Chapter three, continued
The song ends, and Ben Folds Five comes on. Twin Falls. It’s a Mixed CD. I wonder who made it for Kallie. Maybe Nick? Ben? Holland? As far as I know, they were her only friends that last year of high school. After dad died, everyone was silent. One big dumb block. What could they say? Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing. But Holland was different.
Holland.
I didn’t know her well. Not well enough. She jumped, maybe took my sister with her, down over the edge of this cliff in her yard, her white linen nightgown blowing up to her waist. No underwear, I guess, when you’re on your way up and out over the chain link safety fence, all those buoys in the distance glowing orange.
I lie down on the carpet, looking up at the ceiling. Holland’s suicide is the kind of thing that makes you wonder if you would have been her if you had stayed.
Five years. Ten years. Twenty Five now. But running didn’t change anything, did it?
At least Holland could sing.
Maybe she belted out hymns as the plummeted towards the lake.
I turn my head and close my eyes, faking indifference. When I open them, I notice something metallic lying next the garbage can. A little silver necklace with half a tin heart at the end, the kind you get out of quarter vending machines. I pick it up. I don’t remember seeing Kallie wear it. I wonder where it came from.
I’m looking at the chain when my mom calls up the stairs.
“Grace, get down here.”
I feel like I’m in middle school again.
“What is it?” I yell back.
“Just get down here.” She says.
“Fine.” I say, mostly to myself, and put the necklace in my pocket. I leave the cd player on.
When I get down stairs, mom is waiting for me in the foyer. Her dark sunglasses hide her face, but I can tell she’s pissed. She’s flexing the wrinkle between her eyes that became permanent the year I turned eighteen.
Nora is standing next to her and she seems restless. She keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other, flexing the toes of her white keds. They’re identical to my mother’s, although her red sundress doesn’t fit with mom’s classic tennis shirt and popped color.
Frat boy chic, I think. Apparently, it’s in this year.
Mom is holding a cloth bag, her keys and a magazine.
“Grace, I need you to take your sister to the park.”
“Why?” I say. I’m skeptical. She hasn’t been particularly supportive of my leaving the house for any reason other than AA and appointments with my shrink.
“Steve and I need to P-L-A-N for the P-A-R-T-Y.” She says.
I hate when parents spell.
“Well, I feel like S-H-I-T.” I say.
“Grace,” She says, “I don’t ask you for many favors. Please.”
“Fine.” I say.
“Here.” She says, and hands me the magazine.
It’s a New Yorker.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A bribe.” She says.
I haven’t seen a New Yorker in months.
“Fine.” I say.
“Take her to Lakewood.” She says, handing me the bag. There’s a big yellow “Silhouette Dance Studio” logo on the side. “Madison isn’t what it used to be.”
“Ok.” I say. Lakewood is closer, anyway.
“And take the Audi.” She gives me the key from her key ring.
“Are you sure?” I am imagining all that I can do with the Audi. She probably is too.
“You don’t have a car seat.” She says.
“Oh.” I say.
“And before I forget,” she says, “I set up lunch between you and David Kirkland tomorrow.”
“David Kirkland?” I have no idea who that is.
“He’s a lawyer with your father’s old firm.” She says, “He’ll be a good contact. You are unemployed, after all.”
“I’m not a lawyer.” I say.
“I know.” She says.
The room is silent.
Nora hasn’t said anything, but she is clearly getting frustrated with the conversation. She wants to go, and, strangely, so do I.
I start walking toward the garage. She follows me.
“Be home by dinner.” Our mother says.
Holland.
I didn’t know her well. Not well enough. She jumped, maybe took my sister with her, down over the edge of this cliff in her yard, her white linen nightgown blowing up to her waist. No underwear, I guess, when you’re on your way up and out over the chain link safety fence, all those buoys in the distance glowing orange.
I lie down on the carpet, looking up at the ceiling. Holland’s suicide is the kind of thing that makes you wonder if you would have been her if you had stayed.
Five years. Ten years. Twenty Five now. But running didn’t change anything, did it?
At least Holland could sing.
Maybe she belted out hymns as the plummeted towards the lake.
I turn my head and close my eyes, faking indifference. When I open them, I notice something metallic lying next the garbage can. A little silver necklace with half a tin heart at the end, the kind you get out of quarter vending machines. I pick it up. I don’t remember seeing Kallie wear it. I wonder where it came from.
I’m looking at the chain when my mom calls up the stairs.
“Grace, get down here.”
I feel like I’m in middle school again.
“What is it?” I yell back.
“Just get down here.” She says.
“Fine.” I say, mostly to myself, and put the necklace in my pocket. I leave the cd player on.
When I get down stairs, mom is waiting for me in the foyer. Her dark sunglasses hide her face, but I can tell she’s pissed. She’s flexing the wrinkle between her eyes that became permanent the year I turned eighteen.
Nora is standing next to her and she seems restless. She keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other, flexing the toes of her white keds. They’re identical to my mother’s, although her red sundress doesn’t fit with mom’s classic tennis shirt and popped color.
Frat boy chic, I think. Apparently, it’s in this year.
Mom is holding a cloth bag, her keys and a magazine.
“Grace, I need you to take your sister to the park.”
“Why?” I say. I’m skeptical. She hasn’t been particularly supportive of my leaving the house for any reason other than AA and appointments with my shrink.
“Steve and I need to P-L-A-N for the P-A-R-T-Y.” She says.
I hate when parents spell.
“Well, I feel like S-H-I-T.” I say.
“Grace,” She says, “I don’t ask you for many favors. Please.”
“Fine.” I say.
“Here.” She says, and hands me the magazine.
It’s a New Yorker.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A bribe.” She says.
I haven’t seen a New Yorker in months.
“Fine.” I say.
“Take her to Lakewood.” She says, handing me the bag. There’s a big yellow “Silhouette Dance Studio” logo on the side. “Madison isn’t what it used to be.”
“Ok.” I say. Lakewood is closer, anyway.
“And take the Audi.” She gives me the key from her key ring.
“Are you sure?” I am imagining all that I can do with the Audi. She probably is too.
“You don’t have a car seat.” She says.
“Oh.” I say.
“And before I forget,” she says, “I set up lunch between you and David Kirkland tomorrow.”
“David Kirkland?” I have no idea who that is.
“He’s a lawyer with your father’s old firm.” She says, “He’ll be a good contact. You are unemployed, after all.”
“I’m not a lawyer.” I say.
“I know.” She says.
The room is silent.
Nora hasn’t said anything, but she is clearly getting frustrated with the conversation. She wants to go, and, strangely, so do I.
I start walking toward the garage. She follows me.
“Be home by dinner.” Our mother says.