The Death of Us

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Absolutely. Perfect—I really need the help.” She rushes to the storage cupboard and hauls out a pile of blue paper. “Can’t forget blue! We’re making our own books today,” she says. “Using our hands, our feet, our arms …”

  “Sounds cool. Can I just let my mom know where I’m going to be?”

  Ana nods.

  I call Mom and say, “I got a job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, a trial run, at least.” I hear the smile in my voice.

  “I knew you could—tell me! Is it one of the hotels?”

  “It’s at the gallery.”

  “That’s wonderful! You never even mentioned that you dropped your resumé there. What does it involve?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I have to go. She wants me to do a trial run now.”

  “Your first job. That’s big news. We’ll have to celebrate.”

  “I haven’t got it for sure yet.”

  “What’s she paying you?”

  “Mom, I have to go.”

  Once I’m off the phone, time speeds up. Parents arrive with children and in the end about fifteen kids sit looking adoringly up at Ana. We stitch pages together and I go round noticing who needs help. Each child makes a book titled The Book of …, followed by their name. They draw round their own hands and then write about themselves, filling in pictures and pages as they go. My headache fades. I sit down and help a tiny girl with a nest of black curls. I imagine Cosmo as a preschooler and feel an inner pinch. Maybe Mom has a point; I could do more stuff with him to help, and when he’s older it might even be fun to hang out together.

  It’s near the end of the class when a couple of boys shriek and run over to Kurt, who has just arrived. He swings them up like they are monkeys, saying hello and kissing them on the cheeks. He nods at me and wanders over with his arms full, saying, “My little brothers, Sam and Adrian. I bring them when I work, then Dad picks them up.”

  They look nothing like him with their red hair, little snub noses and freckles. I say, “These two did a great job of their books.” They squirm out of his arms and plop to the floor, looking pleased. A man arrives, nods hello to Kurt, and the boys rush off with him.

  Kurt says, “So you work here now?”

  Ana says, “Yes. She does. If everything checks out. Callie, email me later.”

  I smile as I say to Kurt, “Then I guess I do. Work here, I mean, since, um, about three hours ago.”

  “Cool.” He lowers his voice. “You must feel … yeah … ill.”

  Ill? Oh, embarrassing. He saw me last night, drunk and silly. Except, he hardly saw me because he was looking at Ivy the whole time. “I don’t normally. I mean,” I sputter, “I don’t really drink, um, ever.”

  “Not a big deal,” he says.

  But getting drunk is a big deal for me. I know in Kurt’s world everybody drinks and parties, but it’s not very me. I suddenly remember I saw Kurt kissing Ivy last night, the two of them entangled in the middle of the dance floor, and a couple of people whispering and texting about it. Ivy’s big news already and she hasn’t even started at our school yet.

  Kurt breaks me out of my reverie. “Have you got a moment to grab a coffee when I’m done? In about an hour. There’s a place next door. I … yeah … wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Um … sure,” I say.

  After finishing up with Ana and the kids, and making sure the art room is spotless, I wander through the gallery and, because I’m a little early to meet Kurt, I take my time looking around the exhibition of Surrealist work. The paintings are like big red balloons would be at a funeral, strange and startling. I admire a painting of a rock stuffed into a hotel room, and one of a suitcase with a shadow of a hand resting upon it. I come to a complete stop at a painting that at first appears completely black until I make out a woman dressed in white lying slumped in the bottom corner. She makes me think of Ivy’s mom. The weight of blackness presses down on her. I chew a hangnail on my thumb.

  Kurt makes me jump when he says behind me, “I like this painting best.”

  “Yeah. I can see why.”

  “It’s dark, but it’s cool.”

  “Do you think I could do a piece on the exhibition? For Flat Earth Theory?” I ask.

  “Good idea. Did you know the Surrealists used to play a game. Exquisite Corpse. One artist started the picture—drew the head. The next one drew the torso. Someone else finished it off—legs, feet. All on the same sheet of paper.”

  “Why’s it called Exquisite Corpse?”

  “It’s from the word version of the game—The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine. Something like that. Someone starts the story on a sheet of paper, folds it over. Hiding what they’ve written. The second person writes the next sentence, folds it over again. Someone else finishes it up. None of them know what the others have written until they read it out.”

  “It sounds, um, surreal.”

  “Yeah, look at these.” He gestures to a glass case against one wall. There are about eight drawings of mixtures of strange heads and bodies, multiple legs, spots and swirls. He scuffs his sneaker against the floor. “So, yeah, about last night …” he says. “Did you and Xander … get to talk?”

  “Xander’s nice.”

  He studies the drawings again. A tiny frown crosses his face. Peeking out from beneath his black shirt is a leather cord with a silver dollar hanging from it. I say, “I like the necklace. I mean … I know guys don’t call them necklaces, but …”

  He smiles. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Nice. So, you wanted to talk. About the piece for the board? You haven’t emailed the edits yet.”

  “No. It’s nothing.”

  “Is it about Ivy, then? It’s—”

  “I’m being … whatever.” He checks his phone. “I should go.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “It’s nothing,” he says, and leaves me standing there alone.

  At supper at home, Mom’s distracted by Cosmo, who is “teething,” um, yelling his head off. She tries to ask me about the job, but I don’t get much of a chance to reply. Ivy texts asking me to come over. I head out, ignoring Mom’s protests, telling her only that I’m going for another walk. I’m surprised she buys it, her radar must be on, but she must figure either that I wouldn’t lie to her, or that I need the space.

  I go straight to Ivy’s, exhilarated by the fact Mom doesn’t know where I am. Ivy’s mom is out with Kevin so the house is still and quiet around us, like a feather duvet. I’m comforted by the silence. My house is always too loud with Cosmo wailing, or a gaggle of his baby friends around, filling up the living room, jumping in the Jolly Jumper and bashing away at noisy toys. Various mommies and their children drop by, people wanting my mom to sign books or to get involved with some charity or other. It’s perfect, really: she’s a successful children’s book author and illustrator, and now she has a baby. Only problem is me, the teenager who doesn’t quite fit the picture.

  Ivy snaps me out of my sulk. Tells me to put some music on. As I scroll through, I realize I don’t recognize any of the bands on her phone. They’re all foreign and exotic sounding. I pick one at random, curious now. An accordion starts to play, backed up with heavy drums and some other instrument I can’t identify. I dock the phone as a laconic voice hums, then says, “They’ll only let you down.” The voice switches to French. It’s weird music, not something I’d associate with Ivy. She’s lying on her sofa, skimming through a magazine, wearing a white tee and peach-coloured jeans. Her bare feet are crossed at the ankles.

  The music plays for a moment or two longer, and she says, “That’s me.” I must look confused, because she continues, “Singing. I’m the singer.”

  I shut my eyes and listen. The girl singing can really sing but Ivy’s the worst singer ever.

  “There’s no way, Ivy. You’re tone-deaf.”

  She laughs. “True.”

  “It’s not you???
?

  “Come, sit down.” She doesn’t raise her eyes from the magazine.

  I flop on the sofa. She puts her feet in my lap.

  “So you’re not the one singing?”

  “Caught out. I just wanted you to think—” She flicks her gaze to me. “That I was cool, or something.”

  “Of course I think that!”

  “Sorry. It was stupid. I shouldn’t pretend to be someone I’m not. How about you give me a massage and then I’ll give you one.” She wiggles her foot.

  “A foot massage?”

  “What? My feet are clean.”

  Her toenails are painted five different tones of pink. I take one foot in my hand, press my thumbs into the flesh.

  She says, “That feels good” and stretches out like a cat. “Sorry I’m being strange. Mom’s drinking a lot already. Normally when we move we get a, well, grace period. Time off.”

  “That’s awful.” I sound naive but I don’t know what else to say.

  Ivy lets her head fall back on the arm of the couch and talks to the ceiling while I massage. “Kevin literally has no freaking idea how much Mom drinks. He thinks she’s fun—a live-wire, makes him feel young, whatever. And Dad’s too busy being a swanky investment banker to give a flying—”

  “Are you in touch with him?”

  She lifts her head. “He sends money. In his head that makes up for it. He remarried, a twenty-two-year-old, so I guess he doesn’t need me. Gross. Like, so predictable of him.” Her phone interrupts her. She checks the screen. “Oooh, it’s Kurt.”

  She yanks her feet away and jumps up. Her voice suddenly husky, she answers the call, heading out of the room, closing the door. I check through my own phone, waiting, looking at some photos Tilly posted of her family at the cabin.

  When Ivy comes back she says, “We’re going out on the boat tomorrow. You’re coming.”

  As if Mom knows what Ivy’s just said, she phones. I say to Ivy, “Hang on.”

  Mom says, “Hey, Callie my love. Where are you? Why don’t I meet you? We could walk together. Cosmo’s sleeping. Your dad’s here. I’ve got my coat on already.”

  I feel a pang for when Mom and I used to spend time together. It’s followed by a spool of anxiety that she’ll figure out where I am. As far as I can tell, I’m still forbidden to see Ivy.

  “Actually, Mom, I’m just coming down the street now. I’ll see you at home.” I get off the phone and say to Ivy, “I’m sorry. I gotta go. Mom needs help with Cosmo.” Lies get easier and easier. “I’ll call you about the boat. I don’t think I should go, though.”

  Ivy stands to hug me goodbye. “You’re coming.”

  “Okay. I definitely am.”

  Mom’s sitting on the couch when I get back, waiting. “Want me to make you a cold drink? Lemonade from real lemons?”

  She still thinks I’m a little girl. She really doesn’t get it.

  “No, thanks. How’s Granny?”

  “Same. I don’t think the fall is causing this confusion. I actually think she fell because she had a mini-stroke or something. I’m going to call the doctor about her again tomorrow.”

  “A mini-stroke?”

  “We’ll see. I’m not saying that’s it. Try not to worry. Sure you don’t want lemonade?”

  “I’m pretty tired, Mom. I got up early.” I’ve been awake for a hundred thousand hours.

  “I wanted to hear about work. About you. I haven’t seen you much.”

  “Yeah.” There’s no way she’ll let me go on the boat tomorrow, so I lie. “I’ve got work all day tomorrow too.”

  “At the gallery? Why don’t Cosmo and I come down and see you.”

  “Um, no.” I panic. “No, I mean, yes, please, but not right away. Give me a few days to settle in. Please?”

  She nods. “Of course.” She’s still sitting on the couch, but now she’s at the edge of it, hands on her knees. “About Ivy, I do mean it. I don’t want you seeing her.”

  I force myself to stay calm. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me?”

  “Mom, what is this? No, I wouldn’t lie. Can I go to bed now? I’ve got work tomorrow and I’m tired.”

  She appraises me, then nods again. “Okay, sweetheart. Sleep well.”

  On the way up the stairs, I’m fuming. Mom needs to take her foot off the pedal.

  FIVE

  JULY 31ST

  Kurt

  Xander returns with one foam cup of coffee in each hand. Seeing Mrs. Foulds is gone, he puts one cup on the table next to me. He sips from the one meant for her. I guess he figures she’s not returning anytime soon. His cell beeps—beeps again.

  Switch it off.

  He checks the screen, silences it. The silence is worse.

  He says, as if to reassure himself, “They’ll tell us when they know something.”

  I say, “The doctor left with Mrs. Foulds. I didn’t even get to ask anything. Man, people don’t survive shit like that.”

  I’m not even sure he’s heard until he says, “Take it easy.”

  I fiddle with the remote but it doesn’t work. The TV keeps playing the same channel. Xander paces the corridor. Flat expression on his face. He could be on a grim hike. My head slams like the worst hangover.

  I rub the top of my nose. It’s a gesture from my dad. Not my birth-dad. He died when I was six months old—cancer. That was when my birth-mom started drinking, apparently. This gesture is from my adopted dad. Sometimes when I walk into that huge kitchen, my brothers scrapping on the floor, and Mom turns to me with a plate of fresh-cooked bacon, eggs and rye toast, I split in two. The person I was before they adopted me. And the person I am now. Took me years to stop being scared that my adopted family would make me go back to my birth-mom. I used to dream of houses flooding, cracks appearing in the walls. I tried to explain it to Xander once. He took it in, the way he does. Solid. But I’m not sure he got it.

  When I visit my birth-mom, I’m a little kid. All over again. At the same time, I’m me. Able to protect myself. Ivy recognized this. Somehow, she understood.

  I think about what she told me on the boat. There’s something about vulnerable that makes me go soft. She sat on the prow, the water behind her like a blue canvas. Told me she wanted to start over. Said Callie was her “rock.”

  I said, “Callie’s like Xander—self-sufficient. More than she knows. They seem a good match.”

  Ivy said, “You’ll help me start over.”

  “You don’t need my help.”

  She laughed. “I don’t need anyone.”

  She sure knew how to flirt.

  Shit. I just used the past tense. But she can’t be dead. Not Ivy.

  TEN DAYS EARLIER

  Ivy

  I pick at the paint chipping from my bedroom window frame. Kevin didn’t get this room redone, although the room he shares with Mom is spandangly new. I murmur into my phone, “It’s been a while, Diego.”

  He says, “I thought you’d call.”

  “You miss me, then.” Guys just need it told to them sometimes—it’s not like emotions are their strong point.

  He’s quiet.

  I flick a paint chip to the floor, grind it with my bare toes. “It sucks here without you,” I say. “I forgive you, you know.”

  “Shit, Ivy …”

  “I gotta go.” I press End before he can answer. Always, always leave them wanting more.

  I start my morning exercises, following the 60/60/60 routine my online CrossFit program sets me. Sixty burpees. Sixty lunges. Sixty sit-ups. Then I listen to a podcast about living your best life. The speaker is a woman, about thirty, gorgeous, funny, in control, just about exactly who I’m gonna be one day.

  Mom’s downstairs making waffles. “Hey, sugar,” she says. She’s trussed up in a pink apron. Her hair is loose. For a moment I let myself believe and I say all cutesy, “Hey, Mommy.”

  She opens the waffle maker and spoons in some mix. It sizzles. “Don’t you just love it here,
Ivy?”

  I shrug one shoulder.

  “Kevin wants to take the two of us for supper somewhere elegant.” Her deep red lipstick frames her smiling mouth. She’s stylish when she wants to be, like a photograph from a magazine. I get it from her. Not that I’m boasting or anything. I just have a feel for clothes, hair, makeup. I could go into that, I suppose. I’m meant to be planning all that—planning a future.

  “Blueberries?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  “What are you doing today?” She hovers over the waffle maker.

  “Heading to Kurt’s boat.”

  “Kurt?”

  “Just some guy. He’s cute.” I twirl a strand of my hair around my index finger. “Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she says, all shiny like a sequin.

  “Just, you know. Moving. Kevin.”

  “Kevin’s a wonderful guy.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Don’t spoil this, Ivy.”

  I swallow. Hard. My throat hurts. I think over the podcast. When the world tries to get you down, just hold yourself up higher. Fill yourself with light.

  She opens the waffle maker and tips the waffle onto my plate. It smells buttery and sweet. “God, can’t you just be grateful?”

  “I am, Mom. Sorry.”

  “You should be. It’s not every girl who gets waffles made by her mom for breakfast. I never did. My mom was too busy travelling the world, acting in movies to make me waffles. No time for a kid, oh no, just pack up your stuff and follow along … but I made time for you.”

  I’ve heard it all before, the way she says it with no trace of irony—like, doesn’t she see? I try to pull her rant-train back on track. “The waffles look delicious.”

  “Of course they do.”

  We’re there. Light fills me. And now I have a waffle to eat too.

  Kevin walks in. “Hello there, my girls. Super duper. Breakfast all together?” He’s the only person I’ve ever met who actually grins. With his red velvet housecoat and potbelly he’s too gross to contemplate. He says, “Circling the wagons!”