorry. Just trying to help.” The pizza had made me hopeful that he wasn't too angry, but apparently he was. I hadn't ever done anything as bad as stealing a boat before. Nothing even close. I wondered what Dad was going to do to me. Ground me, maybe. I'd never been grounded before. Dad had always been stricter than Mom, but she had made most of the decisions when it came to me, and she always argued that parenting shouldn't be about coercion.
We can't
expect kids to grow up with their own sense of values
if we just demand certain behavior
, she said to Abby's mom one time. Abby told me her mother thought my mom was way out there, but that she liked her a lot anyway. You couldn't help liking someone who smiled as much as my mom did.

Dad had the pizza stone heated up in the oven, and he was getting ready to slide the raw pizza onto it. He'd stretched the crust super thin and loaded it with toppings. I had a bad feeling as he started to lift it. I opened my mouth to say something and snapped it closed again. His pizza, not mine.

The pizza folded, tore and collapsed in a sloppy mess on the hot stone.

Dad swore under his breath.

“It might be okay,” I said. “If we straighten it out…”

He put on the oven mitts, picked up the pizza stone and dumped the whole thing in the garbage. “I don't think so.”

I don't know why, but I started crying. Out of the blue. One minute I was just standing there, and the next I was crying, crying, crying. I felt like I might never stop.

“Honey…” Dad stared at me, his oven-mitted hands hanging at his sides. “It's just a
pizza
.”

I shook my head and gasped noisily, trying to catch my breath. It wasn't just the pizza that was a mess. It was everything. It was me and Dad, trying to muddle on without Mom. I wasn't sure that we would be able to straighten it out at all.