Inevitable and Only(61)
On an impulse, I went to the gift shop to look for a postcard of one of the Mary paintings. Maybe I’d give it to Elizabeth, if we ever said anything besides “Excuse me” or “Could you pass the almond butter” to each other again.
But instead, I got sidetracked just inside the gift shop by a small print. It was one of those scratchboard drawings, where you paint swirls of colors on a piece of card stock, color over it with black crayon, and then scrape an image into the crayon layer, revealing the colors beneath. This one showed a woman at a keyboard, leaning back, her arms straight out in front of her as her fingers danced over the keys. Her hair floated behind her as if she were underwater. Sitting on the piano bench next to her, but facing the other way, a man cradled a cello between his knees. He was hunched over his instrument, so the curve of his body was the inverse of hers. The paint beneath the black crayon was all metallic colors, golds and silvers and bronzes, so that the scraped-out figures seemed to shimmer and glow against the inky background.
It reminded me of Mom and Josh, of course, but also of Mom and Dad. The way they used to complement each other, how their personalities fit together—Mom’s organization and drive balanced by Dad’s humor and sensitivity. The way they were both so creative, Dad with his cooking and his books, Mom with her music. The way Mom used to look playing the piano when we lived at Ahimsa House. I couldn’t even remember the last time she’d sat down at the piano. Was there any hope of things going back to the way they used to be? Or would we have to move back to Takoma Park—go back in time—to make that happen?
I bought the print and tucked it carefully into my backpack.
We always celebrated Thanksgiving with the Woodburys. When Raven and I had become friends in second grade, I’d told her about the Ahimsa House version of social-justice-themed Thanksgiving, which we called Anti-Colonial Thanksgiving—ACT. We prepared a feast using only local vegetarian food, and everyone shared a poem, story, or song about colonization somewhere in the world today. Then we talked about nonviolent decolonization strategies and what we could do on an individual level to help. It was very Ahimsa and very Quaker. Even at the age of seven, Raven thought it was the coolest thing she’d ever heard. She went home and told Renata and Ruby about it, who also loved the idea and asked Mom and Dad to celebrate with them. Every year after that, we took turns hosting.
It was our turn this year. School let out early the day before Thanksgiving, and when we got home, Mom changed out of her business suit into an old ratty pair of overalls—the first time I’d seen her wear them in recent memory. She tied a bandana around her head, turned on Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony at top volume, and attacked the floors and furniture with a spray bottle of tea tree oil and lemon juice. Pretty soon, the whole house smelled clean and lemony. Dad, who had closed Fine Print early as well, sorted through farmers’ market produce on the kitchen counter while I helped Mom haul the center leaf for the table up from the basement. We squeezed two extra folding chairs plus Josh’s cello chair between the other chairs around the table.
Josh was practicing down in the basement, sitting on an overturned box since we’d taken his chair. I thought one reason Mom was blasting music was to cover up the faint sounds of his Popper Hungarian Rhapsody. He clearly still didn’t know the piece, although it was improving. But I could tell that Mom was nervous about his competition. She’d been scheduling extra lessons for him all month. She wouldn’t even let him help with the cooking. Josh and I always made the cranberry sauce together. This year, though, she told him to keep practicing, so I made the cranberry sauce myself.
It was weird, sharing kitchen space with Dad, helping him make the same dishes we always made together for ACT. I didn’t feel like talking, so I put my headphones on and listened to music while I mashed sweet potatoes and chopped vegetables.
And where was Elizabeth? Volunteering at a soup kitchen with a group from church.
I told Raven about that the next afternoon, after the Woodburys arrived for our ACT celebration. Raven and I escaped up to my room while Renata and Ruby were still taking their coats off and unpacking the salads, desserts, and drinks they’d brought. They kept exclaiming over Elizabeth, how much she looked like Dad and Josh, and I just couldn’t stand it.
“I mean, she acts like she’s the dictionary definition of the word ‘perfect.’ Seriously, going off to a soup kitchen while Mom and Dad and I were slaving away cooking and cleaning here? What’s she trying to prove?” I collapsed onto my bed. “I am so sick of sharing a room. So sick of her. And you know what? She’s not even as perfect as she pretends to be. Did you know she smokes?”
Raven’s eyebrows shot up. “Elizabeth? No way.”
“So like, what else don’t we know about her? What other secrets does she have? I mean, I feel like I can’t trust anyone in my family anymore.” I groaned. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have told you that. About Elizabeth smoking. I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Raven shrugged. “So what? I’m your BFF. You’re supposed to tell me everything. Besides, she’s kicking my butt on debate team right now. And even more besides, I’m on your side, girl. She stole your family, then she stole your true love, even though he turned out to be a—”
“Ready to go back downstairs?” I interrupted loudly, and Raven turned to see that Elizabeth had just walked into the room. Raven stretched her face into a big, fake grin and said, “Hi, Elizabeth!”