Neither of us said anything for a minute, until finally I got my vocal chords to work. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll find another girlfriend, though.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t hang with the so-called lesbian group anymore. Mostly I just hang with Birdie. Or you now.” She drained her cup. “I’d have to find somebody who’s not a goddamn liar.”
I trust the red sun setting, the leafless November trees. On Monday morning I look forward Fearlessly to Friday’s eve.
But humans are not as reliable as nature, as trees. I wonder if you’ll come back; I trust only that you’ll leave.
I hadn’t written a poem for ages, but this one came spilling out while I sat on a bench in Copley Square after Marisol got on the subway home. At first I thought it was about Kelly leaving Marisol, but the more I worked on it, I realized it was really my own poem. Maybe about Dad leaving. Except I also kept seeing her, Marisol, heading down the stairs to the station, black bag riding low on her back, boot heels clicking away from me.
“I promised Birdie I’d hang with him next Saturday,” she’d said. “He’s jealous as hell. Two weeks, okay? Call me if you want to read me something.”
Two weeks was forever. Maybe I would call, but I wouldn’t read her the poem. She didn’t lie. I didn’t trust her.
Chapter Seven
The nuns were climbing every mountain and fording every stream while a small team of mothers made final adjustments to the hems of their habits, and the Von Trapp family escaped over the mountains and down the aisle of the Darlington High Little Theater.
For some reason that song about following rainbows and finding your dreams made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I reminded myself Maria was only Violet Neville looking brave in a dumb hairdo, the captain was Vincent Brazwell carrying a small freshman on his back, and the Nazis were mostly kids who couldn’t act very well. Brian was already poking me in the ribs.
“Aren’t they great? The show’s going to be cool, isn’t it? You have to admit it, John.”
“Which one is she again?” I said. I hate when people tell me I have to admit something to them.
“Top row on the left. I think they’re done rehearsing anyway. You can meet her. Finally.”
For some reason I was dreading meeting Brian’s beloved freshman, Emily Prine. I’d been making excuses to him for weeks, but this was the final week of rehearsals before the show, and I couldn’t keep it up without jeopardizing the only male friendship I had.
Brian was waving like crazy, and finally this tall, smiley girl with a shawl of curly red hair all down her back came running toward us, a wimple in her hand. A mother chased her down the aisle.
“Emily, give me your costume. We don’t want it to get soiled before Friday night.”
So Emily stood there disrobing while Brian introduced us. She had on a very short skirt (for a nun) and green tights over her thin legs, which gave her a Peter Pan-ish look.
“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Emily said. “Bri talks about you all the time.”
“No, I don’t!” Brian said.
Emily blushed. “I don’t mean all the time, or anything. So, are you coming to the play this weekend? I hope!” I could tell she was basically kind of shy, but so excited about the play, and about having a boyfriend and everything, that she was pushing herself forward more than she ordinarily would have. Brian grabbed hold of her hand like it was going somewhere without him, the kind of proprietary move that always aggravates me. You are mine!
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. As long as I couldn’t see Marisol this Saturday, what was the point of going into Boston at all? To be with dear old Dad? I was glad to have an excuse to stay in Darlington this weekend.
“Friday night or Saturday?” Brian asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“After Saturday’s show there’s a cast party. But if you go on Friday, we could hang around afterward or something.”
There was a thrilling thought. They’d be giddy over the success of the play, and I’d have to listen to them recap all the little backstage traumas. “Did you notice when the lights came on too soon? Doodah couldn’t find her so-and-so and she had to go on …” Besides, they were a couple now. Three’s a crowd.
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to let you know.” Surely I could come up with some … lie. Man, I’d been lying more since I promised Marisol I wouldn’t than I ever did before.
“You need a ride home, buddy? I’ve got wheels,” Brian bragged. Wheels. He couldn’t just say “the car.” Of course not. Brian was walking the borderline of cool now; he was approaching the wall of coolness with a blow torch.
“Sure. You can drop me off. Where do you live, Emily?” I asked.
“Um, just about a block from here. But Bri drives me anyway.” She glanced at him sideways.
“Of course I do. And we take the long way.” He tucked her hand in his jacket pocket, so he could find it again when he needed it. I only lived half a mile from the school but I wasn’t at all sure I could stand to be in the car with the two of them for that long.
After I strapped myself in the back seat, I worked on becoming invisible, but Emily turned around politely. “So, John, who are you asking to the prom?”
God. I knew Brian had gotten an affirmative answer to the Big Question, but I thought I’d made my own feelings on the subject clear to him. “I’m not going. I’m not much for school activities.”
“But Brian said we were doubling with you! We don’t know who else to double with!”
“I never said …”
Brian looked at me in the rearview. “John, we talked about this. Remember? The thing is, none of Emily’s close friends are going. I mean, they’re freshmen; they don’t have upperclass boyfriends.” Emily wriggled happily in her seat; she had one. “And you’re my best friend,” Brian continued. “Who else would we go with?”
Best? Only would be closer to the truth. “You need a chaperone? Why can’t you just go by your …”
“Oh, that’s no fun!” Emily shouted. “I mean, it’s a party. You want to be with friends!”
Jeez, Emily, calm down. “There’s nobody for me to ask. I don’t date anybody.”
“Maybe Emily could fix you up with one of her friends. This weekend. Then if you liked her …”
“Yeah!” Emily was dancing all over the front seat, her hair smacking Brian in the face. “What a great idea! My friend Jessica! You’d love her! Don’t you think, Bri? She’s really cute and—”
“Wait! Hold on! I don’t do fix-ups …”
“Yeah! Jessica!” Brian chimed in. Things were getting way out of control.
“No! No, really. I mean, maybe there is somebody I could ask. But no set-ups. Okay?”
Emily was disappointed; Brian curious. “Who would you ask? That Sarah person in pre-calc? I swear she’s got the hots …”
How did this happen? I had no intention of going to the Junior Prom. “I don’t know, Bri. Just let me think about it, would ya?” Thank God, we were at my house. My haven. My hiding place. I jumped out before Brian actually stopped the car.
“Great meeting you, Emily. Can’t wait for the show.” She smiled, happy to believe me. She was having a terrific freshman year.
“Call me, John,” Brian insisted. “Let me know about the weekend and, you know, everything.”
“Yeah, soon as I think it over.” I ran inside and slammed the door on the two strangers who’d driven me home. I was so glad to escape from Beaver Cleaver and his girlfriend, it took me a minute to realize that my normally quiet home was booming with rock music. What the hell was this? ABBA? Blasting from the den?
Never has my mind been more blown than by the sight that greeted me when I walked into the den. There was my mother, my sober, somber mother, dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of those tight, shiny knee pants, pedaling like a maniac on the old stationery bike that had been sitting in the corner since D
ad left. (I’d come to think of it as the correct place to hang a shirt I hoped she’d get around to ironing.) And she was singing, “Mamma Mia” at the top of her lungs.
She was too out of breath to hit the high notes, but she did seem to be enjoying herself. The music was so loud she hadn’t heard me come in, so I thought I’d better sneak back out—she’d be embarrassed to know I witnessed this exertion, and I’d be embarrassed that she was embarrassed. But just then she turned around and saw me. I guess she always knows when another warm body is nearby; her security system is on alert lest I come too close.
The bike slowed down. “Oh, Johnny! Whew! I didn’t hear you come in.”
She didn’t seem all that embarrassed. “I know. How come … ?”
She climbed stiffly off the bike and lowered the volume on the stereo, then bent over at the waist to stretch out. “Wow, I’m not used to this. I’ve been thinking lately I ought to put this bike to good use. It just sits here, and so do I, getting wider and wider.”
I shrugged. “You look the same to me.” Not that I paid much attention.
“I’m your mother; you wouldn’t notice. But with the wedding coming up and everything … well, people look at you. You should make some effort.”
Jeez, this wedding thing was a big deal to her. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. She was trying to get in shape to be married, like it was the big game or something.
She was out of breath, but there was a little smile on her face as she rocked her hips back and forth to that song about the dancing queen. I looked past her, out the window, though I couldn’t have told you what the hell was out there. It was too creepy to watch my mother acting like Jane Fonda in her sweaty little outfit.
“Your dad and I used to love this song. Doesn’t that seem funny now? He’s so sophisticated.”
You could have knocked me over. Mom never talks about Dad, and certainly not like that, happy and remembering something nice about him. I had to get out of there—it was too confusing—so I headed for the kitchen. “I guess so,” I called back. “By the way, I’m not going to Dad’s this weekend.”
I hadn’t reached the fridge before she was on my tail, a little close for comfort, I would have thought.
“You aren’t? How come? You go every weekend.”
“I know, but Brian’s play is this weekend. I told him I’d go.”
“Both nights?”
“Well, no, but it seems silly to go into town for just one night. I mean, do I have to go every weekend? Believe me, Dad won’t care.” Whoops. That was a clue I didn’t exactly want to give her, that Dad and I weren’t on the best of terms.
But she didn’t pick up on it; there was something else bothering her. “Well, no, you don’t have to go. I just assumed you’d be gone, but …” She bit her lip.
I still didn’t get it. “You don’t want me around?” I said, laughing. “You planning something illicit?”
The look on her face: like I’d caught her with a needle in her arm or something. Then I got it. Of course. Al must come over on weekends. They sleep together here so his old mother doesn’t get upset over there at the Haunted House. They can be alone here, but not if I stick around.
When she saw I was figuring it out, she rallied. “Of course there’s no problem with you staying here for the weekend. It’s your home, John.”
“Actually, it’s your home. Look, I don’t care if Al stays here. You’re going to be married to the guy pretty soon anyway. What difference does it make?” I thought I was being damn mature about the whole thing, especially since running into Al in the hallway in nothing but his Calvins was the grotesque image I was having to dislodge from my brain.
Mom turned around and got busy taking canisters out of the cabinet. “Hand me the margarine, would you, John? I’ll make some corn bread for supper. Wouldn’t that be good? I haven’t made corn bread for ages. I’ll thaw out that chili I put in the freezer …”
Her sex life was obviously not going to be on the table for discussion. She’d slammed the window back down on communication. I should have appreciated the few minutes she let me peek in. She rattled on about food, grabbed the margarine tub with two finger pads so as to have no contact with her son’s beefy hand.
I just stood there for a minute, hoping the heat of my sudden rage would scorch her too. What if I put these repugnant hands on her shoulders, or my arm around her waist, as old Al was certainly allowed to do? Probably every weekend for months now. Brian could kid around with his mother like that. She enjoyed it. But I couldn’t because … because I was his son, contaminated.
“Why don’t you go get your homework done before dinner?” she suggested. Get out of here was what she meant. I was happy to oblige. The sandpaper sound of her thighs brushing together in those oil slick shorts was making me sick.
As I picked up my pack where I’d dropped it in the den doorway, I heard ABBA belting out some song about how you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. Hah! That’s what they think.
* * *
It occurs to me that in my first three issues I didn’t explain the name of my zine. A couple of people have written to say that it’s impossible to have “no regrets,” so it’s kind of a silly name. They tell me everybody has regrets unless they’re some kind of Goody Two-Shoes. Unless their lives have been boringly trouble free. Unless they’re just plain stupid.
First of all, I’m not stupid. I don’t intend to publish my report cards here or some accolade from a teacher, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Whether I’m a Goody Two-Shoes or not, I can’t say. For one thing, I don’t really know what that is—somebody who’s constantly happy or tirelessly helpful to everybody? If so, that’s not me. I get tired and depressed just like everybody else. But if it means somebody who’d rather focus on the good stuff than wail about the bad, then I’ll have to accept the silly name.
As for having a trouble-free life, I haven’t. I hate even telling people this because they’re always so horrified by it, and don’t know what to say to me, but in a zine I guess it’s okay because you don’t have to say anything back to me unless you want to. My mother died when I was ten years old. That was the biggest, worst thing. There was other stuff too—my dad kind of freaked out on booze for a while, and my older sister got crazy and wild. But those things straightened out, and we’re all okay now. The only thing that can never change is death—that you just have to live with.
If you still have both your parents, you can’t imagine how much it hurts when one of them dies, or how frightened you feel. I was so young I didn’t really understand death (I guess I still don’t), and I kept thinking my mother would come back somehow, even though I knew she couldn’t. Maybe death is too big a thing for anybody to really get a handle on, but when you’re ten and the person who dies is your mother who you love so much, it’s like being in the middle of a tornado that just won’t stop ripping you apart. Except that finally it does. Finally the wind dies down and you’re still standing.
So you’re probably saying, doesn’t she regret that her mother died? Wouldn’t she like to have her back? Of course I would, but my regrets won’t accomplish that, will they? I don’t regret my time in the tornado either, because it made me who I am today: someone who knows she can weather anything. So when I say “no regrets” I mean there’s no reason to look back, wishing you could change things. I do look back with sadness sometimes, but just as often I remember the happy times I had with my mother. And I always look to the future with hope. If you have no regrets, you stop wishing you could rearrange your past, and you start looking forward to whatever is up ahead.
–Diana Tree
That was the first page of the new issue of No Regrets I’d picked up over the weekend. Not the kind of run-together, first-thing-that-comes-to-my-mind stuff that she usually wrote, but, even more than her other writing, it gave me the feeling I really knew this Diana person. Like she was telling me all this stuff in a conversation with me alone, not in a zine
read by a hundred other people. Not that I really believed what she was saying. But I believed she believed what she was saying.
Without giving it much thought, I sat down at the computer and went into my word-processing program. I wrote:
Dear Diana,
Why is it that people don’t know what to say when something bad has happened to someone they know? Maybe because they think there are some magic words that will make everything all right again, only they don’t know what the words are. They ought to understand that there isn’t anything right to say. Mostly they need to just sit there and listen.
When my father walked out on my mother, her best friend didn’t want to talk about it. I remember she kept saying (I was always in the next room, listening to everything the adults said, trying to figure it all out), “Let’s not dwell on it, Anne. Don’t get down in the dumps.” Those weren’t the magic words. My mother started hanging around with another woman she knew who’d listen to her sad story over and over, about how she never saw it coming, how she didn’t know if she’d survive. (I guess she was in a kind of tornado too.)
She did survive, but I think she’d say she has some regrets, even now, when she’s planning to get married again. I have some regrets too. Can’t help it. I wish she’d married someone else to begin with. Of course, I’d be a different person, but how bad could that be? Without the part of me contributed by my father, maybe I’d be less of a jerk. I’m pretty sure being a jerk is genetic, so it’s probably lucky I don’t have any siblings.
I don’t think you’re stupid or a Goody Two-Shoes. I do think it’s kind of amazing that you’re so optimistic about life, considering what you’ve gone through. From the outside my life probably looks like it’s been a lot easier than yours, but it still seems to me that it basically sucks. Why do you think you didn’t let the whole thing get you down? I’d really like to know. I guess you can tell: I’m looking for magic words too.