Page 71 of The Way I Used to Be
“So you’re still going out for dinner then? ’Cause I could make something—I don’t mind.”
“No, yeah, it’s fine. I mean, we’re still going out.”
“Well, good. Where are you going?” she asks as she thumbs through the envelopes, tossing them into junk and bill piles.
“Cheesecake Factory,” I lie. “I have coupons,” which is technically true, even if I won’t technically be using them.
“Good.” Junk. Bill. Junk. Junk. Bill. “Looks like you got a card from Grandma and Grandpa, oh, and one from your aunt Courtney in Phoenix,” she says, handing me a red envelope and then a purple one. She always does that—Aunt Courtney in Phoenix, Uncle Henry in Michigan, Cousin Kim in Pittsburgh—as if I have more than one Aunt Courtney, Uncle Henry, and Cousin Kim.
I open the purple one first. From my grandparents. The front of the card has one teddy bear giving a balloon to another teddy bear; on the inside: “I hope your birthday is beary special.” The card was probably meant for a five-year-old, but it also contains a check for seventeen dollars, and on the memo line, in my grandmother’s shaky cursive, it says: “Happy 17th Birthday, Eden.” Last year it was a sixteen-dollar check, next year it will be eighteen. Aunt Courtney sent a twenty, which I graciously stuff in my pocket.
Heaving my body off the couch, I go into my room, change my clothes, and make a big show of getting ready for my great birthday celebration. I have no clue where I am actually supposed to go for the next two to three hours.
“Have fun,” Conner calls to me from the kitchen as I’m leaving.
“Edy, wait, just in case we’re in bed when you get home, happy birthday again.” Vanessa proceeds to give me an awkward hug in the doorway. “We love you,” she adds at the last moment.
They’re trying—I give them credit for that.
I just can’t anymore. It’s too hard.
IT TURNS OUT THEpublic library is the perfect hideout, even better that the school library. You can feel like a completely desperate, pathetic loser in solitude, without judgment.
I have my phone out. Right there in front of me, waiting for her call. I can even hear the ring in my head, anticipating the moment when she realizes how silly she’s been to forget her best friend’s birthday.
I idly flip through the pages of one of my school notebooks. Every page starts the same way, with the date and nothing else. I guess I attempted to take notes at the beginning of the year, but now it’s just the occasional “Does this pen work??” scribbled in the margin. With each turn of the page I notice my hands trembling more and more. I shake them out. I stretch my fingers in front of me, as far as they can go. Then I close them tightly in a fist. I do it over and over. I rub my palms against my thighs, trying to get the circulation going, or whatever the problem is. But it only gets worse. It starts to make me nervous, which only makes them shake harder. I slam the notebook shut and lay my hands flat against the cover. They will not stop.
I’m breathing heavy as I pick up my phone and the rest of my things and head up to the reference desk to sign out a computer. Even if it’s a completely lame excuse, it would make me feel so much better right now. I check my inbox: No Mara, but there is a message from Caelin. The subject line reads, “happy birthday.” I double-click:
Dear Edy,
Happy Birthday
—Cae
Well, concise. But at least he remembered.
RE: happy birthday
Dear Cae,
Thanks. Are you coming home for Thanksgiving next week?
—Edy
He responds right away:
Yep—I’ll be there! Maybe we can spend some time just you and me next weekend, what do you think?
I don’t respond. I gather my things. I need to leave. Need to go somewhere. Anywhere. Go home, if necessary.
I walk. And walk. The cold November air licks my skin with its icy tongue. I walk and walk, without knowing where I’m going. Until I realize I’m there, standing on the sidewalk, in front of a house I used to know so well. I stand on the curb. I reach out and touch the red flag on the mailbox with my index finger, gently letting my hand flow over the raised sticker letters along the side of the black metal box:M-I-L-L-E-R.
I quickly pull my hand back. How strange must I look if anyone’s watching? The TV in the living room is casting a dim bluish glow against the walls. A light in his parents’ room is burning as well. His bedroom is, of course, dark. Because he’s not there. He’s away at college.
Suddenly, in the shadows, I see his cat—her fast, smooth body darts out from behind the front steps. She walks toward me stealthily, down the driveway in a straight line, light on her feet like a ghost. I freeze. Because I have the strongest urge to pick her up in my arms and take her home with me.
I actually consider it.
