Definitions of Indefinable Things Read online

  Answer: Depression.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, pushing herself back onto her feet. “Point is, he changed. And maybe I did too, I don’t know. Whatever, I’m sick of talking about it.”

  A salesclerk interrupted us, ogling Carla’s stomach and leading her to a rack of designer baby clothes in the front of the store.

  I stood motionless and a little sick, clinging to Carla’s memories, hating that she got to have them. Worse, hating that she had to keep them. I knew what harboring memories felt like. It felt like owning the most expensive item you could get your hands on and having it taken away and replaced with an inferior version of itself. You recognized the imitation, the smell, the texture, the design, but it was off. It was a replica of the expensive thing, but not the thing. Just a shitty version of what you wanted.

  Checking to make sure Carla was still distracted, I hurried to the back of the store and hid behind a tower of children’s books. My thigh was sore from holding the weight of my phone, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I slid the screen and dialed the number.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  Three rings.

  The fourth ring was my death sentence. Always. But I needed it. Some sickness inside of me was fed whenever I heard the phrase.

  This number is no—​

  “Reggie?”

  Carla stood beside the books, a pack of blue onesies draped over her arm. A panicked look kicked into gear and her lips parted as she spotted me shoving my phone in my pocket.

  “You weren’t calling Snake, were you?”

  “No, Carla—”

  “Did you tell him what I said? God, thanks a lot. Now he thinks I’m over here going on about how I still have feelings for him.”

  “I wasn’t on the phone with Snake,” I said.

  I stared at her feet and not her eyes, because it was too hard to look at them knowing that Snake had seen them smile and liked what he saw. Knowing that my phone wasn’t finished damning me, and if I stayed here long enough, completely subjected myself to it, Carla had the power to damn me a second time. There was nowhere to look but down, so I did.

  “I didn’t mean that,” she mumbled. “I don’t still have feelings for him.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t want you to think I’m like, replaying all of this stuff in my head all the time. I’m not hung up on him. I just . . .”

  “Wish it were easier to let him go,” I finished.

  She relaxed, her shoulders slouching, seemingly relieved that I got it, whatever it was and however the hell it made things better.

  “It feels wrong to be with him, and it feels wrong not to be,” she said, brushing her hand through her fiery hair. “And now I’m not. And I should be happy or whatever, but I really just feel like shit.”

  There was only one illusion with Carla, and I don’t think it was that she was genuinely afraid Snake had never loved her. I think it was that she was afraid that he had, and it scared her that someone could be there and whole and yours and then be somewhere else entirely.

  “Take it from the girl who considers ‘shit’ her favorite emotion. You can feel like shit whenever you want, and you shouldn’t let people make you feel bad about it,” I said.

  She bowed her head and rubbed her hand along the bottom of her bump.

  I gestured to the clothes on her arm. “Those are hideous, by the way.”

  She giggled and stuck out her lips. “I think they’re adorable.”

  “You would.”

  She stared at me too long, Snake-long, and that time, I looked into her eyes. They were hopeful and terrified and downright lost, and it didn’t strike me as strange that all those feelings, as different as they were, could be observed in equal measure.

  “We should hang out more often,” she said.

  All I could do was laugh it off. It was so much easier that way.

  “No we shouldn’t.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE DREADED DAY OF RECKONING (see: family bonding) had arrived. A chilly breeze attacked my hair, which was annoying because I had actually taken the time to style it. I didn’t have much of a choice, considering it was Sunday, and according to Karen, you had to look presentable in church because all those Bible verses about the state of your soul being superior to your outward appearance were obviously just filler chapters. My brother, Frankie, and his wife—​I called her Blondie—​were sitting beside me on the picnic blanket as baby Killian drooled a mucus river between my legs. I didn’t like children. I only semitolerated Killian because he did kind of have a cute gap between his teeth, and I was a sucker for chubby, gap-toothed babies. Other than that, he was just drool and stench.

  We were having a family picnic by the pond. The rich kid pond. The enchanted swamp of fish piss pond. Snake’s pond. I could see his house from where I sat next to a tree that smelled like sap and bark and other gross outdoor smells. When I’d asked Karen if Snake could come, she basically quoted half the book of Romans along with a number of inapplicable metaphors.

  “I’m sorry, Mama K,” Blondie said after Killian spat up all over my mother’s new blanket. She smiled behind her bright pink lipstick. “He hasn’t been feeling well, car sickness and everything.”

  “Don’t apologize. Frankie was the same way.”

  Frankie never spoke much. When he did, he was just one inspirational quote away from being the pastor version of my mother. That’s why the only person keeping me sane was my dad, who also never spoke much, but managed to touch on sports and politics and things that I wasn’t entirely sick of hearing about yet when he did. I watched him eat his PB&J in total silence, and imagined he resented being there as much as I did.

  “How was Dad’s appointment?” Frankie asked. He addressed the question to my mom, because it wasn’t like my dad was sitting right there and could speak for himself or anything. “Our entire congregation has been praying for him.”

  “We’re trusting the Lord right now,” Karen answered as she touched her heart. “The doctor says his palpitations are probably stress related. He’s been taking it easy, but he needs lots of prayer.”

  “How about we pray right now?” Blondie suggested.

  This was not happening. At even the slightest mention of prayer, my mother turned into the Flash, grabbing my hand quicker than Frankie could start the opening “We praise you, Lord.”

  “Lord, the great healer, the protector, the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, nothing is too big for You. We lift up Dad today and ask for Your healing hand of protection on his heart. Keep him safe. Relieve his burdens. Your word says, ‘Come to me all who are weary, and you will find rest.’ Give Dad rest today. Bathe him in Your love and keep him safe. Thank You for all You have blessed us with and continue to bless us with each and every day. We love You, our Father. It’s in Your Son’s name, Amen.”

  I’d been raised not to make fun of prayer. Karen said it was sacrilegious, and God might send down a giant pillar of fire from heaven to teach you a lesson if you did. But I couldn’t shake the plain truth that that prayer was an utter load of crap. No offense to my dad, who was probably as confused as I was that we were praying for him like he was on life support when all he was trying to do was eat his sandwich in peace. So he had heart palpitations, big deal. I had chickenpox once—​didn’t mean I was dying of a flesh-eating bacteria.

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the same scene. Frankie. Blondie’s painted face. Drooling Killian. My terminally ill (see: perfectly healthy) dad. Karen being Karen.

  Then I saw a familiar face. His neck tattoo. His unwashed hair. His ripped jeans. His black T-shirt that said I DO MY OWN STUNTS. He was walking toward us with a fishing pole in hand, his bulky camera strapped on his back. It kind of made me wonder what I’d been subconsciously praying for.

  “Snake?”

  “Hey, Masons,” he said, giving my mother premature wrinkles from how intensely she was frowning.
“What brings you all to the pond?”

  He knew we were going to be there. I’d told him Friday night when I left his house. Like always, he was being a rebellious douchebag. I definitely hated that in the good way.

  Frankie stood to his feet with his customary diplomatic air and shook Snake’s free hand. “Frankie Mason, Reggie’s brother. Part-time prayer leader, full-time youth pastor. And you are?”

  “Snake Eliot. Part-time filmmaker, full-time stud. Still fuzzy on the who I am thing.”

  “Do you go to church with my family?”

  “No, Frankie.” I stood up, shooting Snake a mean look. “Snake is my friend from work.”

  “The soft serve business is booming these days.” Snake smirked. “I like to think of Reggie and me as partners in cream.”

  I couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud. Frankie and Blondie cracked up, corny humor being their niche and all. Karen wasn’t amused in the least, to no one’s surprise.

  “Would you like to stay for the picnic?” Frankie asked. “We have plenty.”

  “I’m sure the young man has plans,” Karen interrupted. She didn’t look at Snake or me or anyone, really. She coddled baby Killian and talked to the top of his bald head. “He has a fishing rod. He was probably on his way to catch some trout.”

  “This old thing?” Snake shook the rod. “Nah, I just tote it around so it looks like I’m doing something. I come down here to film a lot, can’t have people thinking I’m a creep. I live up on the hill over there.” He pointed to his house.

  “Well, then, take a seat,” Blondie offered. “We have plenty of sandwiches for everyone.”

  He was fearless, almost vicious in his neglect for rules and conventionality and polite behavior. The name Snake had never fit him so perfectly.

  He moved to sit by me. Karen hesitantly dipped into the cooler, pulled out a chicken salad sandwich, and handed it to him with extra caution. She couldn’t have her holy hands graze his hellion fingers.

  He took a bite. “This is great, Mrs. Mason,” he said with full jaws. “I’ll have to get this recipe for my moms.”

  Karen froze, looking to see if Frankie noticed the plurality of that statement. He did. Snake smiled, because he knew exactly what he was doing.

  “It’s a family recipe,” she said. “I’d rather not share it.”

  “I get it. Family recipes are sacred stuff. That’s like, one of the Ten Commandments, I think. ‘Thou shalt not share recipes with unbelievers.’ I don’t know, something like that.”

  “That’s not a commandment.” Frankie frowned. “I can list them for you if you’d like.”

  “No, I know them. Adultery. Lying. Stealing. Something about cows.”

  “Brazen images,” Dad said. He hadn’t spoken all day. It was weird to hear him talk.

  “Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner.” Snake grinned. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

  Dad smiled. I got the feeling he liked Snake, or at least appreciated him. I was glad I wasn’t the only one.

  Baby Killian hadn’t taken his big blue eyes off Snake from the moment he sat down. It was like Snake was like the biggest, newest toy in the playpen. He reached out his tiny hand and cooed to get Snake’s attention. Blondie patted his hand down, but he only raised it again.

  “I think someone wants you,” she said to Snake. Frankie shot her a look like she should have kept her mouth shut.

  Snake took the last bite of the sandwich and wiped his hands on a napkin. “What’s his name?”

  “Killian,” she said.

  “That name’s kick ass.” He put his hand over his mouth. “Sorry. I mean kick butt.” He tilted toward me and whispered, “I hope Carla picks out something cool like that.”

  Killian smiled his gap-toothed smile and reached both of his chubby arms in Snake’s direction.

  “Can I hold him?” Snake asked.

  A little triangle formed between Frankie’s eyes, which was always a sign of him being super uncomfortable or super aggravated. He was most likely both. Snake did have a proclivity for bringing that out in people. Blondie happily replied, “Of course!” before Frankie could shut her down.

  Snake reached across the blanket and tucked his hands under both sides of Killian’s back, cautiously drawing him into his arms. He held Killian in his lap and shifted his face into ugly formations to keep the baby entertained. I thought Killian was going to get a hernia from laughing so hard.

  I didn’t want to look at him with Killian and imagine how he would be with his own kid, because the idea of Snake being someone’s dad was kind of gross and disturbing and, selfishly, obnoxious to me. But he was a natural. He was gentle and playful and funny. I’m not saying he was dad-of-the-year material, but maybe he wouldn’t be so bad if he gave it a sincere try. And that bothered me. Damn, that bothered me.

  “You’re great with kids,” Blondie pointed out. “Have you worked with children before?”

  “No. I’m an only child, so I’ve never been around them much. I’m working on my skills, though.”

  “You should. You’ll be having your own someday, I’m sure.”

  He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Someday.”

  Someday being a month from then. In a month from then, Snake’s picnics would look entirely different. Snake Jr. would be giggling on his daddy’s lap. Carla would be doting on his every impulse. They would take embarrassing white-shirt beach photos like the one hanging in Snake’s house. His life would be a photograph of inescapable realities that wouldn’t change no matter how much I did or didn’t want to be a part of the disaster that was Snake Eliot.

  Snake handed Killian back to Blondie. He drooled a puddle of chunky spit all over her silky church dress, and subconsciously I wished that some of it would have landed on Karen. I glanced at her, and she was staring Snake down in an I-can’t-stand-you-yet-I’m-praying-for-you way that only Karen could pull off. The smirk Snake had worn since showing up made it clear that Karen’s hostility hadn’t slipped past him. Of course, it was at his expense. Naturally, he loved it.

  “Did everyone enjoy the service this morning?” Frankie asked, trying to ease the tension. He really needed to pick up a book on effective icebreakers, because religion was definitely not one of them.

  “Snake,” Karen said, her tone as hostile as her narrowed eyes, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at church. Does your . . .” Spit it out, Karen. “Family attend?”

  Then came the Twizzler. It was bound to surface eventually.

  “We’re free spirits ourselves,” he replied. “Sun. Wind. Moon. Nature calling. Listen to the sound of your heartbeat. Paint with the colors of the wind.”

  “You never attend services?”

  “Sometimes we meditate next to a statue of Buddha while smoking hookah and listening to a Celtic orchestra, but that’s only after my moms have been drinking.”

  He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, wearing the most absurdly mischievous expression. This was a Snakeism, being so blatantly rebellious in the most polite of forms that no one could challenge him without being proven an unworthy competitor. After that, Karen didn’t speak to him again. She couldn’t keep pace. Who was she to compete with a Snakeism?

  “Reggie,” Snake said, chatting louder than usual to make sure everyone would hear, “you want to go out on the water?”

  “Sure, let me pull my yacht around,” I taunted him.

  “You could do that. Or, we could ride one of those.” He pointed toward the pond where a white and blue water wheeler was bobbing against the dock. It was tied to the peg by a rope and had WATER-TO-GO painted in pink across the plastic.

  “That’s a pedal boat. Too much exercise for me.”

  “You could use it.”

  “Says the guy who can’t go five minutes without eating.”

  “Come on, I’ll pick up the slack.” He smiled in this odd, flirtatious way that was repulsive and insanely cute at the same time. It was bizarre how he could
do that. He should’ve added it to his list of talents (see: singing), since he didn’t have many to claim. “I’m used to doing the hard stuff, anyway.”

  Was that sexual? Did he really just make a sex joke in front of my parents and my older brother? I mean, Karen was so pitifully naïve, anything of the sexual variety was lost on her. But Frankie, the self-proclaimed shepherd of lost teens, was no stranger to innuendo. He and my dad perked up in weirdly perfect sync. My family was sure to combust from Snakeisms by the time this day was through.

  I looked to Karen, whose forehead was fixed into a wrinkly frown that would take years of antiaging cream to remedy.

  “We’re going to go out on the pond,” I told her.

  We were at the dock before anyone in my family could try to stop us. Snake untied the rope and bent to his knees, grabbing ahold of the side. He glanced up at me and squinted as the sun blinded his eyes. “Get in.”

  “You can take it like that?”

  “Yeah, the pond committee bought a few for recreation.”

  “The pond committee?”

  “Yes, the pond committee. My moms are on the board.” He patted the boat. “Get in.”

  I jumped in gracefully (see: tripped) and landed in the far seat as freezing water splashed against my face. “Jeez.” I shivered. “The prestigious pond committee isn’t wealthy enough to heat the water? I’d have thought they would have invented a pond radiator by now.”

  “Budget cuts.” He jumped in behind me and landed gracefully. I liked him better when he was klutzy and awkward.

  It turned out to be easier than I thought. Circular motions. One foot up, the other down. It was like riding a bike, except that steering was nearly impossible, and there wasn’t a way to brake while I pedaled us toward our rocky death (see: the bank).

  “Turn, Reggie,” Snake ordered.

  I tried. I failed.

  “Turn,” he repeated. “We’re gonna hit the bank.”

  “Maybe I want to hit the bank.”

  “Or maybe you don’t know how to turn.”