The Truth About Forever(75)

"Bert," Wes said, walking over to the living room, "inside voice."

"By science," Bert repeated, more quietly. "The end of the world is no joke. It's not a matter of if. It's when."

I looked at my mother. Something told me that the expression on her face—confusion, curiosity, maybe even shock—was not unlike the one I probably had the first day I'd been introduced to these people. But seeing it there, I had a feeling this wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"Macy," she said to me after a second, "can I talk to you in my office for a moment?"

"Um, sure," I said.

"Can you believe this?" Kristy asked me, holding up the magazine to show me a living room full of wicker furniture. "Have you ever seen a more uncomfortable looking couch?"

I shook my head, then followed my mother down the short hallway to her office. She shut the door behind us, then crossed to her desk and stood behind it. "It's after ten," she said, her voice low. "Don't you think it's a little late to have people over?"

"Bert really wanted to see this show," I said. "It's only a half hour. Plus, I thought you were at that meeting."

"You have to work in the morning, Macy," she said, as if I didn't know this. "And we've got a big day tomorrow as well, with the Fourth of July picnic, and you working the welcome booth. It's not a good night for company."

"I'm sorry," I said. "They'll be gone soon."

She looked down at her desk, riffling through some papers, but her disapproval was palpable. I could feel it all around me, settling, taste it in the air.

There was a burst of laughter from the living room, and I glanced at the door. "I should go back out there," I said. "I don't want to seem rude."

She nodded, running a hand through her hair. I stood up and started toward the door.

"What happened to Kristy?" she asked, just as I was about to push it open.

I had a flash of Kristy, just moments earlier, extending her hand to my mother so cheerfully. "She was in a car accident when she was eleven."

"Poor thing," she said, shaking her head as she pulled a pencil out of the holder on her desk. "It's must be just horrible for her."

"Why do you say that?" I asked. Truthfully, I hardly noticed Kristy's scars at all anymore. They were just part of her face, part of who she was. Her outfits garnered more of my attention, maybe because they at least were always changing.

She looked at me. "Well," she said, "only because of the disfigurement. It's hard enough being that age, without a handicap to deal with."

"She's not handicapped, Mom," I said. "She just has a few scars."

"It's just so unfortunate." She sighed, picking up a folder, moving it to the other side of the desk. "She'd be a pretty girl, otherwise."

Then she started writing, opening the folder and jotting something down. Like I was already gone, this was the end of it, there could be no rebuttal, no other side. Of course Kristy wasn't beautiful: her flaws were right there, where anyone could see. Of course we were over my dad's passing: just look around, we were successful, good in school, fine just fine. I'd never spoken up to say otherwise, so I had no one to blame but myself.

Thinking this, I went back into the kitchen, where I found Wes now sitting next to Kristy, both of them looking at Southern Living.

"See, this stuff isn't nearly as good as yours," Kristy was saying, pointing at a page. "I mean, what is that supposed to be, anyway?"

"An iron heron," he said, glancing at me. "I think."

"A what?" Kristy said, squinting at it again.

"No way," I said, coming over to look for myself. Sure enough, there was an iron heron, just like my sister had been talking about.

"They're big in Atlanta," Wes explained to Kristy.

"Huge," I said.

Kristy looked at him, then at me. "Whatever," she said, nodding, as she pushed her chair out and hopped down. "I'm going to find out about that Big Buzz."

I watched her as she walked into the living room, flopping down in our overstuffed chair. She ran her hands over the arms, settling in, then looked up at the ceiling before directing her attention to the TV.

Wes, across from me, turned a page of the magazine. "Everything okay with your mom?" he asked, not looking up.

"Yeah," I said, glancing down at one of the iron herons. "I'm not getting the appeal of those," I said.

He pointed at the picture. "See, first, they're very clean and simple looking. People like that. Second, they have the wildlife thing going for them, so they fit in well with a garden. And thirdly," he turned the page, indicating another picture, "the artist takes himself, and the herons, very seriously. So that gives them a certain cachet as well."

I looked at the artist. He was a tall guy with white hair pulled back in a ponytail, striking a pensive pose by a reflecting pond. To me, one of the quotes below it read, my herons represent the fragility of life and destiny. "Ugh," I said. "If that's taking your work seriously, he can have it. "

"Exactly."

"Just wait, though," I said. "Someday you'll be in Southern Living, with a picture just like that, talking about the deep true meaning of your work."