The Names They Gave Us(56)

“Okay.” I step aside so my mom can see her face in the mirror.

She touches her palms to her cheeks again. “Well, look at that. I almost look healthy. I bet if I put some mascara on . . .”

We do exactly that. And a nearly nude lipstick. And, just for fun, a smudge of deep brown eyeliner in the corners of her eyes. I explain the idea behind it, how makeup is about playing with shadow and light, drawing people’s eyes in different ways. “See, that makes your eyes look bigger, and they’re already being highlighted by the dark mascara and accented brow.”

“Where’d you learn all this?” Rachel asks carefully.

“The Internet.” I say this in the casual way all kids use to get away with something.

The glance she exchanges with my mom in the mirror is quick, but not so quick that I don’t catch it.

“You’re very good at this,” my mom tells me quietly. “Thank you for sharing your gift with me.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, though she smiles happily. Is that a new symptom? She seems like she’s feeling pretty good, just . . . off. I guess that’s chemo at work, and I hate that I don’t know her experience with it better.

“What’s with the stare?” Rachel asks. “Lake time. Suit up.”

“My bathing suit isn’t here.”

“Then swim in your clothes. Or your bra and undies. Oh, don’t look so scandalized. We both used to change your diaper.”

“Rachel,” my mom says. “You’re embarrassing her.”

“Jenkins,” Rachel says. “That’s the point.”

While Rachel changes into her suit, my mom nudges her shoulder against mine. “I’m swimming in my clothes too. Can’t get too much sun.”

“His name is Henry.” The words splat out, sloppy. “We mostly call him Jones, his last name.”

My mom presses a finger against her lips, taps it a few times. She’s pleased, considering this new information.

“I didn’t tell you because it’s honestly so stupid—like, nothing will ever happen. And I know I shouldn’t even have a dumb crush right after breaking up with Lukas, but—”

“Oh, Bird.” She cups her hand on my cheek. “You’re only seventeen.”

I flinch. I’m not too young to know my own heart. Sure, it’s terrain I’m still learning to map, but I know the landscape better than anyone. I know the unexpected dips and the paths that were not meant for me. “What does that mean?”

“It means that everything changes so fast. It’s okay if you change too.” Seeing that I still don’t quite get it, she smiles ever so slightly. “It means, good for you. Crush away. Get crushed, even. Feel it all, okay? Show up for it.”

“I will.” The words land like a promise, sealed between us. Maybe they are, come what may.

“Hurry up, you little gossips,” Rachel calls. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re telling secrets in there.”

We emerge from the bathroom, conspiratorial. My mom gives her a haughty look. “Chill out, Byers. It’s not like anyone’s dying.”

This makes Rachel laugh again, and I barely disguise my horror.

On the way out, my mom jams a fistful of crumbly chips into her mouth and tucks the bag under her arm. “Chips. My real best friend.”

At the water’s edge, we survey the lake—our holy ground, our promised land.

“All right, swim team captain,” Rachel says. “Let’s see a running dive.”

“I’m not a seal. I do not perform on demand.”

“What if I give you a chip?” Rachel digs her arm into the open bag.

“Hey!” my mom says.

I plow into the water, up to my knees. Then I turn back to them, bark, and clap my hands together. Rachel pitches a chip, which I try to catch with my mouth. On my third try, I fall into the water, much to their delight. I give in and pull my arms into a neat, even stroke.

“Look at us,” I hear Rachel tell my mom. “Not bad for our midforties after a couple o’ kids, eh, ?Jenkins?”

I wade in farther, walking forward as seamlessly as I would on land. It’s not like the ocean, chilled and pushing, pulling. It’s bathwater, still and cool. I tip backward, letting the water catch my shoulders and support me. My curls splay out around me, and I think of all the summers spent pretending to be a mermaid.

Pushing my arms out like I’m making snow angels, I almost thank the Lord in my mind. I am grateful for all this, for the feel of water and sun on my skin. For all the years spent here, happy. But with my mom nearby, and her chemo-inspired hair, I’m not quite ready for a truce. He knows what He needs to do.

Nearby, Rachel takes a deep, gasping breath and plunges under the water. Her bare feet pop up, balanced in a handstand, and my mom laughs. That’s why she did it, of course—to make my mom laugh. Or maybe because Rachel can still touch the magic of wanting to be a mermaid. She can still play. How can I be seventeen and already feel it slipping from my grasp?

“Still got it!” Rachel announces, wringing out her hair.

My mother dips her shorn head back, eyes closed. When she stands back upright, a bemused smile crosses her face as she runs one hand over her scalp. “How strange. To not have the weight of wet hair.”