The Number 7 (16 page)

The longer I stared at her young face, the more I discovered similarities in my own features. She parted her hair in the same way I did, her brow furrowed like mine, and our cheekbones had the same distinct pronunciation. There was no mistaking that I was her granddaughter, and she stared out from the photograph with some satisfaction, as if to introduce herself to me. Her eyes were pale and wide as if to say, “You found me, at last!” It was a bittersweet discovery I couldn't share with anyone.

In Photography class, I occupied myself with the photo essay project, bringing in pictures of my mom and my grandparents. I used some class time to study Gerhard's photos: the background, the people, the clothing, the expressions, each and every small and unassuming nuance. I needed something to help me figure out the next chapter of his story.

The photo research also gave me time to revisit old pictures of my mom. I loved cataloging Mom's fashion trends: the perms and high-waisted pants of 1985, the short Princess Diana hairdo of 1987, and the navy-blue frocks she loved to wear during both her pregnancies. One picture in particular, I lovingly and intentionally selected for the essay: Mom in shiny aerobic tights, leotard, and bunched leg warmers doing a Jane Fonda leg lift on the floor, with me in front shadowing her stretch. It was one of my favorites, not only because it represented Mom as a dancer, but because of the expression on her face. She was looking forward, hand on her hip, leg in the air, and her eyes were so bright. She stared beyond the camera at Dad. I could almost hear her comment before the picture was snapped, “Isn't it amazing she's ours?”

I was sad to turn in the completed project. I didn't have my answers yet. Gabe could tell I was preoccupied. He was in competition for my attention, and he seemed hell-bent on being the victor.

“What's up with you, Louisa?” Gabe asked as we entered the lunchroom on Friday before break, but I just kept walking. “Listen,” he stopped and grabbed my hand, forcing me to look at him. “My parents are taking me skiing on Monday. It would be awesome if you could come.”

I smiled for the first time in a long while. Where had I been for the past weeks? I needed to realize Grandmother's story was a past that I couldn't change. Standing in the school hallway with winter break upon me, and Gabe's hand wrapped around mine, I snapped back into the present. It felt good to feel sixteen again.

Rosemary phoned that evening to say she'd made soup with some rhubarb she'd preserved from her own garden last summer. She asked if we wanted to come down and try it. I told her I'd never had rhubarb soup, but that I'd extend the invitation to Dad.

He'd been spending his free evenings repairing the siding on the house, but his working hours were dwindling as winter's darkness crept earlier each day. He had already nailed some of the loose boards, and he decided come spring he'd start repainting the wood. The house would remain its original orange color, but he'd change the door to moss green. Just like in North Carolina.

“Rhubarb soup, best served warm and mashed with cream,” Dad shouted to me as he climbed down the ladder. “How does she know about rhubarb soup? Rosemary—” he smiled, reaching the bottom of the ladder. “She's really something.”

“Maybe it's her psychic powers,” Greta mocked from the doorway.

Dad ignored her. Would they ever speak to each other like normal people again?

Greta and I both declined the soup. Instead, she offered to take me shopping for ski pants. She'd been skiing before, but I never had. I didn't even know skiing had its own pants, so I was shocked at the variety of ski apparel and accessories. And I was especially stunned at the cost of it all. Greta loaned me $99.00 for the pants—put it on her new debit card—a charitable gesture I was surprised to receive. She was usually pretty selfish when it came to her money. Dad had opened bank accounts for both Greta and me when Mom died. Most of the money we couldn't touch until we graduated high school, but Dad did give us a meager monthly allowance and urged us to try to limit our expenses.

“Thanks for the loan, Greta. I'll get you the money as soon as I can get to the bank,” I said. I held the door open for her as we left the store. “Can I buy you a cup of tea as thanks for now?”

As soon as we walked into the dimly lit coffee shop, I spotted Chris behind the front counter. Two young girls giggled as they accepted ceramic mugs from my friend. Somewhere inside me, a thin harp string of jealousy hummed as Chris smiled flirtatiously back at the girls.

We approached the counter and Chris grinned knowingly at me, “Hiya, Lou.”

Greta looked at me for an introduction. I was hesitant to give one: not because I thought Chris was her type, with his clumps of waxy curls, his tie-dyed wardrobe, and his unshaven whiskers. Greta liked her boys older, in polo shirts and khakis, with gleaming white smiles. I was hesitant to introduce them because I was afraid Greta would outshine me. She had it all. Tall, blond, beautiful. What was to prevent Chris from falling head over heels for my doe-eyed, buxom sister, leaving me by the wayside?

“Chris, this is my sister, Greta. Greta, this is my friend, Chris. We're in History together,” I said cautiously, bracing myself for Chris's ogling.

But it didn't come. In fact, he didn't take his eyes off me. Since our last encounter, I'd begun to notice that when Chris looked at me, he often seemed to be looking into some more intimate part of me, like he could tell my secrets or see my thoughts. With Chris, I always felt vulnerable, and there was something intoxicating about the vulnerability.

“How about two cappuccinos? On the house?”

“Actually, do you have any Earl Grey? Cream and sugar?” Greta interjected.

Chris looked to me for my order.

“Make that two,” I smiled.

“I'll bring 'em round back when they're ready.” His voice remained its usual, flat range.

I led Greta to an empty table.

“This place is neat,” she complimented, looking around the room. She put her coat on the back of her chair and offered to do the same with my shopping bag filled with ski apparel. “And what was up with that guy? He was really staring at you.”

Greta eyed me suspiciously like there was something more I wasn't telling her. I shrugged innocently and handed her my bag.

“Just a guy from class.”

The two of us sat quietly for a while. It was weird. I realized she and I hadn't really been truly alone since the move. Despite the fact that we drove to school together every day and lived under the same roof, we didn't talk about substantive, life stuff. Once again, I was faced with the quiet truth of just how far we'd grown apart. After all, Greta had her secrets and I had mine. Could I trust her with mine? Would she even care?

“You know,” she paused, softly pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. “You never asked where I went.” For a moment she looked embarrassed with the admission.

“Yeah, but—I mean, what did you—”

“Or why. You didn't ask
why
I left. You and Dad have both been in your own little worlds since coming up here. This family is so good at running away from our problems. Why is that? Sometimes it feels like I'm not even here in front of you.” The words came gushing out, like they'd been dammed up too long. Greta was showing the cracks in her shell.

“Greta,
you
left. And then you just come back and act like nothing happened! Who's the one in denial?” I felt my face growing hot. Were we really going to do this here?

She held up her right wrist and pulled back her sleeve. I saw exactly what I suspected, what I feared: thin, purple lines. Scars. Four of them lined up against her skin. I felt sick, and I looked away.

“Why haven't you asked? Why hasn't Dad? I know you've seen them. You've been suspicious ever since Thanksgiving,” she paused. “You want to know where I went? I went to see Mom. I took the Greyhound back to North Carolina to be with her again. I mean, we just
left
her there.”

For whatever reason, I wasn't surprised. It was like I knew all along. I knew, and all I felt was a deep, penetrating sadness that she hadn't asked if I would go with her. I would have.

She took a deep breath before continuing. “Dad didn't give us a chance to prepare our goodbyes.
He
made the decision to move up here.
He
made the decision to leave her behind, but you know what?
I
wasn't ready. So I went back to say goodbye for real.

“It just seems like you and Dad both keep trying to move forward without her. You both keep trying to assure each other we're not all screwed up, but we are, Louisa. We're screwed up. We haven't moved on. We can't. We're stuck in this pattern of pretending everything's perfect. I know you and Dad think I'm just a spoiled brat.
What does Greta have to be sad about?
But it's not as easy for me as you think . . . ”

“It's not easy for me, either!” I blurted out. “You act like I've just forgotten her. How dare you pretend to know what I'm feeling? You literally have no clue.” The words came spilling out, falling like guts in a botched operation. Other café patrons glanced toward our table, so I lowered my voice but stayed firm. “I haven't moved on, Greta. And I haven't forgotten her. I'm still trying to figure it all out just like you. Just like Dad.”

Greta looked away when Chris brought us our tea. Before I could stop him, he pulled up a chair to join us. Greta stood up and started buttoning her coat.

“I'm suddenly not in the mood,” she said, wrapping her scarf around her neck. Her voice was cold, and Chris gave me a sheepish look realizing he'd interrupted something.

“I can drive Louisa home,” he offered.

“That'd be great.” She grabbed her keys off the table and didn't bother to say goodbye. Her mug sat untouched.

The darkness outside seemed overwhelming. Brandywine Valley was quiet tonight. Chris was bundled in a bruised leather bomber jacket, his hair pulled back. I wondered if it took effort to find clothes that looked so
used
.

“You—” Chris paused as he blew into his clamped hands, shifted his weight, and looked intently at me. “You want to get outta here?”

“Yes,” I said breathlessly.

We walked to his car in uncomfortable silence. I was clearly distracted, and he looked like he was brainstorming ways to apologize for earlier. But the thing was, I was glad he'd interrupted the conversation. I wasn't ready to confront Greta. I didn't want to have that conversation.

“Your sister's hot,” Chris said as he turned the ignition and the Volvo growled awake.

I punched him on the arm. He laughed and held his bicep in mock-injury.

“Shut up,” I sighed, playing mindlessly with the automatic window toggle.

“There's a place I want to take you,” Chris said seriously.

“Yeah, I've heard that one before. From you, actually.”

He smiled in response, looking at the road. I studied his silhouette. His brown skin looked even darker in the dimly lit car. There was something so exotic about him. The skin? The hair? The tattoo I'd recently spotted on the inside of his forearm? He ejected a cassette tape from the old car stereo, flipped it over, and inserted it again. Then he adjusted the volume to a loud Roger Daltrey belting out “Teenage Wasteland.” He began strumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and I unleashed on an invisible drum kit. For a moment I just let it all out. With Chris, I felt I could be reckless. I never knew how far he'd push me, or how far I'd allow myself to go.

As the music slowed, I decided to question him.

“So what's your deal?” I folded my arms. He furrowed his eyebrows in response. I rephrased my question. “What's with the ponytail and the tie-dye? The flip-flops in winter? You
enjoy
being different,” I brazenly declared. It was so easy being daring around Chris. I didn't feel like I needed to impress him. He didn't make me feel nervous, not in the same way I felt around Gabe.

“What do you want to know?” Chris shrugged.

“The tattoo? What does it mean?”

“Which tattoo?”

I reached over and grabbed his wrist, turning his arm upward and exposing the small, black character. I didn't dare ask about possible others.

“It says ‘turtle.'”

“Why do you have ‘turtle' tattooed on your wrist?”

“What about you, Louisa? What's your deal?” he deflected.

“What do you want to know?” I swept my bangs out of my eyes.

Chris looked over at me, inhaling in contemplation. “Tell me something no one else knows about you.”

His eyes went back to the road. I scrunched my mouth to the side. Not a question I willingly wanted to answer. We sat for a minute without saying anything, the music soft and distant, before pulling into the dark parking lot of an industrial block of warehouse buildings. Chris parked the car, and I reached for the door handle. Chris grabbed my arm, holding me back.

“Come on. There must be something.”

“I can kind of hear dead people. Well, not people. Just one person. One dead person.”

I don't know why I said it. Why the honesty? Maybe I knew Chris wouldn't call me crazy. Maybe I knew he'd believe me. Maybe it was Rosemary's initial assessment: Chris can get people to do things for him—admit things to him. Or, maybe I just needed to tell someone.

He didn't look at me like I was crazy. He didn't scoff, or taunt, or even ask whose voice I was hearing. He just smiled, patted my knee, and looked up at the lit building in front of us.

“Come on.”

He opened the door and got out of the car. I followed, dumbstruck and slightly smitten. Chris led me to a heavy-looking, rust-colored metal door on a loading dock. There was a small handwritten “Open” sign stuck next to the doorknob with electrical tape. I had no idea how we got here. I didn't know if we'd been in the car for ten minutes or thirty. I didn't know if we were still in town or somewhere else. Part of me knew I should be nervous—standing in front of this most unwelcoming door in the bitter cold—but part of me felt excited. A new journey with a new friend. A confidant I trusted. Someone who knew my secret, or at least someone whom I'd entrusted with it, whether he believed me or not.