The Winters in Bloom (21 page)

“Are you serious?”

“Surely you’ve told your
real
mother.”

It had been over a decade since Courtney had told Liz, during an argument, that Sandra treated her more like a mother than Liz ever had. The truth of the point had been made a hundred times over since then—most obviously because Courtney had said some stupid things to Sandra, too, but Sandra had never thrown them in her face like Liz was doing right now. Still, Courtney couldn’t help feeling bad for hurting her mother’s feelings. She tried to avoid even mentioning Sandra’s name to Liz, and she was glad she could truthfully say that her former mother-in-law knew nothing about Amy. Actually, she hadn’t told Sandra about any of it: not the cancer scare nor losing her job nor even the truth about why she broke up with Stefan last year. She still loved her ex-husband’s mother, but she refused to be a burden on her again.

“I don’t like it,” Liz said slowly. “This person could be a serial killer for all you know.” She was clicking her perfect nails on the arm of the chair. “People assume false identities constantly on the Internet. You’re being naive.”

“She’s not a killer.” Courtney exhaled. “I think she’s very isolated. She lives in a little town in Missouri.” Courtney thought about the way Amy talked about Philadelphia as if it were a glamorous big city
and
a place where everyone might know each other. It was oddly appealing, and made her seem younger than forty, the age on her Facebook profile. Another thing they had in common, as Courtney considered herself younger than thirty-eight, partly because most of her boyfriends had been at least five years younger than she was, but mainly because her life had stalled in her twenties rather than moving forward to maturity. She owned her house. That was her only card in the game of becoming an adult.

Liz frowned. “How much money have you given this person so far?”

“None, Mother. Everything isn’t about money.” Courtney laughed. “And I don’t really have any money to give her, remember? I don’t have a job.”

“You know it would be easy for any criminal to find out about your father.” She adjusted the strap on her halter top, though it didn’t need adjusting. “How do you know this person isn’t going to try to get to him through you?”

“I just know, okay? Trust me, she’s a depressed woman, not some kind of blackmail mastermind.”

“She’s depressed? Does she need help?”

“I think so. I’m trying—”

“I’m talking about a professional.” She paused and traced her right eyebrow. “That program you mentioned, Face Space, is for young people, isn’t it?”

“Facebook. And no, it’s obviously not only for young people. I’m on it.”

“I read an article about this. It said that most people who try to make friends online are either too young to know better or very troubled. If this Amy person is in—”

“Thanks a lot.” Courtney forced a laugh. “Since I’m not young, that makes me, what?”

“Laugh all you want. Surely you know that if this Amy is truly depressed, you may be in over your head with her.”

“I’m exchanging emails with the woman, not moving in with her.” She sighed. “Let it go, okay?”

“Fine. I just don’t want you to feel responsible for the well-being of a stranger. It’s hard enough when someone in your own family needs help, much less—”

“Really, could we drop this?”

“Think about what poor Ruth is going through with Mandy.”

Courtney was in no mood to hear the story of her mother’s new friend Ruth and her screwed-up daughter again. She rolled her eyes, and her mother’s voice became louder, clearly irritated. “I know you’ve never been a mother, but would it kill you to sympathize with this woman?”

“That’s enough,” Courtney said, and stood up too quickly. She felt light-headed as she walked to the front door.

“I just meant that you’ve never been the mother of a teenager.” Her mother’s voice sounded whiny. “I can say that, can’t I?”

“I’m feeling very tired,” Courtney said. “I’m sorry.” She opened the screen door and walked out on the front porch. It was almost dark, just a whisper of pink and orange was visible behind the trees. She looked up and down her block, but everything seemed slightly off, like she no longer belonged here, though she’d lived in the same house for years. This time of day always had that effect, and her mother’s presence certainly didn’t help.

Liz joined Courtney on the porch. “Fine, I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You might want to think about whether you’re being too sensitive. You let yourself get upset about the most trivial things, darling. I wish you would get in touch with your inner warrior.”

“I’ll think about it,” Courtney said, and then she said good-bye and went back inside, shut the door behind her, and bolted the lock.

NINETEEN

May 9

Dear Mother,

Nicole is getting married. That’s the big news from Summerland, Missouri, USA, Universe, Mind of God. You wouldn’t believe how happy my stepmother is about this. As my dad told her, she seems happier than Nicole does, but he took it back when she frowned and said he didn’t understand because he wasn’t a mother. I’m not in the wedding, because Nicole already has Natalie and four good friends to be bridesmaids and because, honestly, no one knows if I’d be able to do it. I’m glad I don’t have to try. Standing up for that long in the hot church sounds exhausting. I don’t have to go to my graduation, either, which I’m very glad about. Principal Yager didn’t seem to care when I handed back my invitation, but he and I haven’t gotten along so well since that whole scratch-the-homophobe-and-get-suspended thing.

The second news here is about you. About a month ago, I started searching for you on the web. I’m not going to talk about what I’ve found yet—I don’t want to jinx it—but I really think I’m getting somewhere. At least I can open my laptop and find something other than invitations to join groups on Facebook like “High School Students for Tax Reform” and “Christians Who Date But Wait.”

Which reminds me, I have to tell you that I’m not a virgin anymore. Last December, I slept with some junior I barely knew in the parking lot of Burger King. It was after I hurt myself, when I was in what my shrink calls my “breakdown phase.” I hope you’re not a super Christian like my stepmother, because she would be very disappointed if she knew—disappointed for my future husband, that is, assuming I have one. Good men like to marry virgins, she always says, ignoring the fact that when my dad married her, she had two kids. I would be shocked if either of her daughters is a virgin, but hey, they’d probably be shocked to know I’m not. I’ve still never had a boyfriend, but I don’t think anybody expects me to now that I don’t even have any friends.

I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m having a good old pity party here, because I’m really not. Today was a beautiful day in Summerland. I snuck out to the field by the woods after church and discovered the purple prairie clover was blooming and the two dogwood trees were bursting with white flowers. When I came home, I sat in the kitchen and ate a few bites of the most delicious banana frozen custard while I worked on a crossword puzzle. My dad and stepmother were over at Nicole and Natalie’s apartment, having dinner and talking about the upcoming wedding. They didn’t say one word about me refusing to go. It was an excellent day.

So, why ruin it by telling you the rest of the story of my seventeenth birthday? Because I figured something out this week that’s important. Now that I actually have some hope for the future because of my search for you, I really don’t want to die. I say that because I’m starting to worry I might die, like the doctor said. Not my psych doc, who continues to believe in me, though it’s been months, but the other doc who stitched up my little finger after I cut it on the top of a tuna can. “It would have stopped bleeding on its own if you weren’t sick,” he said. Then the death threat, and a mean look, and a question: “Do you realize what you’re doing, young lady?”

Well, no, of course I don’t. I mean, I’m only seventeen and I’m pretty messed up. Why’d you become a doctor if you hate sick people? Are you trying to be the world’s most craptacular asshole?

Sorry about the cursing. I hardly ever curse, but I just can’t imagine saying something like that to a sick teenager. And like I said, I no longer have the stories so I can’t say the poor doc just found out that his wife is sleeping with her trainer, or his mother has cancer, or his son has autism. I don’t know the man at all. I no longer pretend to know anything other than what happened. The impulse to know why is gone, leaving a gaping hole in my understanding of life.

And it all happened on September 14. So finally, I’m just going to blurt it out and be done with it. Sorry it’s taken so long. That is, I will be sorry, if you end up reading this, which I really hope you do.

I went to Ian’s party. When I walked in, the music was cranked up so loud it felt like Lil Wayne’s voice was vibrating in my head. There were dozens of people there, which surprised me, but I’d never been to one of these popular kid parties before. Many of the guys were in the kitchen. I was so nervous when I caught a glimpse of Ian standing by the refrigerator that I walked the other way, down the hall. I was wishing I’d asked Renee if I could come with her. It was weird being alone when everybody else was talking to someone.

I walked past a few bedrooms and a bathroom before I got to a large den, probably Ian’s father’s office. His dad worked at home doing some kind of stock market thing. My stepmother was always asking me if they’d lost a lot of money when the market crashed. How would I know? All of the furniture had been pushed against the wall, but the floor lamps had been adjusted so the center of the room was flooded with light. Four or five people had their cell phones out and two kids had expensive-looking digital cameras. They were all taking pictures of the girl standing in the center.

It was Marcella Alvarez, a junior, who was relatively new in town—meaning she’d lived here for a few years, rather than all her life like the rest of us. She was smiling and striking poses, pursing her lips, letting her T-shirt fall down to expose her shoulders, hiking up her shorts to expose her thighs. It reminded me of those fashion shoots in movies, except that Marcella was on her crutches, as always, and it took her longer to change positions.

I wanted to walk the other way, but I just stood there, staring at this bizarre scene. The very same kids who were taking pictures of Marcella now had called her a moron all last year. She is actually smarter than most of them, but she has cerebral palsy. I couldn’t imagine what had happened over the summer to change her into a popular girl. If that’s what she was. She certainly seemed comfortable letting them do this to her. She was laughing at everything. It didn’t occur to me that she might have been drinking. I was so stupidly innocent that I’d never even seen a drunk person except on TV. And Marcella’s family went to the same church my family did. She was in youth group with me. She’d signed the same “no alcohol, no drugs, no sex” pledge I had.

One of the people using a digital camera was Jon Rubitch, whose face, according to Kevin, should be the icon for stupidity. He was whistling and egging on Marcella, but so was everybody else, including Devon Wheeler, the other person with a fancy digital camera, who was like the queen of the popular girls. A lot of the geek/dork population found Devon scary, but she sounded so friendly: “Oh my god, Marcella, you look really pretty. Hold it just like that, k?”

The thing is, Marcella
is
pretty. I’ve always thought so, I just didn’t think people like Jon Rubitch and Devon Wheeler could see past her disability. But it wasn’t their fault—according to me, anyway. A long time ago, I had made up stories that explained why they were mean: Jon must have accidentally killed someone, a little brother or a little sister most likely, and Devon had been raped by her Uncle Timmy. She liked to brag about Uncle Timmy because he drove her around in his BMW. Why would a grown-up call himself Timmy unless he was some kind of perv?

I was still in the doorway when Renee came up behind me. “What are you doing here?”

I turned around and there was my former best friend. She looked amazing, as always. She was wearing a white tube top and jeans, and her long black hair was so shiny it twinkled. “Um, you invited me?”

“I told you to come at 10:30. It’s not even 10:15!”

“I’m sorry.” She was right. I was so excited I’d forgotten what time she said as soon as I hung up. “Oh well. Everyone else seems to have come early, you know?”

She pushed past me and went over to Devon. They whispered back and forth for a minute. Then Devon turned to Marcella, “Time to go home now.”

“But you said—”

“Even Cinderella had to leave at midnight,” Devon said. All of the people in the room laughed hysterically. I was totally confused.

Marcella started to walk out of the room. When she came up to me, I asked her if she was all right.

“Yeah.” Her eyes were looking down at her crutches. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

She smelled like alcohol, but I said, “It’s not your fault.” I was sure of that, even though I didn’t understand what was going on.