Hope and Other Punch Lines(46)
Or maybe it turns out Noah doesn’t make me that brave after all.
“So you and Abbi sat there and watched all of Harold and Kumar? Are you shitting me right now?” Jack asks, and I immediately regret having told him anything. We are at my house, and Jack sits perched on the kitchen counter while I raid the cabinets for something to eat. My mom usually hides the good stuff behind Phil’s shredded wheat. My back is to him, but I can hear Jack cracking up. “You got all the way to the end, when they finally get their White Castle, and you just sat there watching John Cho and Kal Penn chow down? That is so sad, man.”
“Leave me alone,” I say. I grab some sour cream and onion potato chips. I think about Abbi on my couch. Her brown eyes. Her legs crossed, her toenails painted with glitter. How badly I wanted to touch her thigh. Kiss her. Tuck one of her curls behind her ear, which is a move I’ve always wanted to try and probably never will. Because I’m a coward. And an idiot.
“You should invite her over tomorrow to watch A Very Harold and Kumar 3D Christmas and then Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantánamo Bay. Everyone loves bad stoner comedies from a decade ago. They’re super romantic.”
“It’s not funny,” I say, my frustration turning straight to anger. I want to punch the wall. I want to rewind time and grow a pair. I want to become someone else entirely.
“You have no game, my friend,” Jack says, and this time he laughs so hard he falls off the counter. I don’t help him up.
Mom: What’s wrong?
Me: Nothing. Jack’s here Mom: What happened?
Me: Nothing!
Mom: Something happened. I have that mom ESP thing. I can tell Me: Relax Mom: I am your mother and it was just you and me for more than a decade in that hovel so I know you better than you know yourself. Also don’t tell me to relax. That only makes me worry more. I’m going to call you now Me: I’m fine. Crappy day. Please don’t call Mom: When did your mother calling you become the worst thing in the world?
Me: Don’t feel like talking about it Mom: While I already have you in a bad mood, I might as well tell you that Phil wants to take you golfing on Friday Me: Nope Mom: Come on. He wants to do some male bonding stuff Me: I have camp Mom: After camp Me: Plans after camp Mom: With Jack? That doesn’t count Me: With Abbi Mom: Baby Hope Abbi?
Me: Her name is just Abbi Mom: I didn’t know you were hanging out with her Me: So?
Mom: It’s interesting. That’s all. She’s like the face of 9/11
Me: No one is the face of 9/11. It was a terrorist attack, not a Cover Girl commercial Mom: Don’t be glib Me: She’s my friend Mom: You don’t have to be friends with everyone Me: The other day you were saying I needed to branch out Mom: Please…be careful with her Me: Be careful of what? Tell me. What are you so afraid of?
Mom: Nothing. I am not afraid of anything Me: Mom!
Mom: Never mind. Got to go. Ziti’s in the freezer
We were ten years old the day they identified one of Cat’s dad’s ribs. She and I were on her bedroom floor playing our umpteenth brutal game of Slapjack in a row. That was pre–friend merger with Kylie and Ramona, so it was just the two of us back then. It was early December, and we had lucked out with a snow day. The cancellation had turned out to be an overreaction. We’d only gotten a dusting, so instead of spending the afternoon building snowmen, like we had originally planned, Cat and I were inside in cozy matching pajamas, playing cards and goofing around at her house. We were good at entertaining ourselves and thrilled not to be at school learning about how a bill becomes a law.
When the doorbell rang, we assumed it was the UPS guy, Larry, who we liked despite the fact that he had a creepy mustache and a van and looked very much the type to offer little kids candy. Larry often delivered big boxes full of grown-up stuff to Cat’s house—boring things like toilet paper or napkins—but Mel always allowed us to cut open the boxes and dance on the bubble wrap. That day, though, when we ran downstairs and threw open the front door, the two guys facing us were mustache-less and dressed in blue.
Afterward, while Cat’s mom sat shell-shocked on the couch, rocking back and forth, the way she used to when Parker was a baby on her lap, the police officers let themselves out the front door, and the older one, the only one who talked, told Cat and me to “be extra nice to our mama tonight.” He sounded Southern, though clearly the police should have known to send New Yorkers or at least officers from New Jersey to deliver the news.
When Mel told us to go upstairs, before the cops had said a single word, Cat and I ran into the kitchen and listened at the door with giddy anticipation. Neither of us realized it could possibly be something serious until it was, until the words were spoken, and by then it was too late to sneak away or to unhear them. I remember standing behind Cat, my chin barely reaching her shoulder, and wanting desperately to put my hands over her ears. To absorb this news myself so she wouldn’t have to.
The police officer said that it gave some families solace to have these found parts returned to them—those were the exact words he used, found parts. Like Cat’s dad’s rib was an object—a thing—like a good find at a garage sale.
“People appreciate having something to bury even all these years later, because it gives them something akin to closure,” he said. Apparently, the protocol was that going forward, should more bones be recovered, Mel wouldn’t receive the courtesy of an in-person visit—there wasn’t the manpower for that—but instead would receive a telephone call. Some families got calls every couple of months. A rib, then a fibula, maybe part of a toe.