Please Don't, page 6
It’s Molly, cutting the lawn.
I snatch some clothes off the floor. My Larry Johnson Charlotte Hornets jersey, jogging pants. I’m mumbling to myself as I hit the steps. “It’s our freaking day off.”
A mechanical groan comes from the kitchen. I kick an empty wine box and it goes skidding across the floor. Wads of paper towels lay behind the couch, and a row of jars and glasses on the mantel make up her fly farm. I turn off the lamp, its glow useless against the morning sun. On the side table is a legal pad, some adult coloring books, and a mound of spent tissues, soaked to a ball from her tears.
Then I enter the kitchen.
Shining counters. Clean, empty sink. The mail is neatly stacked, and all the empty water bottles, socks, magazines, and Fig Newton wrappers are gone. The peppery gunk from last night’s cooking fiasco has been scrubbed, and someone’s taken out the trash. The burnt smell is replaced by a faint lemony scent. I realize the groaning noise is the sound the dishwasher makes when it’s in use. Huh.
It looks like old times. Clean the way Dad liked it. I remember some epic fights in this kitchen. When I was in middle school Mom was just starting to show a glitch in the system. Little stuff, like walking home from the grocery store because she didn’t feel like driving. Or when she quit using laundry detergent because of chemicals. How she liked to climb out on the roof at night and study the stars. I joined her a few times, trying to tap a telescope into her head, to understand what she was seeing, what was happening to her.
Anyway, one night, I was maybe eleven, Mom and Dad came home from some company party with Dad and the office guys. Dad was furious with Mom about getting drunk and, as he put it, “making an ass out of yourself.”
It seems like nothing now, but back then it was like the world was coming to an end. I was standing in the doorway with the babysitter, watching my parents, all dressed up and sloppy drunk, cursing at each other. I think it was the first time I’d seen my mom like that, swaying on her feet, her eyelids heavy and her glass of wine spilling as she nearly tipped over. I remember at the time thinking, what happened to my beautiful mom?
Dad wasn’t doing any better, flushed and sweating with too much white in his eyes. He looked like a troll, thrashing all over the place, livid about Mom dancing with some guy. They went on for ten or twenty minutes before either of them saw me or the babysitter watching them. Twenty minutes, but something changed between my dad and I forever. I could never look at him without thinking about that night.
I shake off the memory and find the school board letter. I stick it on the fridge, in plain sight, then snatch a water. A quick glance out back. Yeah, Molly, out there on the clock, her diagonal mowing pattern shimmering in the freshly trimmed grass. I’m about to run out and stop her, but why? She wants to help. Her arms, dark from the days in the sun, flex with movement. Her hair is set up in a loose bun instead of the usual ponytail she wears at work. Her face is tight with concentration. I can’t help wondering what’s going on in her head.
I’m still standing there watching when I hear something behind me.
I turn to find Molly’s mom. She peeks up at me with a shy smile. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me watch Molly. I feel my face flush hot. “Oh, good morning.” I clear my throat. “Um, did you…did you clean all this?” I motion to the counters.
She nods, her gaze scanning the floor.
It looks amazing. “Thank you so much. And thanks for taking care of my mom last night.”
“She’s…nice?”
I nod. “Um, yeah.”
I wolf down a bowl of Fruit Loops while Molly takes on the backyard. By the time she starts fiddling with the trimmer, it’s all I can take. I storm out and motion for her to hand it over. “You know it’s Saturday, right?”
She shrugs. I shake my head. Molly hangs around while I trim and soon we’re doing what we do: raking and weeding. We tackle the flower beds then shore up the crepe myrtles. The sun climbs and it gets hot. But even though it’s Saturday it feels good to fix up the yard, to work at our own pace.
We don’t say much as we tidy up the potted plants, edge the patio. We wash the sludge off the back windows and work our way along the side yard to the front, cleaning up the pavers and ripping out weeds.
I get into it, the sun and the dirt and it doesn’t even feel like work. I find some tools and tighten up the bolts of the swing set. I’m yanking out a vine from the boxwoods around the side when Cora walks up on me.
“Hey there. I heard some laughing and so I came around.”
“Oh.” I wipe my face. Molly, on the other side, stands and squints, then makes a move for the patio. Cora watches closely then sort of hisses at me. “What is she doing here?”
“Who? Molly? Oh, she’s helping me in the yard.”
Cora tosses her blonde hair back and I catch a familiar scent. I realize how ridiculous my response sounds. Molly retreats inside. Cora’s eyes flash. “She just walks into your house like that?”
“So, what’s up?” I say, trying to force some normality into the conversation. Cora shakes her head, checking her phone, then eyes the back door again. I pick at a thorn lodged in the skin between my thumb and index finger. I’m thinking it’s way too early for Cora to be here, until I realize it’s nearly lunchtime.
“Well, I wanted to see if you were coming out to Jackson’s tonight. Or ever, really.”
Jackson’s parents go out of town approximately every four days, so his lake house is the spot to crash. It used to be fun, but now, I can’t imagine hanging out with the old crowd. I wipe my brow. “I don’t know. Mom’s having one of her writer get-togethers, I better stick around and make sure nothing gets out of hand.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that sounds like a blast.” She looks over my shoulder, to the house. “Anyway, I think my sweater is here. And some other stuff.”
“Oh, um…”
It’s not that I want to hide Molly and her family, but I don’t have the energy to go through it with Cora. Only a few moments ago it was a peaceful Saturday morning. Now, it’s gone.
I get the thorn then wipe my hands on my shorts. “Well, I’ll have to look for it, do you need it right now?”
Cora’s mouth parts. She glares at me in disbelief before shifting into her world-famous pout. “What, I’m not allowed inside now? What’s going on, Nat?”
“Nothing is going on; the house is a mess right now. I’ll run in, okay?”
She crosses her arms. “It’s always a mess.”
“Just, stay here. Please.”
Cora huffs as I hold my hands up and turn for the door. Inside, Molly and her sisters are at the kitchen table. The girls are coloring pictures, and I catch a whiff of laundry coming from near the garage. The house is not a mess at all, but completely shining from floor to ceiling. I think I even hear the dryer running.
“Hey,” I say to the girls.
“Hi Giant.”
Molly doesn’t look up, and for no reason at all I start explaining myself. “I just need to get her stuff.”
“Whose stuff?” Ana asks.
“A friend. I mean, an old friend, or…”
Molly looks up, smirking, taking joy in my struggle with such a simple question.
“Oh,” Ana says, getting back to her coloring. While Ashley has drawn daisies and sunflowers, a closer look at Ana’s work reveals what looks like Godzilla wielding a sword dripping with what I hope are cherries.
“That’s pretty good,” I say, because it is. It’s also graphic.
Her smile lights up the room. “Thanks. This is a lightsaber.”
“Nice.”
Ana turns to Molly. “See, he likes it.”
Molly gives her sister an absent nod. I rush off to find Cora’s stuff.
In my room, I sift through the closet and I find the sweater, a sweater at least, a pair of flats, tiny shorts, and a Hollins University sweatshirt. It will have to do. I bundle it up, catching a scent of my old life. I realize I still have mulch and dirt all over my hands. Oops.
A quick peek in Mom’s door. She’s a lump on the bed. A good thing because the last thing I need is Mom in this equation.
I rush down the stairs, round the corner and I’m trying to roll over the sweatshirt I’ve probably ruined when I find Cora. She roams the kitchen with an air of ownership. Her head is cocked, taking in the scene. Molly sits without expression. Her sisters are smiling.
“You didn’t tell me you had houseguests,” Cora says, her words oozing with bitchy cheeriness.
“Oh, yeah. Um, this is Molly Martinez.”
Cora smiles at me. “We’ve met.”
“And her sisters, Ana and Ashley.”
“Hello,” Ashley says looking up. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks,” Cora says, running her hand through it. Then to me, “Can we talk?”
I shrug, still holding the wad of clothes. We head to the living room. Once we’re far enough away, Cora takes my arm. “Okay just…what, the absolute—”
“Cora.” I drop the clothes on the couch, mulch and all.
“Nat. Do they live here now? Like, with you?”
Her voice, the way she says it, it puts heat in my face. I don’t care about what she thinks but more what she might say. I shake my head. “I work with Molly. They were evicted, so…keep your voice down, okay?”
“Keep my voice down?” She stamps her foot. “Are you kidding me. That’s all you have to say? After what we’ve been through?”
This from the girl who was out of my life the minute I got expelled. When everything collapsed, she pretended like she didn’t know. Or she knew but didn’t care enough to put her parties on hold and see how I was doing. A few texts and that was it. She didn’t even call.
I cut my eyes back to the kitchen. “Cora, come on.”
She closes her eyes, crosses her arms and sighs. “Amazing. You’re dropping out of school. You’re cutting grass. Now what, you’re running an immigration center over here?”
“Okay.” It’s all I can do not to grab her by the arm and escort her out. Instead I march over to the front door. “We’re done.”
“Excuse me?”
I throw my hands out. “We’re done.”
“I don’t believe this. So you’re like, with her now?”
In the kitchen, Ana and Ashley break into laughter. Molly shushes them, and it’s all I can take, Cora being here. I scoop up the clothes and haul them to the door. Cora follows. “How cute, you two landscaping all day then coming home together.”
She follows me down the steps, all the way out to the car, feet stomping and arms swinging. “Seriously, I mean, the future is bright for you, Nat. Really, it is.”
I throw the clothes in her car. “Goodbye.”
She just stares at me, like she can’t believe I’m not begging her to stay like I used to. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t,” she says, getting in her car. She slams the door. Of course Chet and Chase are in their yard, gawking. Cora starts the car, puts it in gear. She sets her sunglasses on her head. “You’re a joke.”
“Bye Cora.”
I get myself together in the backyard. When I get back to the kitchen, Ana stands on the chair and presents her finished drawing. Godzilla and a giant Darth Vader, dueling to the death with lightsabers. Giant Darth Vader looks like he’s getting the best of poor Godzilla, who’s missing a leg.
My face is hot, my breath still shaky, but I nod and hang the masterpiece on the fridge, right over the school board letter. Molly gets to her feet and starts for the other room.
“Hey.” I rub the back of my head where I’ve broken out in a fresh sweat. It’s all too weird, the collision of my old life with my new one. Molly only half turns her face to me. Ashley is asking why her flowers aren’t up on the fridge.
Molly snaps at her. “Ash, not now, okay?”
“No, it’s fine. Plenty of room.” I leap into action, scrambling to find a place near the ice dispenser. The bills fall to the floor and I kick them out of the way. “There.”
When I turn around, Molly is gone.
10
Mom wakes up around three that afternoon. Outside her bedroom door sits a neat pile of folded laundry. She picks up a stack of shirts and buries her face in it, looks at me, and smiles.
I have no idea how Mrs. Martinez fixed the dryer, but Mom is thrilled, and inspired too. A rare whirlwind of productiveness gets underway at our house. Mom washes clothes—her real clothes, not nursing scrubs—clothes I haven’t seen in months. She cleans her bathroom. A can of Pledge materializes on her dresser. On her bedside table sits a Spanish-to-English book.
I wander around the house, pretending I’m not looking for Molly. I feel this irresistible need to apologize to her, but the door to her room stays shut. I don’t want to knock because it would be too awkward. Instead, I shoot some jump shots in the driveway.
A few hours later, Mom’s writer nerds start showing up. I help carry in finger foods and drinks and soon, with the house put back together it almost feels like it belongs in the neighborhood. Good old Gary organized this little writer’s circle, and he looks proud as he presents Mom with a bottle of wine. She takes off for the kitchen, and I introduce Gary to Ana and Ashley.
Ana leaps onto me and I swing her by the arms. “These two little munchkins are our resident artists.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard a lot about you both,” he says with a shaky smile. He’s obviously still uncomfortable with our situation, but it’s sort of hard to look Ana in the eye and not melt. Even when she presents her latest drawing of death and dismemberment.
Soon Mom’s party gets popping. Jazz and wine, cheese and crackers, maybe ten writers in the house. There’s plenty of drinks to go around, and they all take their time discussing politics and movies with the cocktails before settling in for praise and constructive criticism about their respective works in progress.
I do some blog stalking in my room, but the people-watching downstairs is too tempting. I wander down and hang out in the kitchen, helping where I can. Honestly, I like these little get-togethers. It’s nice for Mom to socialize, even if some of these writer types are a bit, um, eccentric. Like Crime-Writer Carol, who does everything besides pinch my cheeks as she marvels over how much I look like my mom. I don’t see it, then again, I’m not guzzling sangria.
Gary gets to his feet and clears his throat. He smiles at Mom then clinks his glass to make an announcement. Tonight, he’s rocking a yellow button-down shirt and brown corduroys. He takes the floor and, after some throat clearing and hair fixing, says, “I’d like to make a little announcement. My collection of essays, Impressions of a Dead Capitalist, has been accepted for publication.”
Polite applause. Mom takes his hand and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. Gary’s week has been made. They break for drinks and snacks. I find a spot on the couch near Colin, a scruffy poet, and Lydia, a cuteish twenty-something who’s been here a couple of times before. Gary dribbles ranch dressing on his shirt. Things get festive.
One of Mom’s favorite activities is to have people “bring her writing to life.” And it looks as though Gary has been nabbed for the role of Clyde Clisbee, the wacky protagonist from her latest scrawl-in-progress. Gary looks at me and I shrug.
Carol is assigned the role of flirty older woman. Mom directs traffic with the zeal of a dictator. “Okay, now Clyde, you find her at the church, this is just after the raid, and you help her to her feet.”
It’s hard to watch. I turn for the garage again, still cracking up about Gary in that cowboy hat, when I spot a figure in the doorway. Molly, in a tank top and shorts, looking lost. She motions to the door and whispers, “I was just finishing up the laundry.”
The girls must be asleep in their room. I haven’t seen Mrs. Martinez, so maybe she’s at work. Molly sees me laughing and smiles, her eyes bright and curious as the garage light gleams off her smooth bare shoulders, not that I’m noticing. She leans forward, sensing a conspiracy. “What?”
I take her hand. “Come on, you’ve got to see this.”
She pulls her hand away. “What? No way.”
“Trust me.”
She looks up suddenly, her face tight. It reminds me of earlier this morning with Cora. But then the living room erupts with laughter, and Molly cranes her neck to look around me, a small smile blooming on her face.
“Okay, what are they doing?”
I lead her to the living room. We peer around the doorway, looking on as Carol sips her sangria from a glass the size of a flower vase, smacks her lips, and holds her hand to her throat in mock terror. “Okay, I’ll tell you, just please don’t ravage me.”
Mom feeds Gary his lines. “You take her hand and say, ‘Are you all right, Madam?’”
Gary nods, like a robot. He clears his throat and reads his lines mechanically, “Are. You. All. Right. Madam?”
Molly snorts so loud everyone turns to us. She ducks behind me as Mom spins around. “Nat? Molly?”
Molly digs her fingers into my arm as she peeks out. “Hi Mrs. Reams. I was just…”
“Over here, both of you,” Mom snaps then turns to the guests. Gary fixes what hair he has left above his ears. Mom flutters our way, taking Molly by the hand. “This is Molly, isn’t she something? She and her family are staying with us!”
The guests all nod and appraise Molly. She stares at the floor as Carol grins at us before she convulses with a hiccup. I roll my eyes, but then Mom yanks me into the room. “Okay, I have just the lines for you two.”
I shake my head. “Mom, we’re not. No.”
Gary laughs, happy to be offstage. Mom looks insulted. “What Nat, you don’t want to partake?”
Molly’s eyes are moons. She freezes, looking terrified as Mom sweeps us ahead, front and center until I turn and face her. “Mom, no, she doesn’t want to…”
To my surprise, Molly recovers with a smile. She stares at me, then turns to Mom. “Sure Mrs. Reams. I’ll do a scene.”
