Notes to Self (9 page)

Emily’s skin was so pale pink it was almost translucent. There were tiny blue veins in her eyelids. She had never fake-baked even once in her life and now I wished that she had. Her lack of color terrified me.

I looked around the room. It seemed big for a single patient. The walls weren’t white, like my hospital room’s had been. Instead they were a pretty, light aquamarine color. You’d think such a color would be soothing, but it made me uncomfortable. It reminded me of something Emily and I always talked about when she got into one of her save-the-world moods: how we wanted to sneak into Sea World and free all the whales.

The insides of their tanks were the exact same color as Emily’s hospital room. But instead of looking too big for her tank like those poor two-ton orcas, she looked small, so small. I wanted to free her more than I’d ever wanted anything, but instead, all I could do was swim with her, helpless, as long as they’d let me stay in here.

I took a deep breath. Maybe she was wondering about school. “I don’t want you to worry or anything, but I need you around. Josie hates me and she’s not even trying to hide it anymore. Maria’s being her usual a-hole self, I guess. I just didn’t know her usual self was so bitchy.” I laughed a little, or tried to. “God, you must think I’m such a loser being all serious like this and whining about Josie. She’s just worried about you, I guess.”

I stopped talking. I felt like I was interrupting the peacefulness of the room. Emily was so perfect, an angel; she couldn’t do anything wrong while she lay there sleeping, waiting.

I just sat with her then, my head bowed, waiting with her.

CHAPTER 22

BREAKABLE

Mrs. Sampson came into Emily’s room. At first, I didn’t even hear her. I felt another presence in the room and looked up, startled. I didn’t mean to, but when she took a seat next to me and put her hand on mine, I started bawling. The tears streamed out of my eyes, and in between hiccupping and gasping for breath, I tried to apologize for what had happened.

“I’m…so sorry, Mrs.…Sampson, I don’t know what…we were…thinking…I’m so sorry,” I sputtered. I felt awful. I wondered if I should leave, and give her some quiet time with her daughter instead of blubbering.

Instead of throwing me out, though, all she did was stand up and give me a hug. “It’s okay, Robin. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. Shh…shh…I’m sorry, too…it was all a big misunderstanding…a terrible accident…”

“I just…want…her to wake up!” I sputtered. I worked hard to try to breathe again and slowly got myself under control. Mrs. Sampson was older than my mother. You could see a little bit of gray hair along her part. She wasn’t dressed as well as I remembered: she had on a track suit, but the pants didn’t match the jacket. Her eyes were bloodshot behind her glasses. She sat down again and we both continued our vigil, pouring whatever energy we had into the small girl before us, willing her to heal.

I thought about the times Emily couldn’t hang out with me or anyone else from school because she had a “family thing” to attend. She always made a big show of grimacing and rolling her eyes, but I knew the truth. She liked it when she had a family thing. Being surrounded by her huge collection of relatives made her feel secure and strong, and made it possible for her to tell people to shove it when they were being assholes or trying to get her to do something she didn’t want to do. Emily’s family was her rock, and if it really was cracking up like I thought it might be, she must have been—she must
be
—devastated.

The power of Emily’s family had extended to me, too. She had rescued me at the beginning of sixth grade. I didn’t know why she did it, but she came along at the exact right moment and made things better for a lonely girl who found it impossible to make new friends. I never believed in angels, but I did believe people could behave like them, and Emily had.

I wondered if guilt could literally crush you, like a huge semi truck that pressed simultaneously on your head, chest, and legs. I felt physically ill with wishing.
Why isn’t it me lying there? Why?
Emily was stronger than me. So much stronger. And yet.

Mrs. Sampson was crying softly. I realized it was time for me to leave. I whispered one last “I’m sorry,” and left the room.

CHAPTER 23

EYE CANDY

The next morning I stood in front of my locker, paralyzed. I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to be. I had lost my class schedule and forgotten my earplugs; the shrill sound of the bell made me wince and cover my ears. Two juniors walking by mimicked me, laughed, and asked if I needed directions to the short bus stop. No one gave a shit that I was in pain. Pain meant weakness and weakness meant you were a target.

As I sunk to the floor for a little rest, I spotted a strawberry Starburst in its light pink wrapper sticking out between some notebooks near the bottom of my locker. The bell rang and the hallway cleared out; I sat down on the floor anyway. I didn’t care about being late to class. I breathed in and out, trying to will my heart rate to slow down.
You’re at school
.
It’s okay. You’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

I fished the candy out from between my books, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth. I had no idea how old it was, but I had more important problems than potential food poisoning. It was yummy. I pulled my new phone—compliments of Mom—out of my backpack and opened the Notes app.

Strawberry Starburst is my favorite candy.

I paused for a moment.
What a boring note.
Whatever. Maybe I’m a boring person.

As I chewed, I thought about something that had nothing to do with Starburst at all. I remembered a dressing room at Nordstrom’s.

“Zip me up, Robin. Please?”

I sighed and did as my mom requested, then sank back into the little fitting room chair with a massive eye roll. I had to admit (not out loud of course), that the sundress she had on was lovely. My mother stood in front of the three-way mirror, checking herself out from every angle. The fabric of the dress was a pale eggshell blue, which set off her long dark hair and made her light blue eyes seem lit from within. The bodice was fitted and the dress flared a bit at the waist. The full skirt ended at an elegant tea length just below her knee.

“You like?” she asked. I could see the shyness in her eyes, how much she was daring to hope this was the dress that would do it.
This had to be the dress.

“It’s not bad.” I refused to get excited. I thought buying a new dress was silly, especially because my dad was coming back just to get some of his things, not to take her out for a fancy dinner. Didn’t she realize she’d look strange, all dressed up like that on a Saturday afternoon?

“I know what you’re thinking, Robin,” Mom said, more businesslike than before. “Buying something like this is a waste of time.” She touched the price tag. It said $269.00 and there was no sale at the store that day. My mother usually shopped clearance racks exclusively, never daring to buy herself anything unless it was seventy, eighty, ninety percent off. The result of this extreme discount shopping was that nothing ever fit her quite right. Things were generally a bit too big or cut for someone with a smaller chest. Seeing her in a dress that looked as if it were made for her was a revelation. But I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. You can’t get someone back when they’re determined to leave. Not even for two hundred and sixty-nine dollars.

I was a sixth grader, and even I knew that.

“You see, sweet girl of mine, the male of the species is a visual being,” she said, twirling herself again. “It’s all about presentation. The right dress can change lives.”

“I guess. Buy it then. I’m hungry.” It bugged me that she was talking about Dad like he was some random boy she liked. Their story was over. It was too late, and she was not Cinderella.

Mom seemed sad to take the dress off, even though she did, in fact, purchase it. We got some sandwiches at the sub shop in the food court and went home to wait. Well, not literally, but that’s what I knew she was doing. Dad wasn’t supposed to roll into town for another two weeks, but I could
feel
her waiting. It hung in the air and made her seem so small, so vulnerable. I hated it and I hated her for allowing herself to do it.

Two weeks later, Rough Water’s beat-up tour van came back to Orlando (Quicksand had apparently dissolved many months ago). My mom got her beautiful sundress out of the closet, where it had been hanging, perfectly pressed and ready to do its job, under a protective plastic bag from the department store. Again, I helped her zip it up and we admired her reflection in the mirror. The dress didn’t look the same as it had in the store, though.

“Hmm. Maybe the light isn’t good in here,” she said, starting to sound upset. We both moved to the bathroom to take a look under the five sixty-watt bulbs lined up over the mirror. The dress still looked off. I saw what the problem was. Mom had been so busy waiting during the last two weeks that she hadn’t been eating enough. She must have been six or even eight pounds lighter. The dress didn’t hug her like it had. The light in her eyes had gone out.

But when you pay $269.00 for something, you don’t give up on it. She left the dress on and smoothed her hair, and together we waited for my dad’s knock at the door.

To pass the time, and because I was as big a fool as she, I went and changed into something nice myself, just a skirt and tights. I hadn’t worn a skirt since…hmmm…Christmas? It felt strange on my body and I didn’t know how to sit comfortably with my legs crossed. Even though it was just Mom and me, I still tried to seem ladylike. I kept my elbows off the table as we ate egg salad sandwiches.

When the knock finally came, Dad was in a rush. He was thinner, too, and older. He picked me up and tried to swing me around, but it felt awkward after sitting so long, trying to be proper.

“Hi, Dad.” I didn’t feel like calling him Daddy like I used to. He wasn’t the same as he was then. Neither was I.

“Robin, you’re stunning,” he said. I knew it was the wrong thing to say to an eleven-year-old wearing too-small tights. He was supposed to be saying that sort of thing to Mom, to his wife.

“Hi, Craig,” my mom said, her voice a whisper. I saw that she was trying not to cry, trying to be strong, even though she hadn’t felt strong in months, maybe even years.

He nodded. “Gracie. You look nice, too. Are you gals having a tea party?”

“Something like that,” she said, clearing her throat. I shot a glare at him. Leave it to my dad to make a joke out of our day of waiting prettily. I wanted to punch him. She began to tell him where all of his things were—she certainly hadn’t taken the time to pack them up, the idea being that he’d want to stay a little longer this time—and I retreated to my room. I quickly changed out of my skirt and back into jeans. I also put on two t-shirts with thick fabric. The denim and the cotton seemed like armor, like their oversized casualness could protect me from showing that I cared. I was willing to bet my mom wanted to change her clothes as well, but she didn’t.

It only took him about twenty minutes to gather what he wanted. He handed my mom a few crumpled twenties (rock ‘n’ roll child support), kissed us both, and promised to call. When the door latched behind him, I was ready to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. I was unaffected by an annoying blip in the day. It surprised me, to be honest, how big a distance there was between reality and what my dad actually saw. Reno knew more about what went on behind my eyes than my dad ever had.

My mom was a different story. I looked at her, bracing herself against the refrigerator, her dress hanging forlornly off of her defeated frame, as her hopes slipped away. She unzipped the sundress right there in the kitchen—so she
could
do it herself!—and stood against the sink in her pretty, matching pink underwear, and cried. The dress was a pile of pale blue on the floor. I gathered it up. I wanted to throw it directly into the trash, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew I should go to her, comfort her, try to say something funny or kind, but I couldn’t do that either. I just looked at her and said nothing.

I should have been angry at my father. It didn’t make sense not to be. I guess I all I can say is that his behavior seemed like a given, like something he couldn’t help, as if his nature was the same as that of the migrating birds or the ocean’s stormy waves. He got a pass because I believed he couldn’t control himself. Mom, on the other hand: she had a choice. She could have chosen not to fall for a guy like that, not to fall at all. She was about a million times smarter than him, anyway. We all knew it. Well, maybe she didn’t.

The next day at school, Reno noticed I was quiet. “What’s wrong?” he wanted to know. I didn’t tell him, of course. Too embarrassing.

“Nothing. Just not feeling great. Brain cloud.” It was a joke between us. We’d seen the super weird movie
Joe Versus the Volcano
a few weeks earlier and loved how Tom Hanks was diagnosed with a brain cloud at the beginning. We also loved saying, “I have no response to that,” like Meg Ryan’s character.

Anyway, Reno being Reno, he’d wanted to make me feel better. So, he ditched during lunch (as an official Good Kid, he could totally get away with doing stuff like that), and bought a ginormous bag of Starburst from the Publix by our school. He spent part of sixth period separating out the strawberry ones and filling my locker with them. My favorite flavor.

I opened my locker as he watched from a few yards away, an expectant grin on his face. The pink candies spilled out all over, on my shoes, on the floor.

“Aw,” a random eighth grade girl said, walking by. “Someone luuuuuurrrves you.”

I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. I began scooping the candies back into my locker and looked around. I spotted Reno standing there, his expression open and happy, waiting for a grin or some sign that his grand gesture had been just the thing to break up my brain cloud.