Part 11 (2/2)
”Dork,” said Kelsey, kicking me under the blankets. ”You're lucky I like you, because if I didn't, it'd be way too easy to make fun of you. Like, constantly.”
”You do that anyway,” I reminded her.
”Not nearly enough, though.”
We waited, and listened, and beneath the covers Kelsey reached out and grabbed my hand, the way we'd done as very young children, even as we giggled and pretended to be way too mature to believe any of the nonsense we were saying.
”Are you real?” she whispered. ”You s.e.xy dead cholo, you?”
”Help us to understand,” I said. ”And forgive my h.o.r.n.y friend.”
”Shut up.”
”What? You are. You're such a wanton hussy,” I joked.
”Whatever. Hard to be a hussy when you haven't had a date in more than a year.”
”Not for you.”
”Shut up.”
Again, we waited, and again, there was no sound. I grew drowsier, and though Kelsey and I tried to continue talking, we both kept dosing off, and jolting awake again to babble a little more.
”Just one little sign,” I said, finally, so, so sleepy. ”Something to help me know I'm not crazy, and to tell me there are people in this world who can help me.”
With that, the faucet in the attached guest bathroom began to leak, loudly, as it had done that morning. Drip, drip, drip. Kelsey was already asleep, so I poked her. When that didn't rouse her, I shook her.
”Do you hear that?”
”What?” she asked, groggily emerging from her slumber.
”The faucet! It's leaking again. I asked him for a sign. It was leaking in the dream, or I heard the sound of it. Do you think it's him?”
”If it is, he's pretty d.a.m.n annoying. Who the h.e.l.l can sleep with that kind of noise going on all night? Apparently boys are as clueless about our needs dead as they are alive. All it shows is that the plumber your dad hired is as good at his job as he is at making up ghost stories. He sucks at both.” She buried her head under her pillow.
”I'll shut the door,” I said, letting go of her hand and swinging one leg over the edge of the bed, to head to the bathroom. But I didn't have to go any further, because as soon as I stood up and said ”You should know better than to annoy girls like this, Demetrio,” the drip stopped. Just like that. Right on cue.
”Kelsey!” I hissed, hopping back into bed and burrowing into the covers.
”Ugh,” she grunted from under her pillow. ”Leave me alone. I'm tired.”
”It stopped,” I whispered, pulling the pillow off her.
”What? Really?”
We lay in the quiet, listening to the astonis.h.i.+ng, terrifying nothing.
”Coincidence?” I asked, tepidly, my heart racing.
”Bad plumbing,” she said. ”Your dad acts all money, but he's a cheap b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
”Yeah.”
We lay in the dark, listening, freaked out, and scarcely breathing.
”Have I told you yet today how much I regret being your best friend?” she asked, scooting closer to me.
”No, but after the day we've had, I'll a.s.sume it's a given.”
The sun was barely rising in a pink and turquoise glow behind the Sandia Mountains by the time I pulled into the long driveway at my mother's house in the High Desert neighborhood the next morning. I'd left my father's before dawn, because the dance team compet.i.tion began at 8 a.m. in Albuquerque, and I needed to stop off at home first to get ready.
Like all other homes in the area, ours was large, but nestled discreetly into the natural desert landscape per zoning rules, with at least half an acre between it and the next closest house. Gra.s.s was forbidden up here as an environmental no-no, and the houses were restricted to either adobe or modern construction that blended into the sagebrush and juniper landscape. Ours was in the modern camp, two stories. It was situated in a small valley and wasn't actually visible from the street. You had to pull into the driveway, and drive down a curved steep incline, around a few boulders and pine trees, before coming to the hidden four-car garage tucked tastefully out of sight, around the back side of the house. My mother found few things in life more repugnant than houses that looked to be ”all garage” from the street.
Strangely, as I pulled along the driveway, a hawk circled overhead and swooped down as though it meant to crash into the winds.h.i.+eld. I braked, hard, and it flapped around the car for a moment, before swooping to the ground and taking flight again, with a big juicy mouth in its beak. Ah, so that was it. Hunger was a great and universal motivator.
After parking the Land Rover in the garage between my mother's champagne pink Lexus sedan and her baby blue Audi convertible, I went through the door that led to the mud room, used the powder room there, and then scaled the stairs that led directly to the kitchen pantry and laundry room area. I heard the comforting thump of clothes tumbling in the dryer, and knew my mother was up and waiting for me. This filled me with dread, because I had a hard time lying to her, and knew I'd have to.
I found her at the industrial-grade metal table, in her black gym clothes, her shoulder-length black bob tied back in a low ponytail. She was eating her usual banana and plain organic yogurt, while reading the Wall Street Journal. She greeted me with a smile and asked me how I had slept. She asked me this every morning, and every morning I said fine. Then I asked her the same question, and she tended to answer in the same way. Today she asked if I was ready for the compet.i.tion, and I said yes. She asked about my night at my dad's, and I answered as vaguely as possible. Pleasantry upon pleasantry.
The entire eastern wall of our modern house was made of thick modern gla.s.s; it was slightly steamed in the kitchen at the moment from the coffeemaker. Beyond the gla.s.s, there was nothing but the foothills: nature, awash in the blue-pink tones of winter sunrise; boulders, pinon trees, cacti, yucca, rabbits and - I thought with a shudder - coyotes.
My mother knew better than to try to cook for me anymore. I liked my independence. I made myself a toasted cinnamon-raisin bagel with cream cheese and tried to calm my nerves enough to eat it. I poured some orange juice, but the acid made my stomach turn. I sat at the table with my mother, looked through the neglected local paper for the weather page, and tried not to appear distracted and nervous. I smiled too much. Fatal mistake.
”You okay?” she asked, worried. ”What's wrong?”
”I'm fine.”
”You look pale. M'ija, look at me. Look at me.”
”I'm fine, mom.” I did not look at her. Rather, I read the weather page. Snow again, soon. Great. Another storm.
”I made an appointment for you with Doctor Bergant, per our conversation yesterday,” she observed a few minutes later, as she stuck her nose in her Carlsbad Caverns coffee mug. She had an annoying way of slurping her coffee in that particular mug that bothered me, but now was not the time to say so.
”Okay.” I didn't feel like talking about it, but I did in fact think it a good idea for me to see a therapist about the possibility of trauma and delusional thinking.
”After finals, on Friday afternoon. I'll give you the address and trust you'll find it on your own.”
”Okay. Thanks.” I barely looked at her, and had to avert my gaze.
She looked tired, worried, and sick about me. Still, she was kind enough to say no more about it, other than, ”I'm always here if you need to talk.”
”Thanks. I'm okay.”
”Any idea what you'd like to do for winter break?” she asked. ”It's next week.”
”I don't know. Skiing, maybe?”
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