Chapter 11 Wednesday #3
I decide against firing off a list of reasons why she should be breaking out in a cold sweat. I guess when the only part of your wedding you care about is saying I do, there’s not much that can go wrong.
“Right,” I acquiesce. “And Mom’s been fine?”
“Well, Mom’s been Mom.” And that’s all she has to say.
Jamie gets her easygoing nature from our dad, while I got stuck with our mom’s more…anal tendencies. While mine manifest in a hyper-organized, anxious sort of way, hers come across as more rigid and nitpicky. Her high school history students used to call her Mrs. Ber-maniac.
“How’s being away from Ethan?” I ask.
Jamie’s staying at our parents’ for the week leading up to the wedding, an old tradition that our mom insisted on upholding.
“I wouldn’t know.” She smirks. “He’s been sneaking through the window every night and leaving early every morning. He’s holed up in my room back at the house now.”
Jamie and Ethan haven’t spent a moment apart since they started dating their freshman year of high school. It’s like they’re each other’s air supply.
“Just like old times.” I exhale through a smile, remembering all the years Ethan spent sneaking through Jamie’s window when they were in high school. I reach over and push a strand of loose hair out of her face. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
She grabs my hand and smiles wide. “Thanks, Pheebs. I’m so happy you’re here.”
We pull up to the house forty minutes later.
I say good night to an exhausted Jamie, grab a snack of pickles and Greek yogurt from the barren fridge, and do a quick inventory of all the things my mom has changed since I was here just a few months ago for Jamie’s graduation.
Now that my mom’s retired, redecorating the house has become somewhat of a passion project bordering on obsession.
The sconces flanking the TV in the family room are brand-new.
The mantel around the fireplace has been painted a dark green to match the accent fringe of the new curtains.
I pick up a framed photo resting on top of the mantel, the one thing in this entire house that hasn’t been relocated or replaced: our first photo as a family of four.
All of us are tightly packed into a hospital bed, and I’m smiling wide enough to show off my two missing front teeth.
A freshly born Jamie rests on my lap, cocooned in a bundle of blankets, and Mom holds on to us tightly while Dad buries his entire face into her shoulder.
I’ve always been able to hear his muffled sobs through the glass of the picture frame.
Who would have thought that little bundle of blankets would be getting married before I’ve even had my first boyfriend?
I hold the photo close to my chest for a moment before putting it back down.
I tiptoe down the length of the new jute rug that lines the hallway to the kitchen, studying the new additions along the way.
New wallpaper. A mirror where a French poster used to be.
A hideous mustard-yellow backsplash in the kitchen above the oven.
New fridge magnets shaped like dogs. At least there’s one thing on the fridge I recognize.
I run my fingers over the minimalist cream linen cardstock adorning the freezer. Jamie Elizabeth Berman and Ethan Paul Robins request the honor of your presence…The invitations turned out beautiful, despite Mom fighting me on them until the last second.
“Linen is too summery,” she had said.
“September thirteenth is still technically summer,” I argued.
“Phoebe, you’re a teacher. You should know by now that September is not summer.”
“Luckily we aren’t having the wedding in a classroom.”
And on we went. I can only imagine how she’ll react to the linen tablecloths I picked out for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.
I can feel the yogurt sloshing around in my stomach as I make my way up the carpeted stairs.
From one end of the hall, the familiar hum of Mom’s white noise machine blares.
I picture Dad sound asleep next to her in his noise-canceling earplugs.
I listen closely for signs of life coming from Jamie’s room, and hear the faintest sound of giggling.
For a moment, my chest tightens so intensely that I think it must be acid reflux.
From the pickles. But the sharp ache is accompanied by the feeling of being completely and utterly alone.
I wonder if it was a mistake not to bring Jonathan, even though I’ve barely seen him since all the weirdness Monday night at Jeffery’s.
At least when I’m with him, even though it’s not romantic, it’s easier to avoid this feeling.
Sometimes I forget that under all the anxious thoughts and constant spirals, I just feel sad.
My steps are sluggish as I cross the threshold into my room. Being in here always gives me an eerie feeling of stepping back in time, but I don’t have it in my heart to remove the collage of One Direction posters above my bed. Or my collection of quotes from Tumblr covering every possible surface.
Above my desk, written on black construction paper with silver Sharpie, is a sign that reads, Normal People Scare Me.
There’s a cigarette butt from the mall parking lot superglued to it.
Next to my bookshelf, typed in Helvetica Bold: She Believed She Could and So She Did.
It’s accompanied by a distorted black-and-white photo of Helen Keller that got jammed in my school library’s printer.
On my mirror, in Sharpie: Get Your Head in the Game.
It’s taped next to a photo of Zac Efron from High School Musical, cut out from a J-14 magazine and covered in lipstick prints from my ten-year-old lips.
My lumpy mattress beckons me, and I decide to self-soothe with a particularly toe-curling chapter of my favorite book from my hidden collection of more risqué novels. I lift up my mattress to grab the book and…it’s gone.
Impossible.
I read this particular book a few months ago, the last time I was home, and there’s no way I would have left it lying out somewhere to be seen. Not with the years of experience I have keeping these books hidden.
I can think of only one explanation, and tracking down this book seems like a much better use of my time than wallowing.
I tiptoe down the hall, toward the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I open the door to my parents’ bedroom, feeling like a five-year-old who’s come to announce, “I threw up.”
I study my parents for a brief moment before sneaking over to Mom’s side of the bed.
Living far away from them means that every time I come back to visit, I’m hyperaware of any signs of aging.
The last few strands of pepper in Dad’s hair have officially turned to salt.
And as I stand above my mom, I notice that the wrinkles she’s been complaining about on her chin have deepened slightly. And…is that an age spot?
I don’t have time to think about the implications of this.
With all the stealth I can manage, I crouch down beside the nightstand and begin rifling through the stack of books Mom keeps on the bottom shelf.
“Phoebe.” Mom’s hawk-like expression is fixed on me before I even make a dent in her collection. “It’s the middle of the night.” I follow her gaze back to the clock. 9:58 p.m.
“I’m sorry.” I stand and motion for her to join me in the hallway. She shuts the door behind us.
“How was the flight? Is everything all right?” she asks, her maternal instincts returning now that she’s had a second to wake up.
“No, not really. Did you take a book from my room?”
“Did I take a book from your room?” Her brows knit, and for the first time, I see flecks of gray in them. “This can’t be why you woke me up.”
I take a deep breath in. “Have you or have you not seen a book with a shirtless man on the cover called Beauty and the Beekeeper?”
She stares at me in silence for a moment before slowly nodding. “I have.”
“You know about under my mattress?” I whisper, horrified.
“Phoebe, please.” She shakes her head. “There is not one thing that goes on in this house that I don’t know about.”
I think about Jamie and Ethan down the hall and have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“And if you think for one second I don’t know that Ethan’s here, you’re mistaken.”
Never mind.
“What are you doing with that book?” I ask.
“What do you mean what am I doing with it? I was reading it.”
“You were reading it?”
“What, you think because I’m in my sixties I can’t enjoy a little smut here and there?”
“No, I think that because you’re my mom you can’t enjoy a little smut here and there. And you shouldn’t even know the word smut.” I grimace at the revelation that perhaps my love of raunchy novels is genetic. “Can I have the book back, please?”
“I lent it to Gail.”
“You lent it to Aunt. Gail.”
“Trust me, honey, she needed it. I don’t think she and your Uncle Tom—”
“Stop.”
I put my hands out in front of me and let out a defeated sigh. Without the promise of my book, the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that brought me to my parents’ room in the first place returns. My face heats and I cover my eyes with my palms.
“What’s wrong, Phoebe? This can’t be about the book.”
“It is about the book.”
She reaches out to rub my arm and I almost startle. Physical touch is not her love language, but she’s been growing more affectionate with age. It always takes me by surprise.
“You know, it’s okay if this weekend is a little hard for you,” she states.
“It’s not hard for me,” I answer quickly.
“Okay. But if it were to be, that’s okay.” She turns around to open the door to her bedroom. “I’m going back to sleep. Get some rest.”
On an impulse, I throw my arms around her back and hold on to her tightly. She grasps my hands and squeezes them in front of her. It feels odd holding her like this. But more than that, it feels nice.
“I might be a little sad,” I tell her, and the admission comes out easier with my face pressed against her back.
She holds on to my hands tighter. “I know, honey.”
“But I’m so happy for Jamie.”
“I know that, too.”
We stand in silence like this for a minute. And then, once the moment has become too sincere to bear, I mutter under my breath. “The backsplash in the kitchen is terrible.”
She drops my hands and whips back around.
“Mustard yellow is the color,” she snaps back.
“The color of what?” I ask. “Baby poop?”
“Very sophisticated, Phoebe.” She shakes her head in disapproval. “Get it all out before this weekend.”
She turns and slips back into her bedroom.
Without Beauty and the Beekeeper to keep me occupied, I pick up the yearbook from my junior year of high school.
Ignoring the impulse to turn to the page with Matthew’s photograph, I flip to the class of 2013 spread.
I find what I’m looking for in between Lee Bergman (most likely to win American Idol) and Julia Bermann (most likely to qualify for the Olympics):
Phoebe Berman
Most Likely to Experience
an Extraordinary Love Story
My fingers reflexively migrate to the grainy two-by-one photo of my seventeen-year-old self, and the ache in my chest worsens.
You would be so disappointed in me.
Still the same frizzy-haired virgin wearing a graphic T-shirt.
Nothing’s changed.
That’s not true, I can hear Sandy’s voice ringing in my head, and I’m reminded of her original assignment. Still desperate for a distraction, I walk over to my desk, stocked with all my school supplies, and begin to draft up the list that Sandy originally requested:
Phoebe’s Accomplishments
Moved across the country
Found Jonathan, Nora, Meg, and Alex
Graduated from college with honors
Cleared my acne
Landed my dream job
Became Teacher Phoebe
Added over 20 T-shirts to my collection
Got a tattoo
Had not one but two viral Goodreads reviews
Ran a mile without stopping
Read over 500 books
Discovered the importance of a claw clip
Published my The Greatest Showman fanfiction on Wattpad
Taught myself how to crochet
Successfully completed close to 300 parent-teacher conferences
Amassed over 100 free drink tickets from Jeffery’s trivia
Was asked to interview for an assistant principal position
Received my first set of felt-tipped markers
Opened my first set of felt-tipped markers
I read over the list twice. It’s not nothing.
Maybe I’m not the same Phoebe I was in high school. In fact, I’m not even the same Phoebe I was two weeks ago. I have seven and a half items crossed off my list. I am that much closer to losing my virginity.
There is one problem, though. I can’t think of a twentieth accomplishment, and an odd-numbered list won’t do.
But it’s okay.
I’ll just have to do something worthwhile this weekend.