Laura Adamczyk - Hardly Children

It doesn’t mean we don’t love them, Emily said, her voice quiet and explanatory. But surely we can wait. I’ve got so much going on before March.

Joan took a long breath in and out, putting a hand to her forehead. I just know if we don’t do it now, we’re never going to do it, she said. It threw me how strong her feelings could be—her voice a heated whisper—when they were so different from my own.

Months later, at Em’s wedding reception in Gold Room B of the downtown La Quinta, Joan told us she’d done it herself.

I’m sorry that you were too busy having a shower, she nodded to Emily, and partying with children, she wiggled her fingers at me, but I couldn’t wait.

You had no right to do that, Emily said.

I had to.

We asked you to wait.

I told you we couldn’t. They’re our parents.

I wanted to say, Were , were our parents, but I was trying to resist any feelings that might put me in the coatroom for the rest of the night.

And where are you partying? Emily turned to me.

And who uses “party” as a verb anymore? I asked.

They both gave me a look that said, Now is not the time to get smart .

Luckily, Will bounded up just then, his suit jacket missing and his tie threatening escape. Sorry, ladies, he said, but I’ve got to take my lady . Before I could tell him that he needed to work on his delivery, he whisked Emily away to cut the cake into its separate pieces.

One week, two weeks, two months later, Joan didn’t call us, so we didn’t call her. Or, we didn’t call her, so she didn’t call us. I know it’s silly for it to still matter, but it’s hard to break the status quo, no matter the status, and I’m not really the leader of this outfit. It all leaves me with that morning-after-Christmas feeling—seeing our unwrapped presents stacked individually in Em’s old living room, the tree heavy with inherited ornaments. That’s the thing about Christmas. I love the trees and the lights and the garland, but I want to take it all down as soon as it’s over.

I ALWAYS FEELa little odd driving us anywhere. Like I’m underage or drunk or otherwise unfit.

Emily’s got her phone to her ear, listening to a voicemail, and I can hear a deep voice unfolding from the tiny speaker. She closes her phone and puts it in her bag.

Was that La Quinta? I ask.

I’ve taken to calling her mystery dude “La Quinta,” which brings to mind a man with a thin, dark mustache and bolero jacket. I imagine him saying Emily like Em-ee-lee , each syllable a sexy little secret between the two of them. In reality, he probably has adult acne and wears a lot of polos.

We’re not talking anymore, she says, and looks out the window.

Who was it then?

My doctor’s office.

What do they want?

For me to call them.

What for?

I don’t know. She digs around in her purse and then pulls out a tube of chapstick.

Aren’t you going to call them?

Later.

You can call them now. I don’t mind.

That’s okay. She rubs the balm over her lips then replaces the cap as on a stick of glue.

I park in the back at the Salvation Army. We open up the double doors. The warehouse is scattered with piles and piles of stuff. Clothes, housewares, books. No shelving, no clothes racks, just pile after pile, like an industrial yard full of garbage waiting for a band of hoboes to come along and set it all on fire.

This is the wrong one, Emily says.

No it’s not, I reply.

She drops her shoulders. You’ve got to be kidding me.

There are two Salvation Armies in town. The regular one, the one with eighties blazers and bins full of balled-up scarves, and the reject one, the one that takes all the stuff that doesn’t sell at the regular Sal’s. We’re at the reject one, the one that sells by the pound.

I approach a pile. Shoes without their mates, bras the color of stained teeth. I pick up a vase.

Look at this vase ! I hold it up like a trophy. It’s purple with two turquoise dolphins on either side. They’re curved into S’s with their heads pointed up, mouths open in smiles.

That’s nice, Emily says.

Don’t you love it? I can’t believe it didn’t sell at the other place.

It’s truly a wonder, she says.

I wonder how much it costs. I weigh it in my hand.

You’re not buying that.

I want it.

You’re not bringing that thing into my home.

But look at them—they’re making a heart with their bodies. Their dolphin bodies. They’re saying, I love you, other dolphin!

I don’t care what they’re saying.

They’re mammals, I reply, as though their possible relation to eels were causing the holdup.

She stuffs her hands into her shorts and walks down the way, too quickly to really look at anything.

I get back to the pile. I tuck the vase beneath my armpit so I can pick up an old rubber doormat, but when I stand to examine it, the vase takes a dive to the floor, and one of the dolphins cracks off. At the far wall, an employee heaves a bag of garbage over his shoulder and walks toward the exit. I push the vase pieces back into the pile with my foot, hoping they’ll be able to keep themselves together in all that mess.

I SKIPPED A COUPLE OF DAYSof washing my hair, so when I shower this afternoon, gobs and gobs come out. I pick it from my palms and place each strand on the tile. Emily works the four-to-midnight shift, and most days I manage to get in before her. It’s just that sometimes the hair dries. It curls away from the tile and falls to the tub with all the intention of leaves from trees.

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO TALK

It seems clear, but I worry about how she might fill it in: I have the number for a great therapist. You should try journaling. Maybe Will was just kidding!

I LIVE DOWN THE HALL

And I can’t help but wonder how long it will be true. That maybe if I don’t break any of her vases, she’ll keep me on as a partner, a sort of life assistant. Sometimes I go to the store and buy these gluten-free crackers I know she likes (though I often end up eating half of them when I’m home alone). I let the water run a half hour more and splash some onto the wall to make sure my message doesn’t fall away.

A COUPLE OF DAYS LATEREmily and I are lying out on the side of the La Quinta swimming pool. Short green bushes run along the perimeter, and on the other side of them we can see the tops of semis as they drive by. It’s barely eleven on a Monday and we’re the only ones out here. Tiny speakers hidden in the bushes pump out crackly dance tunes—a little Motown, a little funk. A man is singing about how his woman is as sweet as or sweeter than honey.

Emily’s wearing a white short-sleeve button-up and a pair of loose chambray pants. When we arrived and she didn’t undress, she said that even on her day off, her employees should not see her in a bathing suit.

You’re going to get an awful farmer’s tan, I said.

She only shrugged and opened up a magazine.

Hey, Emily, check this out. I stand up and take a running dive into the deep end of the pool. When I come to the surface and look up, her head is still tilted down, her eyes covered by her big sunglasses.

Did I splash?

You jumped into a pool of water. Of course you splashed.

But a big one? I ask, hoisting myself up onto the side of the pool.

Yeah, a big one.

I want her to rank me—8.3, 9.2. Like I said, these small things, these seemingly small things, are important. I walk over to the table between our chairs and open up a bag of salt and vinegar chips. There’s something satisfying about my body dripping wet and the chips being dry and crisp inside their bag.