That was how they met. Mom was a student at The Evergreen State College. He was a soldier, preparing for his deployment. Their paths crossed at an Indigenous arts market at the Evergreen Longhouse in Olympia.
Mom always tells me it was love at first sight. (I’m still not sure if I believe that part.)
They were married less than a year later. And less than a year after that, he was deployed to Afghanistan. We only have one picture of him during his tour there; it’s framed on the mantel in our living room. In it, he’s dressed in crisp white short sleeves, seated on the edge of his cot, misty-eyed and grinning as he holds up the ultrasound Mom sent him in the mail. It’s so different from his official, buttoned-up, and serious-faced serviceman portrait, which we also have framed on the mantel.
Between those two photographs, we have the American flag from his funeral. The flag is folded into the shape of a triangle and displayed in a glass case.
6
Deeply Underwhelming and Unhappy
February 15
“Maisie!” Mom calls from down the hall. “Mrs. Baransky is here. Let’s get going!”
As I emerge from my bedroom, I find that the front door is open and Mom is ushering Mrs. Baransky into the living room, apologizing for the nonexistent mess. Connor is yelling for Mrs. Baransky’s attention, asking if she got any candy for Valentine’s Day, asking if she likes chocolates. And Mrs. Baransky is laughing her easygoing laugh as she politely declines his offer of chocolate coins, then turns to our mother with a reassuring smile.
“The house is perfect, Angie. Honestly, it always is,” she says. “And I got a box of truffles for Valentine’s Day, Connor! Do you know what truffles are?” She meets my gaze across the room. Her round cheeks are pink from the chilled air outside. Her blue eyes brighten as she smiles at me. “Maisie. How are you, dear?”
“Hi. I’m fine, thanks.”
Mom points at the throw pillows strewn across the floor. “Connor, was this you? Did you mess up the couch? You’re old enough to clean after yourself, young man. Put them back.”
“But I need to hug Mrs. Baransky!”
Connor launches himself across the room, hopping over the pillows on the floor, colliding with the soft curve of Mrs. Baransky’s belly.
Mom groans. “Connor.”
“It’s okay, Angie,” she says as she gingerly pats the top of Connor’s head. “We’ve got this. And you two better get going! Don’t want to be late.”
“Right,” Mom says. She grabs her purse from the hook by the door and peeks inside, shuffling through its contents. “Keys,” she murmurs. “Keys, keys.” She straightens and glances around the room. Pats the pockets of her jeans. “Where did I—?”
I spot them on top of the microwave. “They’re over here, Mom. I’ve got them.”
I walk through the kitchen and grab the keys, then circle back to the front door, where Connor has extracted himself from Mrs. Baransky to give Mom a goodbye hug and kiss. Mom hoists him up in her arms, snuggling him, pressing kisses all over his face.
“I love you so much,” she says. “Be good for Mrs. Baransky. I’ll see you when Maisie and I come back, okay?”
He nods. The moment she sets him down, he turns to me.
“Maisie, I need a hug from you, too!”
He comes barreling into me, his bony arms clasped around my torso. I hug him back, patting his shoulders.
“I’ll see you soon, Con.”
“And Connor,” Mom calls. “You better put that treasure chest away, before the pirate comes home and finds it.”
Connor gasps, horrified at the thought. He releases me and vanishes down the hallway with his shoebox filled with valentines. I follow Mom out the door. Mrs. Baransky beams at us, waving goodbye as she reassures Mom—once again— that the house isn’t a mess, the pillows aren’t a big deal, don’t worry so much.
Outside, the clouds have darkened, but the rain has stopped. Everything is dreary and gray and gleaming.
We climb in. Mom flicks the key in the ignition, and the car sputters to life with a creaky sound. Cold air blasts through the heater vents, and we both instantly shiver. Mom twists the knobs on the dash, shutting the heat off while the engine warms up.
“So,” she says quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I mutter.
“Whatever happened at school today.”
I shrug. “There’s not much to tell. School is school. It’s midwinter break now.”
She hesitates. I can feel her watching me. I can see the concerned crease between her brows.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing,” she says. Then, apparently changing her mind: “How is your knee feeling?”
“Better each day,” I tell her. It comes out sounding more sarcastic than I mean it to, so I take a deep breath and add: “I mean it. I feel so much better.”
“Okay.” She puts the car in reverse and repeats herself gently under her breath: “Okay.”
This is what happened at school today:
I ate lunch by myself. As I always do.
In my US Government and History class, Mr. Sandman somehow knew I wasn’t listening to his lecture. And so, he called on me. He asked me to tell him about the Treaty of Paris. In what year was it signed? I didn’t know. Which war did it end? I had no idea. Who was triumphant? I said, “The British?” Mr. Sandman snickered and said, “That was a good, educated guess.”
Ever since I tore my ACL in October and had the surgery to reattach the tendon, I haven’t been able to do anything in PE. Dr. Hart wrote a note to my teacher, declaring me banned from “strenuous activities.” And so I spent my time in PE seated on the bleachers, attempting to focus on homework from another class, despite all the basketball dribbles and squeaking sneakers across the polished gym floor.
In English, we’re reading some boring old book, by some boring old dude, set in some boring old time period. It’s filled with language that makes no sense to me. References I don’t understand. Metaphors that make me roll my eyes. But I’m required to read it, because my teacher says it’s a Classic.
School is boring; none of the classes mean anything to me. It’s the strangest thing, to spend all this time in school—forced through all these mandatory lessons—despite the fact that most of these subjects lead nowhere. Why do I need to learn about the Treaty of Paris? How will this Classic Book I’m reading serve my life? When I grow up, will I ever need to do math? Will I ever use algebraic expressions? I seriously doubt it.
And does Mom actually want to know any of this? Does she really want to hear about her daughter’s deeply underwhelming and unhappy existence in school? Does any of it matter?
I doubt that, too.
7
Mr. Lawson’s Office
February 15
Mr. Lawson’s outpatient physical therapy office is located in the same shopping plaza as a pizza place, a health food and supplements store, a tailor, a dentist, a hair salon, and an office for tax services. We park at the far end of the lot and hurry across the pavement, because we’re late. We’re always running late for these appointments.