Kristan Higgins - Now That You Mention It

I went up the stairs, one at a time, Boomer trying to help, running up and down, nearly killing me. The bird flew right at my head, either attacking me or trying to nest in my hair. “Jesus! Get away, Tweety!” He zoomed past again, and Boomer lunged. “No, Boomer! Down.” Imagine if my dog ate my mother’s favorite living creature on my first day home.

“No bird,” I told him, and he looked deeply ashamed. Luckily, my mom called for Tweety, and the creepy little thing whizzed past again, diving at Boomer, who ducked, this time and went into the kitchen.

By the time I made it to the top, I was drenched in sweat and in a bonfire of pain. God, my ribs were killing me! And my back. And my knee! And my stupid collarbone. I was one giant ball of hurt.

I went into my room. Poe had taken my old bed, based on the snarl of sheets. The other bed, once Lily’s, was covered in clothes, magazines, makeup.

Poe came in with my suitcases and dropped them.

“You’ll need to clear off that bed,” I said.

“Then where am I supposed to put my stuff?”

“The bureau? The closet? The trash? I don’t know, honey, but I have to sleep there. Let’s try to get along, okay? I’ll be here all summer.”

“I have to share a room with my elderly aunt all summer? Do I have to rub lotion on your feet and Tiger Balm on your shoulder, too?”

“I was hoping you’d shave off my corns.”

“Jesus!”

“Poe. I’m kidding. And I’m not elderly, okay? I’m thirty-five. I’ll rent a place as soon as I can get around on my own. If I sleep well and don’t break another bone tripping on your crap, I’ll get out of here sooner. See? Clearing off the bed works in both our interests.”

“Whatever.”

My eye twitched. “Would you please get me a glass of water?” I asked sweetly. “I have to take some medication.” I cleared a spot on the bed, then used my crutch to snag my purse as Poe went into the bathroom. She returned instantly with a slightly grubby glass filled with water which, if experience was an indicator, would be tepid, since she didn’t run the water beforehand.

It was lukewarm, all right, but my knee was on fire, and my left arm felt like lead. I swallowed a pill. Poe picked up the bottle. “Oh, the good stuff,” she said. “No generics for you doctors, I guess. Can I have one?”

“Put that down and stay away from it.”

“I was kidding. Jesus.” She stomped down the stairs.

Boomer came up and nuzzled my hand. “You love me, right?” I asked. He licked my hand in affirmation.

The travel and stress of my injuries caught up with me. I lay back against Poe’s clothes and closed my eyes. To my surprise, tears leaked out. Though he didn’t deserve it, I missed Bobby. I missed Boston. I missed Roseline and the hospital and Dr. Breckenridge, that old flirt.

I missed my old life and the old me, the way things were before, when Bobby and I were still new and life seemed so perfect and clean and pure.

I wasn’t wanted here. There was a pretty huge chance that coming back had been a big mistake.

5

With all the speed of an elderly slug, the first week passed. Poe had a habit of sleeping through her alarm (a lovely little ditty called “Black Dying Rose,” which consisted of someone screaming so hard I imagined he’d eventually cause variceal hemorrhaging). Somehow, Poe wasn’t jolted into a state of terror as I was, so I had to throw my pillow at her every morning.

“What? God!” was her customary greeting. Then she’d stumble about the room, tossing clothes, grumbling, accusing me of moving her stuff, before using up all the hot water in her way-too-long shower. She’d stomp downstairs like Hagrid the giant, refuse to eat breakfast, then get in the car with my mother, who dropped her at school on the way to the hotel. At least they let Boomer out on their way.

My dog loved it here. He’d come in after a half an hour of romping in the woods, burs or twigs stuck in his feathery fur. I’d brush him as best I could with my good arm, Boomer crooning as I did so, going into his doggy trance.

My knee was already a lot better, though too much weight on it still made me see stars. The collarbone would take a little longer, but the pain had subsided to a dull ache.

I napped. I read. I watched three seasons of House of Cards. I was recovering from a shock, I told myself, and not just lazy. Tweety watched my every move and, if my guess was right, whispered my activities to my mother later in the day.

But being lazy felt pretty good. I was also starting to feel...safe. Since the Big Bad Event, I’d put a lot of effort into life, especially where Bobby was concerned—trying not to be too much of a downer, to have something interesting to say, to save pajamas for actual bedtime, to pretend I didn’t mind his nights out with friends, when Boomer and I would lock every window no matter what the weather was and stick a chair in front of the door, too.

Here, it was surprisingly great to do nothing. Being alone in my childhood home didn’t freak me out the same way being alone in Boston had.

At night, after a supper of Food That Would Keep Us Alive, Tweety occasionally eating a piece of bread from my mother’s lips, as I struggled not to dry heave or mention bird-borne pathogens, I’d ask Poe if she wanted to play Scrabble or Apples to Apples or Monopoly. Shockingly, she did not and would go upstairs to listen to more screamo music. I’d take a Vicodin in lieu of a glass of wine, put an ice pack on my knee and watch Wheel of Fortune with my mother. Chatting was not allowed, though shouting out the answer was. Mom beat me every time.

On the eighth night of my exciting new life, Boomer and I were on the couch, and Bernard from Duluth, Georgia, had finally managed to figure out CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS four letters after my mother had, winning a vacation to Hawaii. Mom clicked off the TV and went into the den, Tweety swooping in from somewhere to land on her head. Gah.

Fun was over. I decided to seek out company and distraction in cyberspace.

Shit. My laptop was upstairs. “Poe?” I called over the music. “Would you mind bringing me my computer, honey?”

Nothing. I waited ten seconds.

“Poe?”

“I’m coming! I answered you already. Jesus.” Eight angry thuds shook the house as she came down the stairs. She practically threw the computer at me.

“Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

She stomped back upstairs.

Was it wrong to want to kick one’s niece? It probably was. I forced myself to smile, stroked Boomer’s ears, took a cleansing breath and reminded myself that Poe was going through a hard time. Her whole life had been hard. Maybe. I didn’t really know, did I?

But my sister was in jail, Poe was far, far away from her friends, and last night, I’d forgotten to bring a towel into the bathroom, so she had to see me lying in the tub with only a washcloth for cover, which is pretty much every teenager’s most horrible nightmare.

One of these days, though, I’d win her over (pause for laughter).

I opened my email. Ah, there was a funny note from Roseline asking me about hot lobstermen (none), my mother, Boomer, my niece. She’d also attached a picture of herself with a huge smile on her face, holding up a little voodoo doll of Bobby—I could tell, because he was wearing scrubs and a mask, and Roseline had written Bobby on his shirt. Adorably, he was stuck full of pins.

My ancestors have your back! read Roseline’s note. Bobby should be coming down with explosive diarrhea any second.

I snorted. Aw! You’re the best, I typed. Also, Harvard wants their degree back. Everything is fine here. I heart Vicodin! My mother’s bird is trying to kill me. Send help.

I started to type more, then realized I didn’t have a lot to say. The truth about my mom and Poe would concern her—We barely talk, but they’re tolerating me! Besides, I had a stiff upper lip now. I didn’t whine or complain, because I wasn’t a smear on the pavement with a bouquet of flowers marking the spot I’d died. I was alive! Yay. Besides, it was only my first week (plus one day). So I just asked her questions about Amir and married life and if she’d had any fun baby deliveries lately.