Chapter Twenty-Six
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Derek
On my bed. In the cosmos. In a pink bungalow.
My history book is open to a World War II timeline full of dates I have to memorize. But I can’t focus for shit. Why?
Besides the fact that I’m trying not to think about Jae every second, or the date that ended in disaster, or the guilt I feel for not knowing how to respond to her what happened?
texts, and thus avoiding her at school, making me the biggest, douchiest coward at Bellwood—besides all that, the TV in the living room is turned up high, and Mom is yelling at Paro to let Devdas go.
I always wonder how she can’t see herself in these tragic, dysfunctional Bollywood relationships.
I use my finger to scan the page to help me focus. V-J Day. Victory over Japan Day.
As soon as I read the small black words, they disappear from memory.
Frustrated, I’m about to close the book when my eyes settle on a black-and-white photo of a sailor in a dark suit kissing a nurse in a white dress.
His arm is tight around her neck, dipping her back, and her arm hangs at her side.
His lips are locked so tight against hers, you can’t even see her face.
The caption reads: “The Kiss,” the famous photo taken in Times Square, August 14, 1945.
I’m suddenly curious about the two of them.
Did their love survive decades of marriage?
Did they have a bundle of kids? Maybe they ended up strangers who resented each other. Maybe he died in a tragic car accident.
I do a quick search on my phone. The couple, an article reads, were not actually a couple at all.
They didn’t even know each other at the moment of that kiss.
Excited about the end of the war, the sailor had some drinks and then grabbed the first nurse he saw and planted his lips against hers.
Except, it turned out, she wasn’t a nurse but a dental assistant.
There was nothing romantic about the kiss, she told reporters.
“Well, damn.” I turn off my phone.
I flip to the front of the history book, where I keep the picture of Jae and me standing on the deck of the yacht.
And I wonder, if I ever got a chance to kiss Jae, who would we be when it happened?
And if I was still hiding stuff about myself—all the shitty stuff that matters a whole shitty lot—would the kiss even be real?
And if I didn’t hide the truth, would the kiss even happen?
Isn’t it just easier to stop wanting anything with Jae at all?
A loud engine rumbles outside and dies. I part the curtains to see Peter stepping out of his truck and slamming the door.
The buttons on his shirt are done up wrong, so that one side hangs lower than the other.
His gold chain sits like it always does in the middle of his burly chest. My stomach does a flip-flop and my heartbeat quickens.
It’s the way he’s walking, running every two steps, like he wants to slow down but his body won’t let him.
It’s the flushed red of his face, the vein running like a swollen river across his forehead.
I close the history book and jump off my bed. I’m about to call Mom, to ask her if she knew Peter was coming, when the front door opens and slams. The house quivers.
“Mom?” I call, opening my door.
I step into the hall just as Peter walks past, not even glancing my way. I follow him into the living room.
From the TV screen, Paro screams Devdaaaas! as she runs toward her dying sweetheart while the drumbeats swell louder and more urgent. Mom turns down the volume. “Hi, honey,” she says to Peter.
“Don’t honey me.” He breathes in deep and the sound of mucus rattles in his throat. A tuft of brown hair lies wet above his eyes. “You went to Becca’s shop.” He paces the floor, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans, flexing his fists. He’s trying to stay calm, so I try to stay calm too.
“What are you talking about?” Mom nervously plays with the sash of her robe. Behind her concerned face, the TV screen flashes. “I didn’t go to Becca’s shop.”
“You did,” he growls, his eyes cutting into her.
“She was crying all night, wouldn’t tell me what the hell was the matter.
‘Why you crying, Becca?’ I say. ‘Tell me what’s eatin’ you.
’ She says nothing! The whole goddamn night, the whole goddamn morning, the whole goddamn evening.
Then she says, ‘Peter, are you cheating on me? Peter, do you have a mistress?’ And I’m standing there like an idiot ’cause I don’t know what the hell she knows.
Then she says you called her yesterday. That you went to the flower shop and harassed her, told her I was going to leave her.
” He takes a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
“You went to my wife’s flower shop, Nancy? My wife!”
Mom stands up now, stumbles a little, and steadies her hand on the sofa armrest. “No, I didn’t call Becca—”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Well, I didn’t. I don’t even know where her shop is, to be honest.” She runs her hand over the hair at her nape. “I—I don’t think I went there. I wouldn’t do that.”
“You don’t think?”
“No, no. I’m sure. I didn’t go.” She takes a step toward him and reaches for his shoulder. He swats it away.
I step into the living room. “I think you should go,” I tell him.
“Stay out of this, Derek,” Mom says. She stumbles back to the couch and digs between the cushions. Her hands are shaking, and she says over and over again, “I didn’t call her. I didn’t go there. I didn’t.”
“You’re a junkie,” he scoffs. “You wouldn’t remember sitting on a tack.”
“Don’t you dare call me that!” Mom screams, looking over her shoulder. “I didn’t call her.” She pulls out her phone from behind a seat cushion and starts searching through it, hands still shaking. She freezes and stares at the screen for what seems like hours. “It’s … Okay …”
“Okay what?”
“I don’t recognize this number. I—”
Peter grabs the phone and looks down at it. He stabs a fat finger at the screen. “That’s my wife’s flower shop. See it? Becca’s number?” He grabs Mom’s chin and holds the phone up to her face. The light shines into her green eyes, glassy and wet and full of confusion.
“Let her go.” I hurry toward them and grab Peter’s arm. It’s dense with muscle and it won’t budge.
“That’s her number,” he says again, pushing the phone up to her nose.
“She can see it!” I yell. “Let her go.”
I might as well be yelling into a vacuum because neither of them looks at me.
But Mom’s eyes are running with tears now, and she’s saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” and Peter’s hand is tightening on her face, pressing into her cheeks.
I drop my hand from his arm and flex my fist. I could punch him, but I’m a hundred percent sure he’d punch me back and maybe Mom, too.
I pull my phone from my pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
Peter pushes Mom’s face, throws her into the sofa like she’s a rag doll, and she lies there clutching pieces of her robe like she’s trying to gather herself. His chest rises and falls. He spits on the carpet, then steps over her spindly legs and walks past me.
An ugly sound escapes Mom’s mouth. She mumbles apologies so fast I can hardly understand her. She races after him and grabs his wrist. “I shouldn’t have gone to her shop. I don’t know why I did it. I don’t even remember it.”
“Let go,” he says, and I see this flash in his eyes: He’s at the end of his rope. I hurry over, grab Mom’s shoulder and try to pull her away.
“Don’t go,” she says to him, ignoring me. “Please.”
He wrestles with her desperate grasp and finally pulls his hand free, swinging his arm around. Thwack! My lip.
I stagger. Stunned. Taste the blood before I see it on my fingers.
Peter steps away from both of us. “Nancy, don’t call me.”
His footsteps leave. The front door slams. It’s not until his car engine roars away that Mom comes to life again. She lunges for my phone and throws it against the wall.
“I told you to stay out of this.” She points toward the kitchen, her voice getting louder. “You made him leave! How will I get my pills now?”
I feel like I’ve been hit by a meteor. So that’s what she saw in Peter. More drugs.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snaps.
“I can’t take this anymore.” My voice is shaking. “You should be glad he’s gone.” I touch my lip again, then reach for my phone. Blood smears across the cracked screen. The backlight wavers, turns pink, and flashes. I throw the phone back on the floor.
I run to my room and grab my sweatshirt, my keys, my backpack. Mom is still yelling at me, but anger is pooling inside me and I don’t hear a word. Her voice follows me as I walk toward the kitchen.
Throwing open the front door, I look back at her. “See this?” I point to my lip. “You’re supposed to be my mom. You’re supposed to care.”
I’m too angry to unlock my bike. Too angry to figure out where I’m going. All I want to do is walk until I’m nowhere close to the pink bungalow where everything falls to pieces.