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I get to Amber’s before seven in the morning. Mrs. Brody, in the yellow chenille bathrobe she’s had ever since I’ve known her, answers the door.
“Come in, Lauren. Have you had breakfast? How about a scrambled egg?”
She’s always like that—offering food before I even get into the house.
“Maybe an orange?” I say, nodding toward the fruit bowl. It’s not that I want an orange, but I know she won’t relax until she sees me eating something.
Mrs. Brody cuts the orange into sections, puts it on a small glass plate, and hands it to me.
“How’s your grandmother?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Is Amber up?”
“She’d better be. Why don’t you go see?”
I go down the hall to Amber’s room, where she’s sitting on her bed, putting on her shoes. She gives me this big, wide grin, which fades immediately. Like she suddenly remembers she’s mad.
“What’s up?” she says, all cold and distant.
“Helium balloons,” I say, but she doesn’t laugh.
“I want to ask you, really seriously, to give me another chance. That’s all.”
“I’ll think about it,” Amber says in a whisper.
“Do you want a ride to school?”
She shakes her head.
“Well . . . see you in peer communications,” I say.
I walk out to the kitchen, put the orange peels in the disposal, the dish in the dishwasher, and go on to school.
––––––––
Even though I sit right behind Amber in peer communications, it’s as if we’re strangers. At lunchtime I sit in my car by myself and read Jane Eyre. I’m not hungry.
At volleyball practice Amber and I set each other up, working together as we always do. Volleyball’s the same, except for laughter and words of encouragement, and our special handshake that lines up the blood sister spots on our wrists.
Big exceptions.
It is not until I’ve showered and dressed that Amber breaks the silence between us.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says.
“Me, too. A lot.”
We walk together to the parking lot and stand leaning against my grams’ car.
“I was so shocked that you would tell my secret,” Amber says. “I know that if Blake and I keep getting closer, I’ll tell him about my herpes. But I want it to come from me, not from anyone else.”
I only listen. I’ve already apologized, and asked for another chance. What else is there to say?
Amber takes a deep breath. “Last night, my mom was looking through old photos. She’s putting together this family history thing and redoing a bunch of old albums. She kept calling me to look at photos. A bunch of them were of you and me—camping, in our look-alike Halloween pumpkin costumes, one from when we first started playing volleyball, back in seventh grade. Boy, were we dorky looking.”
Amber smiles and I smile back, awkward.
“There was one of us at the beach, which reminded me of how you saved my life when I got knocked down by that giant wave and you pulled me out of the water.”
“I didn’t save your life. You’d have gotten out on your own.”
“I’d gone under for the third time.”
This is an old argument. Amber was only about two feet from shore when I grabbed her arm and pulled her up to the damp sand.
“I only gave you a hand,” I say.
“I was drowning.”
We stand next to each other for a long time, quiet, thinking. Each of us, I suppose, remembering so many times together. Finally, I get up the nerve to ask, “Wanna go get something to drink?”
Amber nods and we get into the car. We go to a drive-thru and order sodas and fries, then sit eating them in front of Amber’s house.
“I’m sorry I told Tyler,” I say, as if I can’t say it enough. “And I’m sorry I’ve been so wrapped up in my own troubles I haven’t been much of a friend lately.”
Amber nods and shoves a handful of fries into her mouth, like she does when she’s tense.
“You said your mom doesn’t like Blake,” I say, hoping Amber will talk with me like we’re friends again.
She finishes the rest of her french fries and I hand her mine.
“What doesn’t she like about him?” I prompt.
Amber looks at me, like she can’t decide whether to talk or not. But then she starts.
“Oh, you know how my mother gets—all judgmental and protective. When Blake first met her she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Like she’d ask a six-year-old. He told her he was a poet. And then she went all ‘rhyme something.’ How embarrassing! Anyway he said he wasn’t a rhyming poet, his style was more like Allen Ginsberg.”
“Oh, no!”
“Not that my mom knows anything about Allen Ginsberg, but she knows he’s in league with the devil.”
With that we both laugh, thinking of gentle Blake in league with the devil. We laugh and laugh until we’re worn out with laughter and the barriers between us have weakened.
“See, if I were to tell Candy that my mom thought Blake was in league with the devil, she wouldn’t have a clue, I’d have to explain all about my mom, and her church . . . but you, you get the whole picture right away.”
“Years of knowing you and your mom . . .”
“I like Blake, a lot. It’s hard though, because we want to see each other, and I don’t want to lie to my mom. But I think she’s being completely unreasonable to tell me I can’t go out with him.”
“She’d like him if she’d get to know him,” I say.
“Yeah. She said he could come for dinner Sunday. That seems so phony to me, but it might help.”
After we’ve tried to figure out ways Amber can convince her mom that it’s okay to go out with Blake, and talked about all that she likes about him, the conversation shifts, and I try to catch Amber up on what’s been going on with me. It’s not that everything is exactly okay between us, but that things are starting to get better.
I go through the whole story about Tyler and Shawna again, and how it’s as if I’ve been living way underwater and only hearing and seeing things from a great distance. Floating. Disconnected.
“And THEN, my father found me . . .”
“WHAT?”
“Yeah. It’s so amazing. The guy in the red Honda . . .”
“The ex-addict? Jacob?”
“Yeah. Jack.”
“Your father?”
I tell her the whole story, and how it was sort of mystical, when Jack called me Rennie, like a deeply buried memory suddenly unearthed.
After a long silence Amber says, “I’m glad we’re talking.”
“Me, too. Thanks for giving me a chance.”
Amber nods.
I take a long, deep breath and realize that my hands and feet are no longer numb, and that even though the Tyler hurt is still there, so’s a lot of other stuff, like being a friend to Amber, and caring about Grams, and getting to know Jack.
We talk on and on, until sunlight fades.
“I’d better get inside to help with dinner,” Amber says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Well . . .”
“You’re not cutting school again?”
“I’m taking tomorrow to figure some things out, but Thursday, I’ll be back, in all of my classes, for good.”
“Are you still mad at Mr. Harper?”
“No. He was right, you know, about how I should gather courage and get on with my life.”
“And Shawna?” she asks softly.
“Ummm. Grams has been talking to me a lot lately about how destructive it is to hold onto anger. But Shawna . . .”
Amber stands waiting for me to complete my sentence, but no more words come to me.
“You know, it really wasn’t all her fault.”
“I know. And she got kicked out of Hamilton High for fighting with me, when really, I’m the one who hit her. She didn’t even hit back.”
“I saw her at the Habitat house yesterday,” Amber says. “She told me she likes it better at Sojourner. Everybody works at their own pace, and there’s no in-groups or out-groups.”
“You saw her?”
“Yeah. We’ve all been working on the landscaping at the Habitat house. Did you think everything stopped when you withdrew from life?”
I’m quiet—thinking about what she’s said.
“I’m sorry. That sounded mean.”
“It’s just been so hard,” I say, trying not to let tears come.
Amber gathers up her stuff and opens the car door.
“Bye, Sister B.,” I say as she gets out of the car.
“Bye,” she says, leaving silent air where I want to hear her call me Sister K.
––––––––
I get up at six-thirty in the morning, put on jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. These used to be my tightest jeans, but now I have to tighten the waist with a belt just to keep them up. It seems like a long time since I’ve wanted to eat anything. I could probably make a lot of money if I wrote The No-Fail Broken Heart Diet.
After I finish my second hot, steaming cup of tea, I put the cup in the dishwasher. I’ve promised Grams I’ll not skip meals anymore, so I get fruit, cheese, trail mix and a bottle of water and stuff it into my backpack. I brush my teeth, then get my journal and creative writing folder, along with my favorite pen and an extra, and add those to my backpack supplies. I leave a note for Grams, telling her not to worry if the school calls about my absence. I’ve taken a day to get myself together. Tomorrow I’ll throw myself back into school.
I’m not certain what the schedule is for the twenty-seven bus, but I know if I wait long enough it will come along. I sit on the bench at the corner of Garfield and Alameda, half-reading Jane Eyre, half people-watching. A youngish, tired looking woman sits beside me. She is carrying a large, cracked, vinyl shoulder bag, and a small paper sack which I take to be her lunch. She sits quietly on the bench, both bags on her lap, staring straight ahead. I notice that her hands are thick-skinned and tough looking. Maybe she cleans houses for a living. Some people have such hard lives—I’m going to try not to feel sorry for myself anymore.
I go back to reading Jane Eyre. She has been deceived by her love, Mr. Rochester, but she forgives him. Also, having finished reading Angela’s Ashes, I know Frank McCourt forgives his drunken father. I think about how Grams is always telling me I’ve got to get past my anger at Marcia. I’m not sure I can be as forgiving as Jane Eyre or Frank McCourt. I’m not even sure I want to be. But I definitely want Amber to forgive me. Maybe everything’s all related, and I have to learn about forgiving in order to be forgiven? The idea makes my head spin.
Finally, the twenty-seven bus pulls up and I and the young woman with the tough hands board it.
It is a slow trip to the foothills, stopping every two blocks to pick people up or let them off. The bus is crowded by city hall—standing room only. Then, after the welfare office, it is nearly empty again. I’m the only one left at the very last stop. As I step down off the bus, the driver, a big, burly woman with a kindly face, asks, “Shouldn’t you be in school today?”
“I’m off track,” I tell her, as if I were on break from a year-round school. It’s not exactly a lie. I’ve been “off track” for over two weeks now.
“Oh,” she says, then closes the pneumatic doors behind me.
I start out on the trail to Clark’s Peak. The friendly fall California sun is warm on my back and I soon peel off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. The scent of sage is fresh and strong, mingled in the refreshing pine-filled air. I breathe deeply, purifying my smog-wearied lungs.
At the place where we found Baby Hope I pause to recreate that scene in my mind—the nearly dead baby, gaining breath and color as Grams worked with her. Again I reflect on how uncertain life is. The “what ifs” flood through me.
I put my sweatshirt down on the ground, covering sticky pine needles. I sit cross-legged, yoga style, then get my journal and begin writing.
What if Grams and I hadn’t happened along the trail that day four years ago? Such a simple decision on that fateful morning—should we hike Big Santa Anita Canyon, or should we stay closer to home and hike along the Clark’s Peak trail? We changed countless lives in the choice of Clark’s Peak. Baby Hope’s of course—it gave her a life. And Sarah Mabry’s—it meant she was convicted of attempted murder rather than actual murder.
Finding Hope turned me away from childhood toward adulthood, making me realize the importance of my actions. Maybe some of the doctors and nurses and paramedics who took care of Baby Hope were changed, too. Who knows? Then there’s Hope’s new family—her mom, dad, grandparents, and all the other people Hope will touch in her whole lifetime. What if she grows up to develop a cure for cancer. That could happen. Or, whoa! What if she grows up to be a mass murderer? And then, there would be all the people murdered, and their devastated families and friends. Or, the happy ending, all those people cured of cancer, and their relieved families and friends. All because of that one simple decision to hike this trail.
I go on to other “what ifs.” Like, what if I’d not seen Tyler and Shawna together that night? Would I still be in love and happy, instead of feeling lost and empty? Is it true that what you don’t know can’t hurt you? I don’t think so. If you’re driving, and you don’t know how to use the brakes . . . If I were going along right now, thinking everything was just fine with Tyler, wouldn’t that be like living a lie?
An hour must have passed since I first sat down to write. My back is tired and my butt is numb. Slowly, I get to my feet and stretch. I take a large Fuji apple from my backpack and bite into it. The crisp, sweet flavor catches me off guard, reminding me of the first time I ever tasted a Fuji apple. I remember the careful way Tyler opened his Swiss army knife, and how he cut the apple in slices, working around the core instead of quartering it. We slowly savored the taste and texture, and then, having nothing left but the core, we kissed. Our apple-fresh lips met and we kissed, really kissed, for the first time.
I pick up my backpack and walk the rest of the way to the peak, wanting to forget that kiss, wanting to forget that there will be no more kisses with Tyler.
At the peak I turn and look out over the valley. The sky is pure blue and cloudless, untainted by the usual industrial strength smog. I can see the large brick buildings on the college campus where Tyler and I used to park. To the west is a big stone church with its steeple reaching upward. It is easy to identify the Hamilton High football stadium, where only three short weeks ago I sat with Tyler and our friends. Three weeks ago and a lifetime away.
From where I stand, I can figure out where the Habitat house is. I can’t exactly see it, but I know it is there.
Further south, in the Whittier Hills, a huge Buddhist Temple casts a faint, rosy reflection. Best of all though, the sight that has always thrilled me on the rare occasions of such visibility, is the gleaming ocean, the demarcation between land and water and then, in the shimmering distance, Catalina Island. I drink in the vision. Such days come only once or twice a year, and I am lucky to be here this day, as Grams and I were lucky to have been here on that day four years ago. Sometimes life presents us with gifts, like this day of such beauty, or the opportunity to rescue the baby on the trail. And then, smack! In the dimmed light of a nursery office, life turns cruel.
I haul back and, with all my strength, throw my apple core out over the cliff. I’m glad to be the only one in the picnic area this morning. I get out my writing materials again and sit on one of the creaky wooden benches. My pen rushes to keep up with my thoughts. First there’s Tyler, then Shawna, Amber, Grams, Marcia, Jack, Mr. Harper, Coach Terry, Blake. Every hurt, real and imagined, balanced by pleasures small and large. Everything I can’t express out loud, the sweet thoughts and the hateful, murderous thoughts. They come without censorship. Anger, love, disappointment, jealousy, guilt, rage, hope, the innermost hidden thoughts and the silliest nonsense, all fly across the paper, page after page. When my hand gets so tired I can’t write another sentence, I tear out a blank piece of notebook paper to use as a kind of placemat, and set my lunch stuff on it.
Slowly peeling the orange, I read back over everything I’ve written this morning. It’s barely legible, I’ve written so fast. That’s fine. I don’t want anyone else to read it anyway.
I’ve written a lot about Amber, and how important her friendship is to me. How wrong it was of me to tell her secret, even to someone I trusted with all my heart. How wrong of me it was, too, to withdraw from everyone around me. Through all of this writing, I think I’ve figured out that just because I’ve lost Tyler, doesn’t mean I have to lose everything else, too.
One of the things that shows up in my writing is the idea of giving people chances. I wrote about how Tyler kept leaving messages for me, asking me to give him a chance. And then how Jack had told me all he wanted from me was a chance. Then yesterday I was begging Amber to give me a chance. The Harp says when we notice recurring themes or events in our dreams, we need to explore below the surface. In our journals, too, if the same subject or theme keeps showing up, unbidden, it’s a sign that our unconscious mind is sending us a message. Is my unconscious mind trying to tell me something about chances?
I mull these things over as I slowly eat away at the chunk of jack cheese sitting next to the peeled orange on my notebook paper. Everyone who loves me, Grams, Amber, Jack, keeps hinting, strongly, that I should listen to Tyler. But no one else can really understand how fragile and shattered I feel at the very core of my being. How can I possibly open myself up to more hurt?
Twelve Cub Scouts, in uniforms, come rushing into the picnic area. Two men, dads I guess, come dragging along behind.
“Carl! Carl! I don’t want to have to tell you again—keep your hands to yourself!”
“Yeah! Carl!” says a big, pudgy kid with a belly befitting a beer drinker.
I can tell already these are scouts working on their bickering badges. I pack up and walk back down the hill. Once out of earshot of the den, I stop and look out again over the valley. The afternoon has brought a slight haze now, shielding Catalina from view. Maybe it’s the beauty of the day. Maybe it’s a light shed by writing. Maybe it’s finally being tired of misery. Whatever. I feel peaceful. Worried and guilty about Amber. Hurt and betrayed by Tyler, all of that is still there, but that’s not all I’ve got now. From a secret place within me, I feel an old strength rising. I’ll work things out with Amber. I’ll get past this thing with Tyler. I’ve decided. And I’ve decided to listen the next time he wants to talk.