Stir Me Up Page 11

  “Morning,” he says. He glances at my wet head and ratty old bathrobe. “How did you sleep?”

  “Well. You?”

  “Fine. The chair is comfortable.”

  “Dad got it years ago, for his back.” We both grow quiet. “I used your shower. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure. Anytime.”

  “You’re going to Northampton today?”

  “Not today.” He hesitates, looks at me. “I’ll be getting my prosthesis soon.”

  “That’s great.” I smile.

  “I’ll be on crutches.”

  “That’s good. I’ll bet you can’t wait.”

  He shrugs and looks up at me. I shift on my feet and pull the robe in tighter. I have nothing on underneath it. “Have a good day at school.”

  “You, too... I mean, not at school, just...anyway...”

  I hurry away from the extreme awkwardness and go upstairs to finish getting ready.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following Tuesday is my day off. Julian’s in the sunroom, reading a book by Tom Clancy. Estella’s out shopping, and I’m doing stats homework. I turn the page in my notebook, and find a blue flyer I’d stuffed in there.

  “Damn,” I say, reading it.

  “What?” Julian looks up at me.

  “My senior picture is due tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean it’s due? Don’t you have to get those done at a professional photographer’s studio?”

  “No,” I say. “We’re supposed to just turn one in. In theory.”

  “In theory?” he asks, looking over at me.

  “Well, pictures of me always suck.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “I find that very difficult to believe, Cami.”

  “It’s true. I’m the world’s most unphotogenic person.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  This is, I realize, a tiny bit flattering of him. “I am,” I say, flushing slightly. “I get this deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. I just can’t relax in front of a camera and all my teeth show.”

  He sighs. “Are you trying to ask me to take a picture of you?”

  “Would you?” I ask, batting my eyes at him.

  “Sure,” he says rolling his at me. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about the deer-in-the-headlights thing, though.”

  “I just need something current. Maybe I shouldn’t smile this time at all.”

  “Yeah, you can be the class sourpuss. Good idea.”

  I take my phone and he wheels outside with me. “Okay,” he says wearily. “Go stand by the tree or something.”

  “Wait—maybe I should put some makeup on first.”

  “No, what for? Just go stand over there.”

  I hand him my phone, on camera mode, and go over to the tree in the front yard.

  “Say ‘cheese,’” he says.

  “CHEESE!”

  He moves the camera away and looks at me like I’m a freak. “What the hell is that?”

  “What?”

  “Okay,” he says, looking completely amazed. “Is that seriously how you smile?”

  Ugh, how humiliating. “I told you I suck at this.”

  “Look. Close your eyes and don’t smile. Then when I tell you, open your eyes and smile. On three. Okay?”

  I take a breath. “Okay.”

  “Good. Close your eyes. Smile’s gone. One. Two. Three.”

  I open my eyes and smile. He takes the picture, and then looks at it and deletes it while fighting not to laugh.

  “Okay,” he says again. “New idea. Let’s have you just crack a small smile. Small. Got it? No teeth.”

  I give a small smile with no teeth.

  “You look like I’m torturing you.”

  “You are.”

  “Just relax. Imagine a happy song.”

  “The ants go marching one-by-one hurrah, hurrah.”

  “I said imagine one, not sing one. And that’s the stupidest song ever.”

  “It’s a military song.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It kind of is.”

  “Smile. Imagine ice cream.”

  Half a smile.

  “Okay. Look, sit down.”

  “On the ground?”

  “Yes. Are all your pictures from childhood like this? With a plastered-on smile?”

  “It’s cute on a little kid.”

  “On a little kid like you. Okay, nice sitting.”

  A little kid like me? “Thank you. I can sit.”

  “Good. Now forget the camera. Don’t mind it. Don’t look at it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just ignore it and look at me.”

  “You’ll take a picture of my chest.” My cheeks burn as his eyes glance in that general direction for a moment. I can’t believe I just said that.

  “No, I won’t. Listen, I’m going to tell you a story. Okay?”

  “Okay. Story.”

  “Once there were five people on an airplane that was crashing and had only four parachutes.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Shhh. Quiet.”

  “Four parachutes? Five people?”

  “Quiet, I said! So, the pilot takes the first parachute. ‘I have to live to fly more planes,’ he says and off he goes.”

  “He abandoned the airplane with passengers still on board?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t there rules about how he has to stay with the aircraft at all times?”

  “Shush. Let me tell my joke.”

  “This is a joke?”

  “For most people.”

  I smile. He takes a picture.

  “Ach!”

  “Shush. So the second guy’s a genius guy.”

  “Huh? What kind of guy is that?”

  “And the genius guy says, ‘I have to live to share my geniusness.’”

  “Geniusness?”

  “Yes. And off he goes.”

  He takes a picture.

  “Stop that!”

  “The third guy’s a dad with six kids. ‘I have to live to take care of my family!’ he says and off he goes. Now that leaves another dad and his only child. A son.”

  “This is tragic. Some joke!”

  “So, the dad says, ‘Don’t worry, son, I had a good life. I want you to take the parachute.’”

  “That’s so touching. I may cry.”

  “I may kill you.”

  I laugh. More pictures.

  “And the son says, ‘No Dad, it’s okay. The genius guy took my Boy Scouts bag.’”

  I really laugh. But with my hand over my mouth.

  “Take your hand away,” Julian says.

  “No!”

  “Hand away!”

  I move my hand away, still smiling, but more shyly. He keeps taking more and more of me.

  “Are any of them any good?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He scrolls back through, checking them. Then he hands me the phone.

  “Which one was this?” I ask, kneeling down beside his wheelchair.

  He looks at it, and then reaches between my hands for the scroll button. “The next one’s better.”

  It is. In this shot, I’m just sitting under the tree and smiling. But I’m not smiling at the camera, I’m looking slightly above it—at Julian. My hair’s a little messy and reaching down the length of my chest. My fingertips are up near my mouth. He caught a certain light in my eyes; there’s a shine to them.

  “You like it?” he asks.

  Suddenly, I notice my arms are resting on his half leg. “Actually, yes. Do you?”

  “Yes, it shows your dimple.”

  “I don’t have a dimple.”

  “It’s more like a line,” he says.

  I know the one he means. Dad loved it when I was little. It’s a small vertical line, as he says, where a dimple would be. The prominent one is on the left, but there’s a very faint one on the right as well. They only come out when I smile widely enough.

  “In the chipmunk
cheeks,” I say with a smile.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  I was slightly, but I let it go and take my phone away from him. “Can I take one of you now?”

  “No.”

  Hmm, how to convince him... “I’ll tell you a joke. A dirty one.”

  He rolls his eyes a little. “Oh yeah. This should be good.”

  I step back and aim the camera. “Three white horses—”

  “Give me that.”

  “Fell in the mud.” I get one of him—head half down, eyes boring holes into me.

  “Done?”

  “Nope.” I take more. And more.

  He covers his face with his hands. “Enough. Crazy paparazzi girl.”

  “Fine, party pooper.” I stop.

  “Huh. This from the smile-impaired.”

  “I’ll have you know it’s a very common issue for people.”

  “Not at your level,” he says. We start working our way back to the house.

  “Mean.”

  “You have, like, a need for hypnosis.”

  I hold onto his wheelchair handles, though I don’t really need to. “Or really long, bad jokes.”

  “That joke isn’t bad.”

  “It was too bad.”

  “It made you laugh,” he points out.

  I get the door and hold it open for him. “Big deal. That’s not saying much.”

  “It got a good photo of you, didn’t it?” he says, going inside.

  “Wait, let me see it again.” I kneel down beside him in the mudroom. “Where is it?”

  He reaches for the phone. “Here, I’ll find it.”

  “Wait, look at this one of you. Is that a smile I see?”

  “Hmph. Keep scrolling.”

  “Like the GQ smolder,” I say, pointing at another of him.

  He wrinkles his nose a little. “The what?”

  “The, you know, the...” Our hands are touching. I think of Luke and move away. “Never mind. Thanks again for the photos.” I leave Julian and head upstairs, more confused than ever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday morning, I awaken early to make breakfast. My inclination is to make something nice, like crepes with jam. But then suddenly for some reason I decide to get over myself and make real food.

  See, when it comes to food, Dad and I are different. He’s so ego-focused, if it’s scrambled eggs it has to be eggs scrambled with shaved black truffle. That’s cool. But also cool is a bunch of potatoes shredded and fried up in a pan with onions and peppers and sausage in the other pan and then, because I’m still my father’s daughter, I take every vegetable I can find, julienne and sauté it, throw it on a mass of eggs and call it a frittata. Only thing is I’m not a hundred percent sure how to brown the top of the thing. I decide on the broiler. Then, because everything is better with cheese, I throw some shredded Vermont extra-sharp cheddar on it before I stick it under the broiler. The results, I’m very pleased to say, are excellent. Puffy and golden-brown. Yay me. Potatoes are done. A bit greasy. I drain the fat on paper towels.

  Everything looks good. I think maybe I’ll make some juice but I don’t have enough oranges or grapefruits. So, I just make coffee. The timing is good, I can hear footsteps upstairs.

  But before Dad and Estella come down, Julian wheels in. He hovers near the door like maybe he’s deciding if it’s safe to enter. I make a plate, a huge plate loaded down with potatoes and sausage and my egg thing. And I realize staring at the plate that my father’s right. Smaller portions do look better. But—too late. I set the plate down.

  “Are you feeding an army?” Julian asks me.

  “No, just one Marine,” I respond. He smiles. Coffee’s ready. I pour him some. With milk and no sugar. I’ve finally learned how he likes it.

  “Is there ketchup?” he asks.

  “You’re going to pollute my food with ketchup?”

  “What is it you Frenchies have against ketchup?”

  I get it for him. “It’s too American.”

  “What’s wrong with being American? You’re American, aren’t you? I don’t see you packing your bags and moving to France.”

  “The French are proud of their culture. They don’t want it homogenized.”

  “Is that why your dad still talks with an accent?”

  “He still talks with an accent because he didn’t speak English until he was twenty-five,” Dad says, coming into the kitchen. “Interesting breakfast, Cami. Are you trying to make us all fat?”

  Huh. I know I shouldn’t let this small insult upset me. But it does. “I’ll just give you the eggs,” I say. I put a teeny tiny slice of egg on a big huge plate for him and then take it to the table. I add huge zigzag swirls of ketchup to the plate.

  Julian smirks. “What?” I say under my breath. “It’s haute cuisine.”

  I hand the plate to Dad, who scowls openly at it.

  Estella comes down and takes a deep breath. “Yum,” she says. “Thanks for making breakfast, Cami.”

  “Sure.”

  She heads over to Dad and rubs his shoulder. I make her a woman-sized plate.

  “How do you feel, Julian?” she asks.

  The almost-smile fades. “Fine.”

  “Did I tell you I got another call from that amputee vet?”

  Julian grits his teeth.

  “Maybe you should just meet him,” she adds.

  “Who is this?” Dad wants to know. I’m wondering the same thing.

  “A local man here in town is an amputee vet who fought in Vietnam. He’s been trying to reach Julian so they can talk.”

  “I wish you’d drop this,” Julian says.

  “You avoid all your friends but Brandon,” Estella points out. “You won’t have any fanfare or assistance. There are support networks, Julian, people who want to help, and I’m tired of fielding all their calls.”

  “Then stop answering the phone.”

  She frowns at him. “You can’t hide out here forever. You don’t want organizations and medals and fund-raisers and the key to the city? Fine. But why don’t you at least meet with this one man?”

  “I’m not in elementary school anymore. I don’t need you to arrange play dates for me.”

  Estella crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not a play date. It’s a chance to connect with someone who knows what you’re going through and may have something useful to say about it.”

  “I already have peer support from a double amputee who’s a former Navy SEAL,” Julian replies.

  Estella looks surprised to hear this. “It couldn’t hurt to know someone else....”

  He glares at her from his spot at the table. “I’ve done enough.”

  “You’re the only one who seems to think so.”

  “You never used to be a nag,” he cuts in.

  “You never used to need nagging.”

  “And you think I do now? You think it helps me to have you always on my case night and day? Do this, do that. Did you take your meds? Are you okay? How do you feel? How do you feel?”

  “I’m doing the best I can for you! You were supposed to be staying at a rehab center now!”

  Julian grips the table. “Well, excuse me for being such a fucking inconvenience.”

  “You’re not,” Estella counters. “That’s not my point. I love you and want you here. I just want you to do more to help yourself.”

  “Damn it,” Julian says, as his wheelchair hits a dinette chair.

  “Maybe you should just take a minute,” Dad suggests to Julian, who is attempting to leave. “And think about this from Estella’s perspective.”

  “Maybe you should just take a minute and think about your daughter’s perspective and not insult her fucking food,” counters Julian, stunning me. Dad looks pretty surprised also.

  He’s defending me to Dad now?

  I get up out of my seat and come behind Julian.

  “Don’t help me,” he says.

  “I’m not.”

  I walk around him and go put
my shoes and coat on over my pajamas. Julian’s made it to the front foyer by this time and is watching me. I turn and he starts down the hallway, but then I grab his wheelchair handles to stop him. “What?” he demands. “Where do you think you’re taking me?”

  “I just thought I’d throw you into oncoming traffic.”

  “Hmph. Go ahead.”

  I wheel him outside and over to the big oak tree we have out front—the site of our photo session the other day. It’s a very pretty old tree and the leaves are turning russet and orange and some are scattered around the ground and we’re just sort of under the tree on top of the hill looking out over the street and driveway and yard. The forest is off in the distance. I pick a leaf up off the ground, a pretty multicolored one without a hint of brown, and drop it on his lap. He looks at it and doesn’t say anything. So, I drop a few more on him.

  “This is oncoming traffic to you?” he says.

  I gather up an armload and dump them on his head.

  “Oh, good. Rush hour.”

  Several leaves are still there on top of his head. I brush my fingers through his hair to get rid of them. It’s softer than Luke’s, shorter.

  “Stop it,” he says.

  “Sorry, just clearing the road.” I let my hand rest on the back of his neck for a moment. “Breathe in.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Breathe in.”

  He does.

  “Isn’t that great?” I say kind of near his ear. “It’s the best smell in the world.”

  “What, your perfume?”

  “No, I don’t wear perfume. I mean this, everything out here this time of year.”

  “Oh.”

  “Try again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, come on.”

  He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The air is pure, perfectly clean and laced with hints of pine and maple, freshly-cut wood and piles of scattered dried leaves.

  Julian turns his head to me a little. His brow furrows. “It’s nice.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, kind of softly. “Is it just the fight with Estella?”

  “No, I...had some pain last night.”

  A confession, I realize. “How much?”

  “Enough. Phantom pain,” he scoffs. “It’s not even real.”