The Paper Palace(55)

“I walked into town.”

“Your friend Jonas dropped by earlier.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Leo and Conrad went to the package store. I forgot beer. We’re having bluefish tacos.”

“I think I might skip dinner. I have a terrible stomachache.”

My mother shreds a cabbage on the counter; a pile of pale green bones.

“Mum?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says without turning around.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Can you grab me the sour cream?” She cleans off the blade of her knife with a dish towel and picks up a pile of washed parsley. Gives it a quick shake.

“Mom.”

“Please don’t call me that, you know I hate it.”

I hear a car coming down the driveway.

“Oh good,” she says. “They’re back. I can put the bluefish on the grill.” She pours a bit of olive oil into a cast-iron pan, throws in a few crushed cloves of garlic. “So. Tell,” she says.

The car doors slam.

“I think I have a fever.”

She feels my forehead with the back of her hand. “You are a bit hot.” She goes to the sink and pours a glass of water. “Take this. I’ll bring you some aspirin as soon as I get the fish on.”

I walk down the path toward my cabin, stand outside it, afraid to go in, afraid of what I will find.

The strange thing is, nothing has changed. There are no traces of violence, no smell of fear. My yellow floor is bright and cheerful. Mum has left a pile of fresh cotton sheets and floral pillowcases on the end of the mattress. Nothing has changed but me.



* * *



—

    I stay in my room for four days, shaky, weeping, managing to avoid Conrad the entire time. At night I lock my door, put a chair in front of it. Mum thinks I have a stomach virus. I put my finger down my throat, force myself to throw up into the garbage can any food she brings me. I flush the toilet over and over again, faking diarrhea. Mum keeps everyone out of my cabin. “The last thing we need is you infecting everyone else.” She brings me bowls of chicken broth with rice, and cool compresses. My mother isn’t a warm person, but she has always been an excellent nurse. Each day, Jonas comes to visit, but she turns him away.

Monday morning, the first day of sailing camp, I make a miraculous recovery. My mother is dubious, but I promise to call home if I feel sick. The sea air will do me good, I tell her. She drives me to the bayside yacht club and drops me at the dock.

“Leo will be here at five to collect you.”

“I thought you were coming to get me.”

“Leo will already be out of the Woods. He’s taking Conrad to Orleans to get new swimming trunks. Apparently, the ones Conrad packed no longer close at the waist.”

“Why does Conrad need a bathing suit? He barely ever gets in the water. I don’t want to be sick in the car with Leo.”

My mother sighs. “Fine. Five o’clock.”

I watch the station wagon pull away before heading down to the boat slip. My body feels foreign to me, weak, see-through. But I’m glad to be away from the camp, from him.

A group of kids are standing around on the dock, waiting for our instructor. Beyond them, legs dangling in the water, Jonas is sketching something in the harbor that has caught his eye.

“Hey,” he says, as if we just saw each other yesterday.

“Hey, stranger. What are you doing here?”

“Learning to sail.”

I stop a few feet away from him, afraid he will smell the shame on me, but he jumps up, a huge smile on his face, and comes over to give me a bear hug. I’m shocked by how much he has changed—he’s still tan and ramshackle, shirtless, but he looks so much older than fourteen. He must be six feet tall, and he has gotten very handsome. For a moment, as we hug, I feel oddly shy. I wish I had washed my hair.

“You look different,” I say, pushing it away. “Same shitty shorts.”

He laughs. “About ten sizes bigger, but yeah, you know me, a creature of habit. How have you been?”

I am saved from dishonesty by the arrival of the sailing instructor, who yells at us to grab a life jacket and climb aboard, three to a boat. Five Sunfish are moored in the bay. They look like hard candies, their sails striped in green, turquoise, lemon, orange, red, and lavender.

“I hope you don’t mind me being here,” Jonas says as we climb aboard. “Your mother told me you signed up. I got all your postcards. Thanks.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I’m happy to see you,” I say. And I am.

“You look different, too,” Jonas says.

“I’ve had stomach flu.” I am an Untouchable.

He considers me. “No,” he says, “I don’t think it’s the diarrhea.”

“Yuck.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m probably fatter.”

“That’s not it. You’re lovelier than ever.”

“You are more ridiculous than ever.” I laugh. But I’m glad he thinks so.

An older girl climbs onto the boat and squeezes in between us. “I’m Karina,” she says. “I did this last year.” She takes hold of the mainsheet. Shoves us aside.