The Art of Losing Yourself (15 page)

G
RACIE

“And there goes another fifteen minutes of my life I’ll never get back,” I said, lengthening and shortening the measuring tape in my hands.

So far, Carmen and I had watched four YouTube videos about window installation on her phone. And so far, the only step I understood was numero uno—measure the height and width of each window frame. Everything beyond that was pretty much Mandarin.

Carmen stared at her phone screen with her thumbnail wedged between her teeth. “Maybe we should hire someone to install them.”

I could have told her that three videos ago.

A gust of wind slapped at the plastic sheeting covering the space where a window used to be. The material gave me flashbacks of my time with chain-smoking Deborah.

“Do you want to tackle the pool instead?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The pool did not require a fifteen-minute tutorial on YouTube, just a strong stomach, some heavy-duty gloves, and if available, a nose plug. After months of being drained with no tarp for a cover, the kidney-shaped hole had served as a natural garbage dump, collecting an impressively diverse ecosystem of moldy debris. We climbed inside—Carmen armed with a push broom, me with a trash bag—and began ripping the ecosystem apart.

I stuffed my bag with soggy trash and bits of rotten plant matter, trying not to get too nostalgic about my summertime community service ditch-cleaning adventures, while a distracted Carmen pushed the too-small-to-pick-up debris into a pile in the middle. Gone was the overly enthusiastic woman from Saturday. Gone was the desperate woman from yesterday’s first-day-of-school drop-off. All that existed now was lifeless Carmen—a woman who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. Apparently, her attention span for the renovation project was about as long as my pinky toe.

Wind rippled my trash bag and whipped strings of hair into my face. It blew in from the ocean, tossing big, rolling waves onto the beach. A man jogged into the chaotic water with a surfboard. Farther beyond that, a small girl combed the sand. When I was a kid, Ingrid paid me a nickel for every seashell I could find. I used to wake up early in the morning and fill an entire bag full, then count them carefully while I sat at this very pool soaking my feet in the water. After I finished, she’d ask me to clean off the sand and pour them in the vases inside each of the rooms. She used to tell me she was lucky to have such a hard worker on her payroll.

I glanced at Carmen and stuffed a soggy palm branch inside my bag. “How’s your aunt?”

She swept the last of the debris into her growing pile, carefully avoiding eye contact. “Not very good.”

I helped her scoop the filth into my trash bag, trying to picture the clever, energetic woman I remembered without her wits. If it wasn’t so depressing I’d appreciate the irony. The one person who actually enjoyed my presence, or at least seemed to, had officially lost her marbles. “So she has Alzheimer’s or something?

“It’s an undiagnosed form of dementia.”

I tied up the trash bag, trapping the disgusting ecosystem inside its new home.

“You know, if you ever want to come visit her with me, you’re more than welcome. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

“I doubt she’d remember me.”

“If she’s having a good day she would.”

I pictured walking to her room. Standing there all awkwardly while she either recognized me or didn’t. Uncomfortable for me, sure. But a hundred times more uncomfortable for her. The entire scenario made me shudder on her behalf.

Carmen’s phone dinged, like our time was up. She pulled it out from her back pocket and checked the screen. A crease worked its way between her eyebrows as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Mom?”

Funny how one syllable could make my stomach clench into such a tight fist.

“Yes, Gracie’s fine. I told you she’s staying with me. Don’t you remember?” Carmen’s eyes met mine before quickly looking away. I left eight days ago. As far as I knew, this was the first time Mom had bothered to call.

Carmen climbed out of the pool, out of earshot. I hoisted myself up onto the ledge and let my feet dangle over the side while my sister paced near the weed-infested courtyard for a couple minutes. When she returned, she held out the phone. “Mom wants to talk.”

I lifted my hands and leaned away from the offering. “No way.”

Carmen hesitated, then brought the phone back to her ear. “Mom, Gracie doesn’t want to talk right now.” She nodded. Murmured an “uh-huh” and an “ah-huh,” then hung up and sat down beside me.

Another guest of wind blew at us.

“Did she have a nice bender?” My question tasted like the contents in my trash bag.

Carmen massaged the bridge of her nose, a mannerism so much like our mother I had a hard time stomaching it. “She said she woke up in an abandoned parking lot this morning, without any clue where she was or where you were. I guess she lost her job at the bank a couple days ago.”

The nasty taste got nastier. I pushed up into standing. “Do you have a power washer in the pool shed?”

“Gracie…”

“What?”

“She feels awful.”

“I’m sure some Advil and a glass of wine will solve that problem.”

“She called to say she was going to check into rehab. She wants you to call her when you’re ready.”

I crossed my arms and shook my head.

“Can’t you give her another chance?”

I looked my sister directly in the eyes. “Some people don’t deserve another chance.”

Not when they’d already used up so many.

I people-watched from the top of the staircase with my iPod turned to low. Coaches, booster moms, and football players hung out in Carmen’s clean
home. There was one in particular who kept drawing my interest—Eli Banks, the growing enigma. After I insulted him in the cafeteria, I expected animosity. Nobody I knew responded well to insult, especially bigheaded football players. And while he did make a point to challenge me in Debate and Ethics, my arguments seemed to amuse him more than trigger his hostility. Then there’d been Wednesday, when I dropped my books on my way out into the hallway. Instead of walking on my stuff, or past my stuff, he bent over and picked up my stuff.

I couldn’t figure the guy out.

I exhaled a long breath that lifted my bangs from my eyes and spotted Carmen, smiling and laughing and conversing as though she hadn’t been crying in the bathroom an hour ago or venting to a woman named Natalie on the phone about some embarrassing YouTube video five minutes before the first guest arrived. She set her hand on Ben’s forearm and laughed at something he said. Her phoniness scratched like nails on a chalkboard. Ben glanced up at my spot in the shadows, as if sensing the waves of judgment rolling off of me. He excused himself from the conversation and came to the bottom of the staircase. “You know you can come down here and join the party, right?”

“You know I’d rather eat nails, right?”

Ben laughed. “Bruno’s lasagna is hard to pass up.”

“I’m good.” At least I would be once he returned to the conversation he left behind. His presence at the bottom of the stairs was gathering unwanted attention, and I really didn’t want Eli to see me sitting up here spying. I snuck a quick look in his direction and realized it was too late. He was already making his way over.

I dropped my attention to my lap and twisted my mood ring around my finger. The stone had been the color of coal ever since I woke up. It usually changed color at least once. Apparently not today. Today it remained black—the absorption of all color. If only it would absorb me.

“Gracie?” Eli stood next to Ben, a plate of lasagna and garlic bread in hand, looking every bit as shocked as I’d felt that first day of school when he booed in my ear.

I gave him a lame, dispassionate wave.

“What are you doing here?”

“Gracie’s my sister-in-law,” Ben said. “You two have already met?”

“We have first period together.”

“Good, maybe you can convince her to come down.” Ben clapped Eli on the shoulder and returned to the adults.

Eli climbed the stairs and sat next to me, bringing with him a steam cloud of garlic and oregano. “Coach’s wife is your sister?”

I tapped my nose.

His left dimple flashed. “Is this where you live?”

“Don’t think I’ve missed the irony.”

Eli shook his head, his right dimple joining his left. I resented how cute they looked together. He motioned to the cacophony below. “This must be your worst nightmare.”

“It’s pretty close.”

He continued his head shaking and took a few bites of lasagna, then set his plate off to the side, plastic fork still in hand. I found myself distracted by his Truth tattoo. Now that I thought about it, he never told me what the word meant to him, other than the nebulous
truth is important
. “So if you are so against the sport of football, why did you come here to live?”

“Because my mom’s a drunk.” I watched for his reaction, expecting one of two things: shock or pity.

He stuck his fork in his mouth and wiped the tongs clean. The awareness this brought of his lips, full and more inviting than I cared to admit, had my attention returning to my black-as-night ring.

“So is my dad,” he said.

I jerked my head up. “Seriously?”

“It’s not something I’d joke about.”

We sat without speaking for a moment while I processed his confession. “She checked into rehab today,” I finally said.

“That’s good.”

“It’s her third time.” And somehow I didn’t think it was going to be a charm.

“Three’s better than zero.”

I quirked one of my eyebrows.

“Hey, if she’s been to rehab three times, that means she’s trying.”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I’d always seen Mom’s inability to stick to sobriety as a sign of weakness, further proof that she didn’t care
enough. And here this boy flipped her stints in rehab inside out, holding them up to the light so that I had to at least consider them another way.

“My dad’s never bothered with rehab. At least not that I know of.”

“He’s not part of your life?”

“Not since I was two.”

I almost apologized. But I kept the
I’m sorry
tucked inside my throat. I had a feeling he didn’t want my sympathy any more than I wanted his.