Everything We Didn't Say(31)

“You don’t have to make me breakfast,” I say, but she’s already slathering salted butter on a thick hunk of bread and reaching for the raspberry jam. In a few more seconds she slides the plate to me, open-faced sandwich cut in two triangles just the way I like it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There’s a bag in the fridge with your lunch.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say around a mouthful, but she waves me off.

“It’s just leftovers. Don’t get too excited.”

I eat in silence for a few moments, and Mom just watches me. I can feel her gaze, but it’s a soft touch, a caress. It hits me that I’ll miss these moments with her when I’m gone.

“You wanted to talk to me about something?” I ask when I’m down to my last few bites. Mom needs to be prompted sometimes, to be encouraged to articulate the thoughts that whir so quickly, so quietly behind her dark eyes. And a hasty glance at the clock on the wall behind her tells me I don’t have much time.

“I did?”

“You came into the bathroom the other day when I was showering,” I remind her. “I thought you were going to yell at me about grad night.”

“Oh.” She waves her hand. “I don’t remember. It must not have been a big deal.”

I get up from the counter and rinse my plate at the sink before sticking it in the dishwasher. The air in our home hasn’t been clear for days (weeks?), and I feel like Mom knows it. I just can’t understand why she won’t talk to me about it.

“You okay?” I give her my full attention for a moment, admiring the single white streak that sweeps from her temple and weaves its way through her braid. She doesn’t bother to hide it, and there’s a certain confidence, even rebelliousness in that. I heard Law tell her once to color it, and she laughed. “I earned it,” she said. The thought makes me smile now.

“Fine, fine.” Mom’s lips curl to match mine, but her eyes are sad.

“You don’t seem fine.” I wrap my arms around her neck and hang on tight for a moment. She smells of oatmeal soap and fresh mint from the sprig she puts in her morning tea. There’s a ceramic pot of peppermint in the window above the sink, and she clips and crushes a few leaves in her steaming mug every morning. The aroma of it brewing is the smell of my childhood. I breathe her in, let go. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I just haven’t seen much of you these last few days. Gotta soak up the time we have before it’s gone, right?”

She means before I’m gone, and I feel a stab of guilt. “I’m going to college,” I remind her, “not dying.”

“God forbid.” She laughs.

It feels wrong to leave her in such a strange mood, but I don’t really have a choice. I need to arrive at the community center by eight thirty to set up for the first class at nine, and I’m already running late. I leave with a promise to help her in the garden (my mother’s love language) on Saturday and drive faster than strictly necessary on my way into town, shaking off my worries as I go.

I unlock the double doors of the community center and bypass the gym to climb the wide staircase at one end of the building. At the top is the banquet hall turned art studio, a monstrosity of a room that spans the entire footprint of the gym below. Brick columns hold up the high ceiling, and tall, narrow windows span the entire south side. It’s amazing in the morning when the sunshine pours in and the dust mites dance in the golden glow. Shelves have been built against the north wall and they’re sagging beneath the weight of jars of paint, boxes of fresh canvas, and plastic totes filled with everything from cracked crayons to old buttons.

My first task is to set out cups of water to clean the brushes, refill the palettes, and make sure everything is ready to go when Tanya, the Arts and Crafts Director, breezes in just a couple minutes after nine.

At the end of my last shift I had left a wide tray with plastic cups on the counter next to the sink, and I start there now, filling each container half-full of water. I’ve never really considered the state of Jericho’s water, but after my conversation with Sullivan, I find myself watching the faucet with a critical eye. I can’t help myself—I lift one of the cups to my nose and sniff. It smells like chlorine to me, and faintly medicinal, not at all like our well water, which is trace mineral and earth. We run it through a water purifier, but the smell lingers.

City water is different. It’s pumped through the water treatment plant, of course, and we all trust it comes out the other side safe and drinkable. Last spring they flushed the water main and for an entire afternoon the water ran brown. It smelled sharp and dirty then, like rust and damp cellars. Unhealthy. And a couple of years ago there was a notice about nitrates in the water. Pregnant women, small children, and the elderly were advised to drink bottled water instead. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but Sullivan’s story of poisoned wells fills me with a sense of helplessness.

“Hiya, June!”

I turn to see one of the campers skipping toward me, blond pigtails bouncing. She’s often the first through the doors in the morning, and I give her a big smile, shaking off any lingering doubts about the quality of Jericho’s water. “Good morning! Wanna help?”



* * *



The day passes in a blur of activity and the never-ending chatter of small children, bright dust, and spilled paint. After Tanya has left and I’ve locked up, I sit on the steps outside the community center and let the late afternoon sun raise goose bumps across my skin. Heat can do that—can make you shiver—just as surely as cold. I rub my arms to get rid of the prickling sensation and study Jericho spread out before me.