The Last Forever (16 page)

“That’s the real loss. Her regular self.”

He gets this. And for getting that, I give him
this
. I lean in.
His lips are so soft, and he’s not here with me at first because I’ve surprised him. But then, there. There we both are, and the kiss becomes that kind where you forget you’re even in a room in a house in a town. You’re just so present and transported that
place
has altogether disappeared, and it’s only mouths and mouths and together and together and everything else has vanished, even—
especially—
sadness.

When I pull away finally, Henry’s face is blazing.

“Oh wow,” he says.

“Finally,” I say.

He is shifting around, and things are suddenly awkward. I don’t know why, because awkward is usually the last thing I feel with him. I get off his lap. I don’t know how to read him.

“We should . . . ,” he says.

“Okay. Yeah, I’d better . . .”

Maybe it’s
me
being awkward. Maybe I am just thinking about Millicent with her perfect blond hair and icy blue eyes in comparison to my plain brown ones. Or maybe it’s him being awkward, thinking the same thing.

Henry walks me to Jenny’s van, which I’ve parked on his street. I lean against the van door, and Henry stands in front of me.

“
La Campanella
,” I say. I remember him at that piano. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it.

“Next time I’ll play you the violin,” he says.

I open my eyes wide, drop my jaw.

“Kidding. I don’t play the violin. Hurts my chin. Makes my neck do this.” He lolls his head to one shoulder.

I laugh.

“I like it when you smile,” he says. And look. The awkwardness is gone. He kisses the tip of my nose, then gives my mouth a quick sweet kiss too.

“I like it when you do anything with your face,” I say.

*  *  *

Jenny is already in bed when I get home, but she’s left the porch light on for me and a table lamp. I am shushing Vito because he’s jumping around and barking, completely ignorant of the fact that sleeping people require quiet. He’s so thrilled to see me, I might as well be roast beef on legs.

“Be quiet, you idiot,” I say, and I give him a dog treat from his jar. “Go to bed, squirrelly squirrel.”

I sneak up the stairs like I’m guilty of something. Well, I’m guilty of plenty, but not tonight. I haven’t exactly been tearing up the town on a rampage of booze and sex. Still, a sense of wrongdoing hangs around me like bad perfume. I smell it even after I’ve showered. I close my door quietly behind me.

There’s a note on my pillow.
Call your DAD!!!

Oh, Jenny, aren’t you one to talk? How many years went by that we never heard from you?

At the word “Dad,” though, I see him running around like crazy, hanging a billion Christmas lights and setting up the enormous blow-up snowman, until the big moment when he flips the switch and Mom and I cheer from the lawn. I
miss him, but it’s a complicated missing. The word “Dad” also doubles the sense of
wrong
that sits just under my skin. We are both guilty. Our mutual wrongdoing is loud between us, and sometimes it just feels better to not hear it. He probably feels the same way about me. Cat-Hair Mary shuts out that particular noise. Well, maybe Henry does too, but never mind.

I don’t call. Anyway, it’s late. Instead I go over to where the last pixiebell sits on the windowsill. I think of my mother holding one hand to her chest while she tried to breathe, saying,
Sharp
. She gathered her things—her purse, her phone charger—but she was taking her time about it. Dad was getting impatient. I think he was scared. She said she wanted to shower first, but he said,
Anna, for God’s sake!
and they argued. She was coughing hard and spitting bad stuff into a Kleenex.
Jesus, Anna! What are you thinking!
I felt the same way he did. She stopped to wipe the kitchen counter! She watered the damn plant!
Mom. Stop it. Everything’s fine. Come on!
We both snapped at her. I regret that so much.

“
Pixabellus imponerus,
don’t worry,” I say to Pix. “Help is on the way.”

If this were a movie, Pix would be sitting in a circle of moonlight, and one of its leaves would slowly drop then, turning and falling like one of the rose petals in
Beauty and the Beast
. You’d know that time was running out.

But it isn’t a movie, and so the plant just sits there in the dark. I get into bed. I am thinking about Henry. I am being my own selfish self, per usual, closing my eyes and hearing music,
remembering mouths, feeling hopeful. You’d have thought I’d have learned something by now. Obviously I haven’t, because in all my prancing in the meadow of love, I don’t even notice that the pixiebell has changed form. Cells are dividing, its stem is shriveling, and something is beginning to grow at its very top, where the last few leaves remain, as I drift off to dreams of hands on piano keys.

chapter thirteen

Bhut jolokia
: ghost pepper. Specifically, the purple ghost pepper. Seeds of the purple ghost pepper are said to be extremely rare and can be purchased only through black markets and shady online sellers. This purple pepper is reported to be the most elusive and hottest pepper on earth. Only one problem: It’s a fake. While the traditional
Bhut jolokia
indeed grows one of the hottest peppers, the seeds of the “purple ghost” that are sold are likely from a different plant altogether. No such seeds truly even exist.

He calls me while I am still asleep.

“I need to see you.”

“Henry,” I say. I look over at the glowing green numbers on the little clock by the bed. “It’s four thirty in the morning.”

“We have to talk.”

“Now?”

“Tomorrow is fine, I guess. I work at two. Do you want to come by the library?”

“You’re worrying me,” I say. “Why are you up at four thirty in the morning? You sound so awake.”

“I have something important to tell you.”

“Tell me now.” Wait a minute. I don’t know if I want to know what he has to say after all. “No. Don’t tell me. Is it terrible, Henry?”

“Not terrible. I just don’t know what to do.”

“It’s all right,” I say. It’s Millicent, I’m sure. That turned-down picture. That scene in the parking lot.

“You seemed so happy tonight. I feel bad.”

“I changed my mind again. Tell me.” Dread sneaks up wearing his dark cape, pulls me in. How could Henry love me when I’m such a regular girl? I have no amazing talent. I have no elusive, icy charisma. I have no quirky, embroidered shoes. Mom and I usually just went to Payless ShoeSource, for the Buy One–Get One sale.

“There’s no such thing as a pixiebell,” Henry says.

I’ve been clutching my pillow, ready for the blow, and I loosen my grip out of sheer surprise. “What?”

“I’ve been up all night. I’m almost sure of it. The name.
Imponerus
? It means ‘impostor.’ ”

“Wait. You know Latin?”

Silence. I can almost hear him shrug. “I think your professor was having a little fun with old Grandpa Leopold.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Uh-uh. I knew it the minute you said it, but I’ve been up since, making sure.”

“If it’s not a pixiebell, what
is
it?” I scrunch my eyes, try to see Pix in the dark.

“No idea.”

“Is it even extinct?”

“No clue.”

“I don’t know what to think about this,” I say.

“Think that we are back to square one. Even one-er than square one.”

The dark of night is lifting ever so slightly, turning from black to a light purple. Birds get up early here apparently. I hear them chattering out there. I am waking up enough to understand what this call means. “You’ve been up all night? Really? Why are you doing this for me, Henry?”

“I can’t stand a mystery.”

“That is such bullshit. You like me, Henry Lark. A
lot
.”

It’s bold, but I don’t mean to be. It’s more of a curious realization. A kiss is one thing. Four thirty in the morning is another.

“Of course I like you a lot. How can I not like you a lot? You’re so kind.”

“I’m not kind! I barely like babies. I’m too critical. I hate people who talk in bookstores. I’m selfish. I don’t like to share my French fries. I’m impatient. I make that scoffing noise in the back of my throat whenever I see those pictures girls take of themselves holding out their phones—”

“Tess! Stop. Why do you do this? You are so hard on yourself. People can see your good heart from two miles away,
whether you like it or not. I want to help because you need help. Now shut up and help me make a plan.”

“It’s late, Henry. Or early. Whichever. My brain is still sleeping. I’ll come by in the morning with all my great ideas.”

“Fine.”

“I’m not full of inspiration at”—I look at the clock again—“four fifty-seven.”

“Tomorrow,” Henry says.

“Tomorrow,” I agree.

“Jesus. You’re a good person. Stop beating yourself up.”

“Henry? Thank you. Ten thousand miles of thank-yous.”

Henry and I hang up. I can see Pix’s sad, sick outline over by the window. All this time, the last pixiebell has kept its own secrets.

I picture Grandpa Leopold opening that drawer. Downstairs, someone plays the piano. The gathered guests begin to sing.
O come all ye faithful . . .
Grandpa Leopold thinks he looks quite natty in his double-breasted wool suit and Dobbs hat, his silver cigarette lighter in his pocket. He feels so clever as he removes the tiny glass case from the drawer and slips it into his trouser pocket. He is pleased with himself, filled with the glorious buzz of wrongdoing. He rubs his hands together even.

But downstairs, the professor is pleased with himself too. He is downright smug and full of holiday cheer. When he hears the creak of the stairs and the footsteps just above his
head where his study would be, the professor smiles. He raises his glass, and he makes a toast to peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

*  *  *

I finally realize that the weeds in the jar that Jenny uses in painting class are fakes.

“They’re plastic,” I say. I am rubbing a leaf between two fingers.

“Silk,” Jenny corrects. She claps her hands together twice, getting everyone to settle in and get to work. She wants this class to be over quickly, she confessed earlier. She’s got a new painting she wants to work on.

“All this time, I thought they were real.”

Jenny tilts her head just like Dad and gives the weeds a look. “Not what you thought? Still beautiful,” she says.

“I guess.” I’m having a hard time seeing the beauty through my own disappointment.

“Sorry we’re late,” Nathan says. Margaret follows behind him, red cheeked and hurrying. “The baby escaped out the dog door and into the garden.”

“They thought it was another Lindbergh kidnapping,” Margaret says.

I am watching Elijah and Millicent, their blond heads bent together. They are the kind of people who turn your insecurity into one of those out-of-control monsters that invades a city in the movies. Right now my insecurity is raging and stomping and eating parked cars. I am sure they are talking about me.

Cora Lee from the Theosophical Society grabs my wrist. Her hand is a little claw. Her white hair is piled up on her head like a wedding cake. A tiny bride and groom at the top would finish the look.

“Here,” she says. She is pressing something into my palm. It’s the same way my great-aunt used to try to slip me ten bucks whenever she visited. All that covertness and whispering, you’d think old auntie was giving me a couple of ounces of cocaine.

But Cora Lee has not slipped me spending money. It’s a tiny vial, one of those thin glass ones like perfume samples come in, with a teeny-tiny stopper.

“What’s this?” I whisper back.

“A tincture. For the ill. Sprinkle a little on the soil.”

Word gets around fast on Parrish Island.

“Thank you,” I say. Cora Lee winks.

Behind me, Elijah and Millicent laugh. The monster chomps on a building and eats a baby stroller. I’m sure they’re laughing at me. I even start to get a little pissed. I run through my options. Spin around with a glare. Make a snotty comment about that little white skirt Millicent is wearing. It’s so tiny, you could bake a cupcake in it.

I choose a combo plate—I spin
and
I comment. “Shrunk in the wash, huh?”

It all worked out so beautifully when I imagined it, but they are not following along with the thoughts in my head. They only look at me as if I’ve begun speaking in tongues. No
one says anything. Elijah taps the hard end of his paintbrush against his teeth. He’s waiting for something.

“Um,” Millicent says. “Excuse me, Tess.”

She is looking up and around me dramatically. She is leaning far to the right, sending me a message. I’m standing in front of the fake wildflowers, and she can’t see them.

“Sorry,” I say.

I want to leave, but I’m too humiliated to go anywhere. I feel shame, but also rushing roils of hatred—partly for them, but mostly for myself. The monster turns inward. He always does. Back to the lair. I return to the chair Jenny has set up for me and paint more brown smears as Margaret hums something sweet and Elijah perfects one of the two noses in profile. I sneak glances at Millicent and count all of the ways we aren’t alike.

Four ways, five. I make the crosshatch with brown paint. Six: She does not have a good heart that you can see two miles away. But love isn’t always about good hearts or even good reasons. Sometimes it is wild and unaccountable, I know. I can feel that wildness in my own heart when I look at Henry. It is beyond reason. I don’t feel the way I do because he is good with small children, or intelligent, or talented. I feel the way I do because he stirs something in me. He could be a bank robber and I’d offer to drive the getaway car.

Margaret is motioning to me. She’s making an urgent
Come here!
face and tossing her head in a manner that resembles a slight seizure. All right, okay. Now she crooks her finger so that I lean down.