Braced Page 14

  I’m not sure I hear Mom right. I’m a little afraid I’m imagining her words, because I want them to be real more than anything.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” she asks.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Really? You promise? No takebacks?”

  “I promise,” she says. “We can go shopping over Thanksgiving break for a dress.”

  “Thank you!” I shriek. I pull myself up as fast as I can and hug her. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Mom is smiling.

  “From now on, do you think you could call my brace my ‘brace’ instead of my ‘you know what’?” I ask.

  “Sure.” She sounds confused. “I didn’t realize that bothered you.”

  I nod, because I’m starting to think Frannie is right—telling Mom and Dad what I need makes it better. “Thank you for listening,” I say.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Why are you letting me do this?” I ask, because I don’t understand, and I want to.

  She looks down at the floor. “I was so scared that if I didn’t wear my brace every second I was supposed to, they’d make me wear it for longer. Forever. Or worse, I’d need surgery. Then I did everything right and needed it anyway.” She sighs. “I’m even more scared for you, honey. I just want to make sure we do everything we can. But three hours isn’t going to change the outcome. And I want you to have one night without all this responsibility.” There are tears welling up in her eyes.

  I reach over and hug Mom again.

  She hugs me back, and she doesn’t let go. I can feel her crying against my arms, and for the first time, I realize Mom is as sad for me about the brace as I am.

  After Mom goes back to her room to rest, I text Hazel and Frannie, My mom changed her mind. I’m going to the dance without my brace!!!

  YES! Frannie says.

  Best news ever! Hazel writes. Also, I told you so. Formal is going to be HUGE for you and Tate. You’re about to be the sixth new couple of the year. I know it.

  Fingers crossed, I write back.

  ON THANKSGIVING, DAD still isn’t home from the hospital when Gram and Papa get to our house. Gram walks into the kitchen first. She stops to inspect Mom’s antique bowls and porcelain figurines. Papa trails behind her. I can smell the turkey before I see him holding a huge aluminum-covered basin. They did some cooking this year to help Mom, since she’s pregnant and can’t do everything like she usually does. “Dad, let me help you,” Mom says, rushing to his side.

  “Thank you, Amy.” Papa kisses her on the forehead and hands over the turkey. She puts it on the counter next to the pies that decorate our stovetop: apple and cranberry, Papa’s favorites. “Would you look at these?” He smacks his lips.

  Mom gives him a look. “I only made them because it’s a holiday. You can have a sliver of each, but that’s it. I need you to live forever, Dad.” She grabs on to his sleeve like a little girl.

  “I know, Amy.” Papa smiles and wraps his arms all the way around her. “It looks wonderful. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Gram walks over to me. “Would you look at this face?” she says to everyone else, placing her fingers under my chin. Her thick Boston accent peeks through each word. “It’s really something else, and I’m not saying that because you’re my granddaughter.” Gram scans me with her light green eyes. She smiles like she’s proud, and then she looks down at the rest of me.

  I stand there and wait for Gram to react. I’m used to this by now. Most people look away as fast as they can, because they don’t want me to think that they know there’s something wrong with me. Everyone else gives me the pity pout. It doesn’t bother me like it did when I first got the brace, which makes me think you really can get used to anything if you have to. But Gram’s face doesn’t give anything away. “You look beautiful,” she says. It doesn’t feel like a lie.

  Papa swoops in and kisses me on the forehead, same as he did with Mom. He smells the way he always does, like new leather and aftershave.

  I look back at Gram, waiting for her real reaction, but her face hasn’t changed, which means that either she loves me so much she can’t see the brace or the new dress I’m wearing looks as good as I think it does or the brace is really not a big deal. She adjusts the gold bumblebee brooch on her lapel so it doesn’t snag her cashmere sweater. Everything about my grandmother is elegant, like gold on cashmere.

  Papa places his arms all the way around me. “We know how hard this whole experience is,” he whispers in my ear. His voice is soft enough that Mom can’t hear what he’s saying. “We’re very proud of you for being so strong.” He takes an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and pats it against his eyes.

  I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen Papa cry. If I have, it wasn’t like this, happy and sad at the same time. I have a feeling that his tears aren’t all about me—that they’re about Mom too. Papa kisses me again and squeezes like he wants to protect me for as long as he can. I wish it would never end.

  When he finally lets go, he looks at Mom. “How can I help?” he asks.

  “You can relax,” she says.

  “All right. Fine. If you insist.” He sits down at the table next to Gram.

  We’re all quiet for a minute. No one asks where Dad is. Gram and Papa know better. They’re experts at filling the void Dad leaves when he’s at work. I’m used to the emptiness, so I don’t hate it, but I never forget it’s there. And every time Dad isn’t here for something big, like Thanksgiving, it feels like a knife is chipping away, making a hole inside me, and the pieces are so small there’s no way to find them once they’re gone.

  Dad and I carve the turkey together. Always. It’s our thing. He’s the surgeon, and I’m chief turkey resident. We don’t have that many traditions. It’s mostly this and the ballet. I’m too old for dancing sugarplum fairies, but I’d rather go to The Nutcracker with Dad than not. Now he’s about to miss the only other thing we do together all year.

  “So what else is doing?” Gram asks.

  Mom and I exchange smiles, like we’re passing a secret. Before this summer, whenever it was quiet in the house and we both needed to laugh, one of us would say, “So what else is doing?” like Gram. I like knowing we still have a few good things that belong to us.

  “Rachel is playing so well in soccer,” Mom says.

  “That’s wonderful,” Gram says.

  “I’m lucky. My friend Frannie has been coming over every day to help me get ready for tryouts, because there are two indoor teams this year, and I really want to make the A Team.”

  “That is lucky.” Gram takes my hand and holds on to it.

  “What time are we eating?” Papa asks.

  Mom looks at the clock and takes a deep breath. “I was thinking we’d sit down in about forty-five minutes, but let’s see what time David gets home.” Dad was supposed to be home fourteen minutes ago. He could be stuck in traffic or stopping for gas, or he could be dealing with something bigger that will keep him away all night. Mom isn’t going to call him to find out. She doesn’t like to bother him when he’s at work. She told me it’s because she decided to marry a doctor, so she picked this life. (I didn’t have a choice.)

  It feels like there’s a vacuum ready to suck out everything good about this day, and we’re all sitting here waiting for someone to flip the ON switch.

  The phone rings.

  Flip.

  “Hello?” Mom answers, like she’s really asking who it is, which is annoying because she already knows. “Rachel,” she says. “It’s for you.” I feel my heart deflate inside my chest. Mom shakes her head at me. “It’s not Dad.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She sounds like she’s relieved too. She hands me the phone. Right now we’re on the same team, Team Get Dad Home. Team Please Let It Work Out.

  I walk upstairs to my room and shut the door. I know better than to talk in the bathroom, where everyone c
an hear what I’m saying. “Hey,” I say, waiting to hear Frannie or Hazel on the other end.

  “Rachel, hi. It’s Tate.”

  I can’t think. It feels like my brain is frozen inside my head. “Hi,” I say. It’s all I can manage to get out. I’ve never talked to Tate on the phone. I don’t know why it feels big and important, because I talk to him at school all the time. But it does.

  “Hi,” he says. “I left my phone in my locker, so I looked up your number in the directory. That’s okay, right? Sorry if I’m bothering you. You’re not in the middle of eating dinner or anything, right?”

  “No, not yet. And you’re not bothering me.” I try to talk slowly so I don’t stumble over my words, but they fall out of my mouth before I can think them through. “We usually start eating pretty early, but we’re waiting for my dad.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Where is he?”

  “Work,” I say, leaning against my dresser.

  “On Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah. He’s on call, so he’s at the hospital seeing patients.” It sounds worse out loud. I wish I had kept it to myself. “What about you?”

  “We’re waiting for Adam to get back from hanging out with some of his high school friends. His phone is dead or off. My mom is freaking out. We were supposed to run together this morning in the Turkey Trot. We do it every year. I guess he forgot—” Tate stops himself. “That’s why I called you, because you said, you know, you’d listen if I ever wanted to talk about Adam.”

  “I remember,” I say. “I’m sorry he missed the race. I think I’d really hate it if a tradition got messed up, like if my dad didn’t make it home to carve the turkey with me. That would be hard.”

  “Yeah. Exactly,” he says. “I mean, it’s okay, I guess.”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “The whole race I kept thinking maybe I messed up where we were supposed to meet and that he was mad at me.”

  “That’s such a bad feeling.”

  “It stinks, because we didn’t make the play-offs, so this was our only time to spend together until Christmas, you know?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I really do.” I listen for the garage. There’s still nothing. I wonder if Mom has tried calling Dad yet. “I’m sorry about the play-offs.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “Are you going to say something?” I ask Tate. “To your brother.”

  “Yeah. He promised. He should have been there. Are you going to talk to your dad about working on Thanksgiving?”

  “No.” I shake my head. I’m not even sure I should be allowed to feel the way I do. “He’s never going to change jobs or stop being on call. He’s always going to work a lot. And with the new baby, he’ll have even less time to spend with me. I’m pretty sure if I said something to him, I’d end up feeling worse.”

  “It might be hard. But you should,” he says. “Even if it doesn’t change how things actually are, I think it matters. Plus, you don’t want to end up taking all your feelings out on your little bro.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  “You might. But you shouldn’t. Little bros are the best. Trust me.” I can tell he’s smiling on the other end of the phone.

  We’re both quiet. I can hear him breathing, like a soft humming in my ear.

  “I’m going to the formal,” I say. “I wanted to tell you.”

  “Good,” he says. “You were weird about it before.”

  “I know. Sorry about that. I thought I was going to have to wear my brace, but I don’t have to now.”

  “It must be hard to worry about that,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s a big responsibility.”

  “I’m going too,” he says.

  “I know. You told me. Kyle is making you.”

  “Not anymore. I want to go now,” he says. I smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rachel.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I say.

  I walk downstairs and put the phone away. I sit down at the table next to Gram. Papa is dozing off in his chair—not because he’s getting older, but because he likes to nap. He always has. “Who was that?” Gram whispers in my ear. “Boyfriend?”

  I smile and shake my head, but I feel my cheeks burning. “I’m not sure if he wants to be my boyfriend. I mean, I think he does. I know he likes me.”

  “Did you know your mother had all kinds of admirers when she wore her brace?”

  “That’s not true,” Mom says.

  “It is true. And then after your surgery, all the boys in the neighborhood couldn’t wait for you to come back to school. I think you were in your brace when Mike first asked you out.”

  “Who knows,” Mom says. “Don’t listen to her, Rachel. My brace was even bigger than yours. But maybe you’re right about Mike.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Gram says. “I still have that necklace he bought you.”

  I smile. Mom had a bigger brace than me and someone asked her out and bought her jewelry.

  “Oh, and Gram sent me to school in a nightgown. Did I tell you that already? I’ll never forgive you for that one, Ma.” Mom shakes her head at Gram.

  “It was a beautiful nightgown,” Gram says.

  “It was a nightgown!” Mom is almost shouting now.

  “It didn’t look like one. It had this gorgeous white lace.” Gram stops talking and starts laughing. “Okay, now that I’m thinking about it. It looked a little like a nightgown.”

  “Thank you,” Mom says.

  “Mort, wake up,” Gram says.

  “I’m awake.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “How am I supposed to sleep when the two of you are still yelling about that nightgown twenty-five years later?”

  Mom, Gram, and I all laugh.

  “Did your mom tell you about the pencil?” Papa asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “She got itchy on her second or third day in the brace. So the genius sticks a pencil down the back of the thing when no one was home to help her, and it gets stuck.”

  “Do you have to tell her everything?” Mom says to Papa, like it’s their secret.

  “I want to know,” I say.

  “You do?” Mom asks, like that’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “She’s part of it now,” Papa says to Mom. “Family tradition!”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Mom says.

  Neither had I.

  “Were you scared?” I ask Mom.

  “No,” she answers. “I was itchy.”

  We all laugh, and that’s when the garage door rumbles. “He’s here!” I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to catch the words before everyone can hear how desperate they sound.

  “I hope you hadn’t given up on me.” Dad slams the door behind him. He has a stack of papers tucked between his arm and his suit jacket. “Morty, good to see you,” he says, reaching out to shake Papa’s hand. He kisses Gram on the cheek. “Please, don’t get up.” He puts his paperwork on the counter. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Dad looks at Mom and then at me. I know he means it. He really is sorry.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Mom says. “We’re glad you’re home. Everything is wonderful.” And it’s true. Dad is home, Tate likes me, and I’m in a club with Mom, Papa, and Gram.

  “All right,” Dad says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get to it.” He looks at me and then walks over to the sink, so I know it’s time to scrub up. Dad puts on the only apron I’ve ever seen in our house. It must have been Mom’s at one point, because it has big, yellow ruffles, but Dad is the only one who wears it. I can’t help but giggle as I wash my hands.

  “No mocking allowed.” He plugs in the electric knife, and it makes a loud rumbling sound. Mom, Gram, and Papa go into the other room so they can hear each other as they talk. Dad smiles at me and starts slicing.

  I keep the counter clean and the empty serving trays coming, while he carefully carves and sorts the meat like a pro. “Was Mom mad
?” he asks without taking his eyes off the buzzing knife.

  “She’s never mad,” I say.

  “Really?” he asks.

  It’s weird to me that Dad doesn’t know the answer or that he needs to be reminded. I wait for him to ask about my feelings. I’ve already decided what I’m going to say: Not mad. Sad.

  “What did your grandparents say about the brace?”

  “Nothing, really.” I wait for him to change the subject back, but he doesn’t. I wish it wasn’t like that. I want to be able to tell him things. I want him to know that I miss him and that sometimes I’m not sure how to talk to him. I have so much to say. Maybe I should just say it.

  “I wasn’t mad that you were late either, but it made me sad,” I say. “I was scared you weren’t going to make it home in time to do this.”

  He nods like he already knows that. “Me too,” he says, and it’s exactly what I needed to hear.

  If I ever figure out how to be honest with Dad about everything, like Tate said I should, I’ll tell him that he isn’t bad at talking to me. He doesn’t need Mom. I’ll tell him about how she’s not so great at it lately. It’ll probably make him feel better to know he’s not the only one. That usually helps me. And I’ll ask him why he picked a job where he has to work so much. I don’t think it has to do with me specifically, but it would be nice to know for sure, so I wouldn’t have to wonder.

  After dinner, I’m helping Mom clean up when I hear a bang. I dry off the plate I’m holding and follow the sound into the mudroom. Frannie is standing outside. Normally I wouldn’t be surprised to see her, since she lives only a few houses away, but it’s Thanksgiving, and her eyes are bloodshot and swollen. I open the door as fast as I can and wrap my arms around her as she comes inside. She falls further into me and starts to cry, or maybe she never stopped.

  “Who’s there?” Mom asks from the kitchen. “Rachel? Is everything okay?” I feel Frannie pulling away. I hold on tighter.

  Mom pokes her head in and sees what’s going on. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Stay as long as you want, Frannie. We have plenty of food if you’re hungry. I’ll put a plate together for you, in case.” I listen to the charms on Mom’s bracelet fade away as she disappears into the kitchen.