Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [50]
“Baby,” Mallory says, stroking Jewel’s hair, but her hand is shaking. “He’s okay. I’m sure he is. Don’t you ever get so mad sometimes you want to leave?”
Jewel shakes her head into her blanket.
“Well, teenagers do. And you know what? Pretty soon he’ll get hungry and cold and miss his own bed and he’ll decide to come home.”
At this Jewel picks her head up and looks at Mallory, her face puckered as if with confusion. “But doesn’t he miss me?”
I interject, “It’s complicated. Teenagers are confusing people, and they don’t always think very clearly.”
Jewel’s eyes dart between us, one hand already on her stomach.
I sit down with them on the bed, putting my hand on her mother’s shoulder, and my other hand on Jewel’s knee. “It’s okay. I’m sure he misses us and that’s when he’ll decide to come home. He’s a good kid, isn’t he? He’ll realize that we’re worried and he’ll come home.”
Jewel nods, but there’s no light in her eyes.
A moment passes, all of us ringed together, our hands on each other, joined by worry. In my line of sight is that picture on her bulletin board, the last picture taken of us as an intact family. It’s tacked up next to a magazine cutout of a pony.
Jewel breaks the silence. “Can I watch cartoons while I eat?”
“Sure,” answers Mallory, and I sigh but don’t protest.
Jewel runs downstairs at this, leaving Mallory and me alone in her room.
“Thanks,” I say.
She’s rubbing her own hands, threading the fingers through each other, twisting her turquoise silver rings. She stops suddenly, shaking her hands out.
“For what?” Now she starts playing with her hair. I’ve seen this before. It’s restless Mallory, usually followed by Mallory filling up a plastic cup with boxed wine.
“For . . .”
She smirks. “For not being crazy. Yeah. You bet. At your service.” She gives me a mocking bow, tipping an invisible hat.
“You’re not the only one upset.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Would throwing things make you feel better?”
“A little emotion never killed anybody.”
We slip right into the worn grooves on the record of our marriage. She’s too unstable, I’m cold.
I turn away from her and stomp back down the stairs, once again hearing a ringing phone, the sound sparking a mosaic of frightening and ecstatic possibilities.
Chapter 19
Casey
Angel taps her fingers on her coffee mug, her eyes unfocused on the center of the table. Every time she sips, she grimaces. I’d offer her more cream and sugar, but I don’t want to draw attention to my presence.
Lately it’s like she’s sunburned. I can’t so much as brush up against her. And that was before she read my journal.
It was a year ago in May that I first met them. Angel turned fifteen that summer, and I took her and some girlfriends to the mall one summer Saturday. I lagged behind them most of the time, enjoying their chirpy laughter and their habit of bursting into song, heedless of—or maybe because of—the stares. They were sharing earbuds from their mp3 players, and I tried not to make faces thinking about the ear germs.
We sat at the food court eating greasy egg rolls and I was still mostly ignored, but then Angel said, “Oh, Casey! Listen to this!” and she launched into an incomprehensible story about some romantic triangle involving a girl named Tessa. I didn’t know any of the kids involved and could barely follow her disjointed tale, especially when the other girls kept throwing in more details about other people I didn’t know.
But I leaned in anyway, my elbows on the table, making faces and gasps of shock to match theirs, glowing with pleasure at my inclusion into the circle.
After I moved in, Angel had the same girls over for a study date, which was really a pretense for gossip. I popped them some popcorn, and as I brought it in, I heard one of them mention Tessa.
I said, “Oh, the one who was dating a football player and a marching band guy at the same time?”
In the cold silence that followed, one of them stage-whispered, “Awkward . . . ,” drawing the word out, marking the moment. The