Merit
Granite Harbor, Maine
December 1998
Age Fourteen
“Dinner’s ready!” I call out to the quiet house.
I hear Pop’s work truck pull up just in time.
I called him earlier to tell him he hadn’t made it to dinner in a week. Told him it was time to sit down at home and not at his desk. I think working after Mom died partly gave him something else to think about. A way to hide his emotions. Lose them. Bury them.
Cooking somehow made me feel closer to her. And, sometimes, when I cooked alone, I could smell her perfume, wafting in and out of my airways, and I’d pray she would stay the night.
Pop comes through the back door, and Eli’s behind him, done mowing the lawn. Pop hangs his coat on the coat rack next to Mom’s knitted sweater, which hasn’t left the peg in three years. Her tissue still in her pocket. I push my nose into the sweater when I want to cry, careful not to touch it too much, for fear that my scent will overcome hers and there will be nothing left but woven knots.
“Smells good, Mer.” Pop kisses my head.
I take the kabobs from the oven, keeping them warm, and set them on the dinner table on top of a pot holder. Eli’s washing his hands at the sink. Pop sits on the sofa in the living room to take off his work boots and his duty belt.
“Arrest any bad guys today, Pop?” Eli walks to the cabinet and grabs three plates, three cups, three napkins, and three forks.
It took a long time for him to stop grabbing four of everything. Eli has never talked about Mom after she passed. I guess boys carry their emotions differently. I know, when Pop’s at work, Eli feels like the man of the house, and I think he doesn’t want to show what he thinks is weakness. Every time he set the table, I reminded him that we needed place settings for three instead of four, but he continued to do it, so I stopped saying anything. I let him be. Maybe it was his way of grieving.
“Not today. Recovery operation today.”
Pop carries his emotions differently, too.
He doesn’t say anything about what we’ve read in the Granite Harbor Times about the body recovery of Aidan Laramy today. The reporter from the newspaper interviewed Pop. Eli and I read it.
He never talks about work with us—only the good stuff. And I guess, we need the good stuff, especially after losing Mom. Like the time the Warden Service helped a struggling moose cow have her baby. Or the time they found Penny Lane, who’d walked away from her parents’ camp to chase a duck. Penny Lane had gotten lost, and the fall temperatures had dipped down into the twenties that night. She was found safe and alive. I think he told us that story more to give us a healthy fear of our surroundings and to encourage us to make good decisions.
As I crawled into bed that night, I thought of Penny before they found her. I prayed for her. Just like I pray for Aidan.
Eli, Pop, and I sit in our kitchen, huddled around our four-person table, eating the kabobs, rice pilaf, and broccoli I prepared. The fire in the fireplace crackles and sparks, and the flames twist and turn.
“You get that project turned in, Mer?” Pop takes a drink of milk.
I nod, finishing up my bite of rice before I speak, “Today.”
“What about you, Eli? How was school?”
A whip of wind howls around the house as the fire cracks.
“School was good.” He takes a small bite of his kabob, eyeing me, wondering if I’ll say something about Grace and the fact that I caught them kissing at school today.
I take another bite of my kabob, looking out into our living room window into darkness, listening to the wind howl, making our one-hundred-year-old house readjust to its foundation.
We finish dinner, and I clean up the kitchen and make lunches for the next day while Pop retreats to the shower, and Eli finishes homework. It’s the job Mom told me to do when she died.
“Take care of the boys.”
Over the past three years she’s been gone, Pop and Eli have to offered to make lunches, but I give the same answer every single time. “No, I’ve got it.”
Pop:
Leftover kabobs
Two apples, sliced
A handful of carrots
A bag of chips
Two granola bars
Eli:
A muffin for the morning
Two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
An apple, sliced
A bag of chips
A granola bar
Chances are, Pop will come home, only having eaten the kabobs. He’ll say he got busy at work. He’ll say time is a luxury not afforded to everyone. This will make me think of Mom. And the people who complain about gray hair. Mom didn’t have any when she died. Not a single one.
Eli will most likely come home with all his lunch eaten and then say he’s starving after school. This will make me add more apple slices and more granola bars for the next few weeks.
I make my lunch, too, which consists of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, two oranges, a banana, and a Pop-Tart. I keep the Pop-Tarts hidden behind the Crock-Pot that never gets used in the cabinet below the microwave. Why do I hide them? They’re bad for you. Full of sugar. But they’re my guilty pleasure, so I hide them, and I tell myself I’m hiding them, so Pop and Eli don’t put the poison in their bodies. But, really, I think I hide them, so I can have them all to myself. But, tonight, I’ll eat one.
The house is quiet when I finish the dishes and lunches. I grab my guilty pleasure and tiptoe to the living room where I sit by the warm fire.
A knock at the door makes me wonder who’d show up at our house in the evening when the wind is angry, and the winter temperatures keep dropping.
I push my Pop-Tart between the couch cushions and look through the peephole.
Quickly, I open the door. “Ryan, what are you doing out there? Come in right now.” I use my mom’s tone, and it surprises me as I pull him by the arm.
Ryan removes his hood, and from underneath his coat, he pulls out a box of Pop-Tarts.
My first reaction is to deny my sweet temptation. My second reaction is to grab the box from his hands, look around to see if anyone’s noticed, and carefully place them in my hiding spot. My third reaction catches me off guard. “How did you know?”
Ryan smirks, staring down at his feet and then up to my eyes, shaking his head. “Merit, you don’t fool anyone. Especially me. I checked yesterday before I left. So, I grabbed some at Granite Harbor Grocery. It’s no big deal.”
I take the box from his hand. My stomach does flip-flops, my heart picking up speed. It isn’t the Pop-Tarts that make my body have this reaction. “It is a big deal, Ryan. There’s a storm out there, and you’re on a bike.” I look at the box of Pop-Tarts. “Thank you.”
“Where’s Eli? And Brand?” Ryan sits down on the couch.
“Shower and homework.” I walk into the kitchen, pull out the Crock-Pot, and set the box of goodness there. I walk back into the living room and sit at the end of the couch, marveling in the fact that he traveled this way for me.
The wind howls.
My heart pounds.
And the rain begins.
“Pop can give you a ride home, or you can sleep on the couch,” I say, trying to convince my heart it’s better to slow down than to kill me.
“Yeah,” he says.
The snapping fire grows louder as another log has burned to ash.
Heart, please, slow down.
The heart palpitations started about six months ago. I don’t have heart disease. It’s Ryan. And the gesture of the Pop-Tarts, the thoughtfulness behind it, has just about sent me over the edge.
“How about Eli and Grace dating?” Ryan says, pushing himself back against the couch, attempting to break the silence.
“Weird,” I say, but I don’t say I don’t care for her. That her motives are wrong. And that I think she’s dating my brother because her girlfriends say he’s hot. Not because she thinks he’s hot. Puke. My brother and the word hot should never go in the same sentence.
I lean my head against the back of the couch. I just want to be. Exist with Ryan.
Out of the side of my eye, I notice his shoulders drop. Mine are easing their way down, too.
“He’s probably in his bedroom, on the phone with her.” I laugh nervously, pushing my hands against my jeans, attempting to wipe the sweat.
“You should have seen him after he asked her out.” He drops his head, smiling.
I love Ryan Taylor’s smile. I love the cowlick that sits up front in his dark brown hair. Sometimes, I find myself thinking about asking him if he wants to go to a movie. Hold my hand. Calm my heart. I want to tell him that, every time he’s been around recently, my knees knock and my hands sweat. But I don’t.
I reach under the couch cushion and grab the two Pop-Tarts. I hand one to Ryan.
“Thanks,” he says.
It makes me wonder when he had his last meal.
“Did you eat dinner?” I ask, my motherly ways shining or being annoying.
He doesn’t answer but takes a bite of the Pop-Tart instead.
I set mine back in the package and shove it back under the couch cushion to hide the evidence. I walk to the refrigerator and take out a container from Pop’s lunch. I pull out two kabobs and warm them up in the microwave with some rice.
I bring the plate of food out to the living room and hand it to Ryan. “Here.”
Hesitantly, he sets down the dessert treat/breakfast food and gently takes the plate of food. “Thanks,” he whispers.
So, we sit on opposite sides of the couch. He eats dinner, and I finish off my Pop-Tart, existing.
“Sleep here,” I say after we’ve been sitting awhile.
Ryan and I have always been able to talk, but recently, there’s been some sort of shift. I’m not sure if it’s age, our bodies, or fear. Maybe it’s the promise that he asked Eli and me to make—to keep the secret from our parents, the one that makes us different, Eli, me, and Ryan. That his dad hurts him on purpose.
“That sounds good.” Ryan stands. He takes his plate and fork to the kitchen, washes it, and puts it away, so no one will know he’s been here.
I wonder if Ryan has spent his entire life hiding his tracks. Running—and not out of fear, but maybe out of escape. So, people won’t ask questions. So, people will stop asking if he’s okay or if he needs something. I stopped asking these questions a long time ago. Because I know the answer.
No, he doesn’t need anything.
And he’ll be all right—eventually.