The Impossible Knife of Memory(29)

Gracie raised her head as I entered. She was sitting on the floor by the radiator under the window that was guaranteed never to open.

“Go away.” She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her brown sweater.

I thought about it and said, “I don’t think I should. What’s up?”

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and leaned back against the radiator.

“Do you want me to get the nurse?”

She snorted. “Because a Children’s Tylenol and a glass of orange juice will fix everything? Right.”

The bathroom smelled like cigarette smoke, vomit, and perfume. Two of the three stall doors had been removed. I dampened a paper towel in the sink and handed it to Gracie.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

“Put it on your eyes,” I said. “It will feel good.”

She did as I asked, sighing a little when the cool paper touched her skin. Out in the hall, Topher was arguing with the drama zombies.

I sat next to Gracie because I didn’t know what else to do. From the floor, I could see the bases of the three toilets and the undersides of the sinks. Couldn’t tell which was more disgusting, but I was pretty sure that the biology and chemistry teachers never needed to pay for mold or bacteria kits again.

“He cheated,” she murmured.

“Topher?”

“No.” She squeezed the paper towel and watched the drops puddle on the dirty tile. “My dad. He cheated on Mom.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been to your house. Your parents are perfect.”

“They’re good at pretending. This has been going on for a long time. It’s a cycle—he cheats, gets caught, they fight, go to counseling, fall in love, he takes her on a romantic vacation. Six months later, he finds a new girlfriend and starts the whole thing over again.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You could say it’s really shitty,” she suggested.

“That’s really shitty,” I echoed.

“You bet it is,” she said quietly. “And it’s gross, especially the sex part. Who wants to think about their parents having sex? You don’t want to hear them fight about it, either. Trust me.”

“I trust you,” I said.

“He says he loves Mom. Last Christmas they renewed their vows. Garrett and I had to stand up there with them in front of everybody, all of us pretending. Sometimes I wonder if he cheats on us, too, if he’s looking for new kids who won’t disappoint him.”

“I never thought about anything like that,” I said.

“I wish I could stop thinking. They keep saying, ‘High school is so important. You have to get serious, Grace Ann, this affects your entire life,’ and then they get drunk and shout at each other for hours.” She sighed and let the paper towel fall to the floor. “The whole weekend sucked. Last night was the worst it’s ever been. I thought for sure the neighbors would call the cops.”

“Did he hit her?”

“My dad? Never. She threw a coffee cup and hit him on the nose. And then she felt awful, because she really, really loves him, you know? She felt bad because she hurt him,” she sniffed, “and then she felt worse because it doesn’t matter how much she loves him, he’s not going to change.”

Gracie’s father was an engineer, her mother, an accountant. I couldn’t picture either one of them yelling or throwing things or having affairs. I could see my dad doing stuff like that. Trish sure did. But Dad carried a war in his skull, and Trish was a drunk. Gracie’s parents didn’t have anything like that to deal with, but their daughter was falling apart on the bathroom floor.

“Why can’t they just be parents?” She sniffed again. “They used to be awesome. They’d tease each other and kiss in front of us, and Dad would write silly poems and Mom would bake him muffins, and now . . .” Her voice pitched up on the last word and her bottom lip quivered and, as her face crumpled into sadness, she looked over at me and for the first time, I remembered her; I saw her the way she looked in kindergarten the day she’d fallen off the monkey bars and scraped up both knees.

“Oh, Gracie.” I opened my arms and she leaned toward me and sobbed against my shoulder. I smoothed down her hair, and whispered, “Shh . . . shh,” rocking us back and forth until she quieted down. By the time the bell rang, her tears had stopped and she was breathing regularly. As we stood up, she laughed a little and reached over to wipe away my tears.

“Why are you crying?” she asked.

“Allergies.” I sniffed. “So what happens next?” She looked in the mirror and used the corner of a paper towel to mop up the eyeliner rolling down her cheek. “Mom said this was the last time. She’s going to a lawyer.”

“Yikes.”

“She tried to explain to Garrett what divorce meant this morning. He’s in second grade; why does he have to understand a word like that? He got so upset that he puked up his breakfast and hid in Dad’s closet.” Her lower lip quivered and she blinked quickly. “If it was just me, I could deal with it. I don’t want to live in two houses, but if it means the screaming ends, then let’s do it. But the look on my brother’s face . . .”

The stampede was underway in the hall. The door opened a few times, but Finn or Topher stopped whoever it was with a line of BS and pulled it closed.