Walking Backward (11 page)
I don’t understand why she doesn’t like me anymore. Maybe I was mean to her when Mom first died. I yelled at almost everyone back then. Maybe it creeps her out to remember me freaking at the funeral. Or maybe it’s just that I’m grungy and I need a haircut. She must like another guy, maybe Simpson or someone she met at camp. She was away for six weeks, and that’s plenty of time to meet someone else. I wish she’d have the guts to tell me about him. Stringing me along like this is mean.
When she told me she liked me at graduation, she didn’t just say she liked me. She said she’s always liked me, ever since we were little kids. When you like someone for years and you finally kiss them, you shouldn’t ditch them for some guy at camp. I’ve liked Karen for years, and I could meet a hundred girls at camp and I’d still like her. Maybe she was lying when she said she always liked me. Maybe she was just being nice and now she regrets it. I really don’t know.
One thing I know is that you can’t travel back in time. That was the next rotten thing in my day. I went to the Museum of Nature and saw the Albert Einstein exhibit. I’ve never been to a museum without Mom before. The security guard stalked me the whole time I was there. I could understand it if Sammy were with me, trying to touch the artifacts. But I biked over on my own. It was the weirdest coincidence, because Cheetah was there with Jim. I saw them in the dinosaur section. Cheetah ran over and gave me a hug and kissed my cheek. The security guard stopped stalking me after that. I guess he thought they were my parents, even though Cheetah would have been about thirteen when I was born.
They went through the Einstein exhibit with me. I learned two things. First, Albert Einstein was Jewish, so he would have mourned his dead mom for a year. Second, his theory of general relativity doesn’t allow for backward time travel—except maybe in unusual situations like the presence of negative energy, which is antimatter, and which there’s definitely none of in my basement.
A display called
Can We Ever Go Back?
listed the time-travel theories of different physicists. They pretty much all said no. The bottom of the display panel read:
It is currently unknown if the laws of physics would allow for travel back in time.
Dad’s time machine is doomed.
It’s theoretically possible to go forward in time, but backward is unscientific. Backward is a leap of faith, and I have no faith—not Jewish or Muslim or Christian or Hindu, not time-travel faith like Dad, and not Power Ranger faith like Sammy. I wish I had some kind of faith, but I don’t. Not even forward-time-travel faith like Albert Einstein. It’s impossible to go back or forth in real life. Albert Einstein was Jewish and he was from Germany, so his relatives were probably all killed by the Nazis. I bet he wished he could zoom them forward to a time when the Nazis were defeated. But he couldn’t. We’re all stuck right here and now, and there’s no getting around it.
Except if you wake up one day and your wife dies, and then you bury her and go down into your basement to build a time machine, and you stay down there, ignoring your kids for years. One day, when you came up from the basement, your kids would be grown and gone, and it would be like you traveled forward in time. And it would be wrong.
Part of me deep down was hoping we could go back in time. When I read that it’s impossible, there was a thud in my chest, like something dropping down a well. Jim put my bike in Cheetah’s trunk and they drove me home. They tried to cheer me up, but I was so sad I didn’t say anything except good-bye.
When I got home, Aunt Laura was mad because she thinks I’m too young to go into the city alone. She was sick of babysitting Sammy. She spoke in very short sentences with her voice snapping like a wet towel. It’s true that Sam can be tiring these days. I said, “Thanks for babysitting. You can go home now. I’ll get supper.” She said, “No. I’m waiting for your father.” She was obviously waiting to start a fight with him.
I tried to think of something happy to take my mind off Karen and Einstein. I told Aunt Laura how Madame Denis suggested Sam and I should choose something of Mom’s to remember her by. Aunt Laura said, “Oh, all right.” She sighed like it was a huge effort for her to walk up the stairs, even though we didn’t want her to come up with us.
It started off okay. I found a plain gold chain with a glass pendant in the shape of a tree. Mom bought it in the market from a local artist. It’s not girly—it’s a tree, so it could be for anyone. Since we have Mom’s Tree to plant, it’s a perfect memory to wear. So that was my choice.
The problem began when Sam chose Mom’s bathrobe as his memory. Aunt Laura started huffing like the Big Bad Wolf. She said no, the bathrobe was too big, and Sammy should pick something else. Those weren’t her exact words. Her exact words were, “Don’t be an idiot. It’s huge.” I got mad, because it wasn’t her idea to wear something of Mom’s, so she shouldn’t be the judge. Plus we’ve always had a rule of “no name-calling” in our house. You have to say, “I think that’s an idiotic idea,” instead of, “You’re an idiot.” The bathrobe wasn’t a good choice—it’s even bigger than the Power Ranger—but that’s no reason to be mean.
Sammy explained that on Sunday mornings when he got up to watch tv, he would sit on Mom’s lap, and if it was cold she’d wrap her robe around both of them and tie the belt over Sam’s belly. That’s a nice memory to put in the scrapbook, but he had to make another choice. A kid who wears his dead mother’s robe is labeled for life. Plus he’d trip over it and fall down and smash his face in.
I told Sam to choose from the jewelry box instead. Aunt Laura picked up a pearl ring and said, “Wow, this is pretty. Can I have it?” I should have been nicer, but it’s not her stuff and she can’t just take it, so I said no. She totally spazzed out. She started yelling that it’s been two months since Mom died and we should get rid of her stuff. She took Mom’s clothes out of the closet and threw them on the bed. Sammy and the Power Ranger started screaming. I stood in front of Mom’s clothes like I was protecting them, and I told Aunt Laura to leave us alone. She yelled, “You’re already alone so much you’ve gone crazy!” That may be true, but it’s not like she was helping the situation.
That’s when Dad walked in. He had just gotten home from work. He grabbed Aunt Laura by the arms and shouted, “Don’t touch her things!” Then he said more quietly, “Thank you for watching Sam, but now you should leave.” She said, “You can’t keep her things forever!” I said, “Our forty-nine days are not over.” She looked at the three of us like we’re insane, and then she left.
We went outside to plant Mom’s Tree. It took Dad an hour to dig a big enough hole. Sammy kept saying, “That’s good, Daddy,” and dragging the tree over and breaking off the green bits. Dad yelled at us to go to the park while he dug the hole. He yells way more than he used to. I’m starting to suspect he’s not a cyborg after all.
Things got even worse at the park.
Sammy was rocking on the metal pig. Darren, the four-year-old bully, was playing in the sand with some cars. Darren’s mom was sitting on the bench talking on her cell phone. I started running up the slide to work off my stress. Suddenly I heard a high-pitched shriek, and I saw Darren run across the grass with Sammy tearing after him. I could not believe how fast Sam ran. It was like he was propelled by a rocket. It reminded me of a nature show where the cheetah springs up out of nowhere and races through the savannah and tackles the baby antelope.
Man, did Sammy tackle Darren when he caught up to him! He plowed him into the grass and pummeled him. He slammed his fists into the kid’s face and screamed in his crazy high-pitched shriek. I ran up to them and pulled Sammy off. It was like holding back a wild dog. By the way he’d been punched, I thought for sure Darren’s face would be bloody and unrecognizable, with broken teeth and black eyes and his lip hanging off and everything. But no. The kid looked totally normal except for a grass stain on his cheek.
Sam started kicking Darren and yelling, “Give it back!” I saw that Darren had Sam’s Power Ranger. He got up and ran away with it.
This time I chased him down. I pinned his arm to his side and pried the Ranger loose while he slapped at me with his free hand. I wanted to punch him, but he’s only four and that would be wrong. I just took the toy back. When I held it out to Sammy, Darren tried to snatch it again. So I held it up high. The kid jumped for it like a dog, which freaked me out a bit. Sammy slammed him to the ground and started hitting him again. He pushed him down so hard you’d think it would have broken the kid’s back. But no. Darren was fine. He was almost smiling.
I had to drag Sammy home by the wrist, because he kept trying to run back and beat the crap out of Darren some more. Darren stood in the park watching us go. All this time his mom was talking on her phone, just gabbing away. It was the weirdest thing.
When we got home, Dad was finished digging the hole, but he had to drive back to the garden center for soil. Sammy and I held the tree straight while Dad poured in the dirt and tamped it down until finally the tree stood up instead of tipping over. It was sunset by the time we went inside, so we ordered pizza. While we waited for it to be delivered, we went through Mom’s jewelry for memories.
Dad said his wedding ring is his memory. I realized that Mom’s watch could be my memory, since I wear it all the time. But I chose the tree pendant anyway. The watch is more of a practical thing. Sammy picked a macaroni necklace he made for Mom in preschool. Half the macaronis are chipped, and red paint comes off in your hand if you hold it too long. Whatever. It’s his choice. Then Dad called Aunt Laura and left a message saying he was sorry for yelling at her.
Dad seems different now, and I mean better. It’s like he’s on our side—mine and Sammy’s—instead of alone. Even though it was a rotten day from morning till night, I don’t feel so bad. Maybe we’re not totally hopeless.
I
t’s Labor Day weekend and we’re camping. When we used to camp with Mom, we’d hike and do scavenger hunts and collect shells and tell ghost stories. Now, without Mom, we’re sitting at the campsite, writing in our psychiatrist journals. We’re not even sitting around a campfire, because we have no campfire. Mom was the one good at fires. The wood they sell here is all giant logs with no kindling and we have no ax. Mom would have found a way to make a fire with just a match and a tree, but none of us can. We have seven logs lying in the firepit. I guess we’ll just go in the tent when it gets dark, like we did last night.
We arrived at three minutes to sundown yesterday because Dad forgot that Mom isn’t around to pack for us. He thought we could just grab some ice bags and be on our way. But there’s no point in ice without food and a cooler. We shopped for burgers and corn on the cob. Then we packed our clothes and found the tent—which was in the very back of the shed and smells like the cats have peed on it. By the time we got here it was almost dark.
It’s a good thing Mom booked the site last year, because there was a long lineup of campers waiting for cancellations. There were cars packed to the roof with sleeping bags and beach umbrellas, with grumpy tired people leaning against them scowling. They’d gone to all the trouble of packing when they didn’t even have a campsite. They gave us dirty looks as we drove in. If we’d been one hour later, the park authorities would have given away our site.
I helped Dad set up the tent, but that was a Mom thing too. Dad was swearing by the time we put on the fly. Dad never used to swear. Mom sometimes swore when she drove, even if there were no snakes in the car. That was a joke, but probably not a very funny one.
Last night we went to sleep as soon as the tent was up because we’d forgotten the flashlights, so we couldn’t read or play cards. This morning we bought lights for each of us, and charcoal for the barbecue, so today we’re doing really well.
Dad made burgers for supper tonight, and they were delicious. They were the most expensive kind of burger in the grocery store, called Thick and Juicy Sirloin Patties. Mom used to buy Extra Lean Beef Burgers, which are okay but nowhere near as good as the ones Dad bought. Once Mom bought Cheesy Tuna Fish Burgers. How gross is that?
We had a perfect day on the beach today, swimming and building sandcastles and burying Dad in the sand. Sammy brought his boats and his kites, and all his sand toys. The kid is totally organized for someone insane. Dad and I are like dogs. We hear, “Let’s go camping!” and we run to the car. Sammy’s like Mom. He packs intelligent things that are actually useful on a beach.
We took his boats into the water and sailed them back to shore about five hundred times. Sammy wore his life jacket in the lake, and he didn’t seem too scared. He’s not a bad swimmer, but he’s afraid to get his face wet, so he’d panic and drown if he didn’t have a jacket on. He looks like one of those old ladies you see in swimming pools craning their necks out of the water because they don’t want to get their hair wet. They all have the same hairdo, those old ladies— it’s always short gray hair in curls. You never see old ladies with straight hair. Never.
The boats sailed away from us once, and we followed them down the beach and saw Karen’s mom. She was sitting on a lawn chair reading a magazine. When she saw me she stuck her cigarette in the sand to put it out. There were cigarette butts all around her chair, like a hundred of them poking through the sand. It was totally gross.
I asked her if Karen was here. She said she didn’t know where Karen was. I said, “Do you mean you don’t know where Karen is on the beach or you don’t know where Karen is in the world?” She said, “Where on the beach?” like it was a question. Far off in the water, a girl with brown braids played with a beach ball. It might have been Karen, but she never waved back, so who knows?
I’m going to walk around the campsites tonight to see if I can find her. It’s not like I’m stalking her. I just want to know if she’s here and if she knows who her homeroom teacher is. School starts on Tuesday.
Simpson’s cross-boundary transfer came through, so he’ll be at my school this year, even though his mom’s house is in a different school district. I went to their new house yesterday before soccer. It’s really nice. It’s in a new development with no trees and small yards, where you get lost going for a walk because everything looks the same, like a robot made it, and you can’t find any landmarks. But once you’re locked up tight in the house, it’s great. The basement is a giant playroom, with a wide-screen tv and an Xbox. It’s too bad it’s so far from our house.