The Summer of Broken Things

  “I think I have to call and tell your mother what happened,” he says. “What you and Avery saw on the birth certificate. I don’t know . . . I can’t entirely predict, but . . . she might want you to just go home. It doesn’t seem fair to you to . . . I mean, I can buy you a plane ticket. You could leave tomorrow morning.”

  “You want to get rid of me,” I say, the words as flat as Ohio farmland.

  Mr. Armisted winces. His face quivers like he’s one of the old men in the nursing home with palsy.

  “No!” he says quickly. “I want you to stay. I think Avery needs you now more than ever. I think if you leave, I would have to send her home too, and—well, it’s complicated. But I can work that out if I have to. If you want to leave. What do you want?”

  To never have met you and Avery, I think. To unwind fourteen years of time and make it so that Mom was never that weird thing, a surrogate. And Dad never had his accident. And . . .

  And why stop there? Why not go back even further, and make it so Grandpa never lost his farm? Or why not help the whole world and make it so the Holocaust never happened?

  The old people in the nursing home who survive, the ones who aren’t like Mrs. Kelly, they’re always telling me, You can’t change the past. They say things like, Any day you wake up and you’re still alive, it’s a good day. A blessing to praise God for. No matter what happens.

  I am suddenly so homesick for Mr. and Mrs. Lang, for Mrs. Shrivers and Mrs. Delaney and Mrs. Reeves and everyone else at the nursing home. For Grandma and Grandpa. Even for my dad in his VA bed.

  But how can I go back to all of them, knowing what I know now? When Mom was too ashamed to tell anyone herself? I can’t even Skype with the Autumn Years residents without fearing I’d blurt out the words My mom had another baby she never told any of you about. She was a surrogate mother. It’s like she’s been lying to you all these years, pretending she doesn’t have secrets. . . .

  And if Mom kept such an important thing as a baby secret, who knows what else I don’t know about her?

  I can’t even talk to my mother on the phone right now. If I went home, I’d have to talk to her. I’d have to look her in the eye.

  “I don’t want to go home,” I tell Mr. Armisted.

  His face smooths out. I realize he’s been holding his breath.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  I slip back inside my room and shut the door. I sag against the wall.

  That was a trick question, I think. He only offered one choice.

  I don’t want to go home, but I don’t want to stay here with Avery and Mr. Armisted, either. The list of what I don’t want is really, really long: I don’t want to be the Butt-girl of Crawfordsville High School. I don’t want to be Avery’s nanny or “paid companion” or . . . or sister. (Take that, Avery! I don’t want to be your sister either. So there!) I don’t want to be the girl whose mom was a surrogate mother and was so ashamed she kept it secret. Or whose dad has been in a nursing home almost her entire life.

  I thought I would be someone else, coming to Europe. And I am—or I was starting to be.

  But the past can always come back and bite you.

  What I know about myself now is even worse than what I thought about myself before.

  My phone rings inside my purse. I walk over and look at the number on the unfamiliar burner-phone screen: It’s Mom.

  I hit ignore.

  There’s a moment of silence, then the phone starts ringing again.

  I know my mother. If she has to, she will call and call and call. She won’t stop. She never gives up.

  I scoop up the phone and scream into it, “I don’t want to talk to you, Mom! Stop calling me!”

  And then I hang up and turn the phone off.

  I don’t want to talk to anybody.

  Avery, Who Hasn’t Moved

  I hear Dad and Kayla talking in the hallway; I hear Dad offering her a plane ticket home.

  What about me? I want to scream out to Dad. Let me go home too, if you’re throwing around airplane flights! Let me go back to soccer camp, and let’s pretend none of this ever happened!

  But it would take too much energy to open my mouth, to say anything.

  I imagine going back to Ohio, back to our house, so perfectly decorated and silent and empty, except for memories. Memories of fights I’d witnessed between Mom and Dad; memories of moments when I’d walked past Dad sitting in his office, and he was just staring off into space, or I caught Mom dropping soggy Kleenexes into the kitchen trash can and turning her face away, as if that would keep me from seeing that she’d been crying . . .

  I’m so stupid, I think. A five-year-old could have seen those two were headed for divorce. When was the last time I heard either of them say something nice to the other?

  I’d been away a lot at my friends’ houses, so how would I have heard? Or at school or soccer practice. Or at soccer camp. I was supposed to be away at soccer camp this whole summer. That was what I’d wanted.

  It was like I’d known without knowing.

  But they always argued and disagreed. For as long as I remember. Even when they were saying nice things to each other in between. Dad always said that’s just what happens when two dominant personalities marry each other. Two only children.

  When they were arguing about me, Mom usually got her way.

  Mom had to have been the one who didn’t want me to know how I was born, I think, putting together everything Dad had and hadn’t said.

  It is a stretch to let myself think that—“how I was born.” I don’t want to go any further than that, to think about the birth certificate out in the living room that has the wrong name on it. To think that some woman I barely remember from my childhood is actually . . .

  My mom?

  No, Kayla’s mother isn’t my mom.

  But is my mom really my mother anymore? Was she ever?

  It’s like I’m playing word games. It’s like finding out that I actually had two mothers means I really don’t even have one.

  I’m fourteen years old. It’s not like I need a mommy and daddy anymore, anyhow. I’m going to get up and demand that Dad just send me back to soccer camp, first thing in the morning, and . . .

  I don’t get up. I can’t. I picture myself at soccer camp, lying facedown like this, and Shannon and Lauren hovering over me, Oh, Avery, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you sick? Do you want us to go get the camp nurse?

  Or worse—not hovering over me. Not even caring. Or just being disgusted that I won’t tell them what’s wrong, that I don’t want them gossiping about me or my family . . .

  I can imagine them telling the other girls in the soccer camp bathroom while everyone brushes their teeth at night. Did you hear about Avery? Did you hear what she found out about her parents? What they weren’t ever going to tell her until she found out by accident?

  My iPhone buzzes. I think it’s been buzzing for a while, but I’ve been ignoring it.

  I summon the energy to flip it over, and I see a row of texts on the screen from Lauren and Shannon: Are you there? . . . Aren’t you going to answer? . . .

  I can’t make sense of the other words. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to read. Or like they’re not even using English. Or Spanish. Or anything else I’d recognize.

  I stab my fingers at the screen, typing like a toddler.

  Phone battery dying. Can’t talk now.

  That’s not enough. I can just see Lauren and Shannon hunched over their phones together, wrinkling up their noses together, racing to tell me, Duh. Then use your iPad.

  Should I tell them the Wi-Fi isn’t working right?

  No, they’d say to go to the nearest Starbucks. Or Dunkin’ Coffee. Whatever.

  I steady my shaking hands.

  Dad’s taking away my phone/Internet privileges. Because I snuck out last night and went to a dance club. And he caught me.

  There. That should do it.

  Ooo, I want to hear all about that! pops up almost instantly
on the screen from Lauren. When do you get privileges back?

  I don’t answer. Let them think Dad confiscated my phone. Let them think I’m never getting it back.

  That’s better than anyone knowing the truth.

  Kayla, Still at a Loss

  I could sit for hours, back at the nursing home, watching nature shows with Mr. Lang. Or The Price Is Right, or The Andy Griffith Show, or John Wayne movies, or anything else the old people wanted to watch. I probably spent half my childhood watching TV with old people.

  I might as well have been the nursing home’s pet cat.

  But I can’t sit here in my room now. I can’t sit still when there’s a loop of thoughts going in my brain: Mom lied to me. Okay, she didn’t really lie, but she didn’t tell me the truth. Almost the same thing. What if I can’t ever go home again? Mom lied to me. . . .

  I look around for Mr. Armisted’s iPad—maybe I could distract myself watching YouTube videos or something. But I’ve been so careful every night to return the iPad after I’m finished Skyping. Once or twice, Mr. Armisted told me, You know, I’ve got a laptop to use, myself. You could just keep the iPad in your room, if you want. But I never felt right about doing that. Keeping it in my room would have felt like I was stealing it, trying to make it seem like I was rich enough to own something like that.

  Or dishonest enough to steal it.

  A saint’s daughter wouldn’t steal things.

  My mother isn’t a saint. She never was. Because she was ashamed, she kept secrets. . . .

  The air-conditioning clicks on, but it sounds gurgly, like a car engine just barely managing to start. I know why: I didn’t empty the water container out on the balcony like I’ve been doing every afternoon after Spanish class. And, even though Avery and I are supposed to take turns, I know she wouldn’t have done it. The water container’s probably about to overflow. That means the air conditioner will just start blowing hot air. That’s what the landlord said would happen if we forgot.

  So what? I tell myself. Who cares if Avery and Mr. Armisted don’t have someone else taking care of them for once? Let them feel what it’s like to be normal people. Let them suffer. The Armisteds are so rich, they paid Mom to get pregnant for them! I bet the problem wasn’t that Mrs. Armisted couldn’t have babies—I bet she just didn’t want to get fat for nine months!

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  I’m not normally the type of person who gets mad easily, but suddenly I am boiling.

  Now I really can’t sit still.

  I propel myself off my bed. I open the door and peek out into the dark hallway. Both Avery’s and Mr. Armisted’s bedroom doors are shut. I tiptoe down the hallway and through the living room and out the sliding glass door to the balcony. Right now it’s a toss-up whether I’m planning to dump the air conditioner water into the kitchen sink like I’m supposed to, or if I’m going to stalk into Avery’s room and pour it over her head, soaking her entire bed.

  That’s what she deserves, the way she treats me, the way she acts, the way she is. . . .

  But when I reach for the plastic water container on the dark side of the balcony, it’s empty. It rattles in my hand.

  “I took care of it.”

  I whirl around. Mr. Armisted is sitting at the table on the far side of the balcony, the part that’s half in shadow, half bathed in light from the dance club across the street.

  “I—I didn’t see you,” I stammer. I’ve still got the plastic water container in my hand, and I realize what’s wrong: It’s too empty. The air conditioner is a jimmied-together system; you have to take it apart and put it back together every time.

  “You didn’t do it right,” I tell Mr. Armisted, and there’s still enough anger in me—enough of the wanting to pour water on Avery—that the words come out sounding mean. “You have to put the cut-off garden hose back in the bottom of the tub after you empty it, or it will leak everywhere. See?”

  I hold up the two detached pieces, the water container and the end of the dripping hose.

  “Of course,” Mr. Armisted says apologetically, as I put everything back together. He clears his throat. “Believe it or not, I used to be good at things like that. And that’s when my wife says I was just a dumb farm boy. My . . . well, I guess I’m going to have to get used to calling her my ex-wife. My soon-to-be ex-wife . . .”

  “What?” I say.

  “Sit down,” Mr. Armisted tells me. “Please.”

  I step across the patio and slide into one of the chairs. Mr. Armisted leans back, like he’s giving me space. Or trying to stay in the shadows. But someone must have opened the door of the dance club, because the music gets louder for a moment, and a slice of red light shoots up at us and then vanishes again. In the one flash of light across his face, it looks like his expression has crumpled, like he’s about to fall apart completely.

  But I must be wrong about that, because when he speaks again, he’s got the same measured, calm tone I’ve heard him using on the phone every night when I come out of my room to return his iPad. It’s an I’m in charge tone, an I know what I’m doing tone. It’s his usual voice—he only sounds different when Avery’s annoying him.

  “This wasn’t entirely unexpected,” he says, quite formally. “But my wife informed me this evening that she wants a divorce.”

  “Just because Avery found out . . . ?” I begin.

  Mr. Armisted waves that question away.

  “I believe that’s part of the reason for the timing,” he says. “But we were headed in that direction anyhow. I was just hoping that we could hold off until the fall. Or . . . that I could talk her out of it.” His voice wavers. But then he immediately snaps it back into control. “I’m very sorry. I never intended to drag you into our family’s . . . mess. That wasn’t why we invited you to come to Spain with Avery.”

  “Why did you invite me to come to Spain with Avery?” I blurt. “She doesn’t want me here.”

  And there it is, the thing that’s been hanging over us since the Columbus airport. Who knew it could be so easy to ask? I just needed to be mad about other things that were harder to talk about.

  Mr. Armisted freezes.

  “Avery’s fourteen,” he says, and I see he’s going to give me the same lame excuse he’s been making all along.

  “Yeah?” I say sarcastically. “So? When I was fourteen, my mom hurt her back lifting one of the nursing home residents, and she was out on disability for a month. Disability’s reduced pay, you know? The nursing home owner was really nice—she paid me to clean her house so we’d have enough money to pay the electric bill that month. So it wouldn’t be turned off. You could just let Avery clean other people’s filthy toilets. That’d cure her of any problems she’s having, being fourteen.”

  I hear a tinkling sound, like something’s breaking. But it’s only Mr. Armisted swirling ice in a glass I just now notice he’s got in his hand. He takes a gulp.

  “You think Avery’s spoiled,” he says. I start to protest, but he holds up his hand like he’s telling me to wait. “That’s what I would have thought too, if I’d met her when I was sixteen. But it looks different from this side of the table. It was just always easier to give her things, than to . . . And her mother always said . . .” He stops. Shrugs. “You know a lot better than Avery does, how to deal with hard things. Because she’s never had to. And she’s going to have to, with this divorce. I thought, I thought if she had you, if she had one friend who was resilient, who didn’t act like a broken fingernail was the tragedy of a lifetime like all her other friends do, then . . .”

  I clutch the table and pull myself half out of the chair.

  “Then what?” I demand. “Then everything’s okay for Avery?” I say her name like it’s poison in my mouth, like I hate every syllable.

  I say her name like she’s been saying my name this entire trip.

  That makes me even madder.

  “Well, guess what?” My voice shoots higher. I’m almost yelling. “I don’t exist jus
t to make everything okay for Avery. My family doesn’t exist just to make your family’s life better. We haven’t had our problems just to make Avery’s problems go away!”

  “That’s not what I’m saying!” Mr. Armisted protests. “I wanted you to have this experience, too. I was a lot like you when I was a teenager, okay? A lot. My dad lost his farm in the eighties, just like your granddad did. If I’d had a chance to have a trip like this when I was a teenager, then—”

  “Then you would have wanted to know what you were getting into,” I say. “You would have wanted to know if your own mother had some weird connection to the family you were traveling with. You would have wanted to know that people were getting divorced!”

  I want to yell more, maybe, You would have wanted to know ahead of time that the kid you’d be traveling with hates you and skips class and lies to her dad! But Mr. Armisted clenches his jaw on the word “divorced,” and that makes me falter.

  “I wasn’t like you,” I say instead. “I was perfectly happy staying in Crawfordsville.”

  Now I’m lying to Avery’s dad. But I don’t care.

  “I’m not saying anything’s wrong with Crawfordsville,” Mr. Armisted says in a perfectly even tone. “I still miss the town where I grew up. But it’s good to be a citizen of the world, too, to know what’s outside your cozy little town. To be able to belong in more than just one place.”

  I don’t belong anywhere now, I think. And that’s it—that’s what I’m angriest about. I never fit in at Crawfordsville High School (or at the middle school or elementary school, years ago). I had no hope of fitting in with Avery or Mr. Armisted or Spain. But I belonged in my family, with Mom and Grandma and Grandpa and even Dad, in his nursing home. I belonged at Autumn Years, running up and down the hallways I practically grew up in, knowing I could knock on just about any door and have a resident break out grinning just at the sight of me. I had that.

  And that’s what Mr. Armisted stole from me, telling me my mother’s secret, the one she was too ashamed to tell me herself. I won’t be able to look anyone in Crawfordsville in the eye anymore. I won’t be able to talk to any of the people who love me anymore.