This and That

her tiny arms, laughing at the way she squealed and stumbled back, pretending I was about to
knock her over.

But as I said, though I considered myself a wise preteen on the cusp of adulthood, there were many things that I didn’t understand. We heard clamor from their house only twice. “Couples fight.” Mom always said. I nodded. I nodded as though I got it, when I didn’t get it. Both mornings after the loudness of the previous night, Belle would show up at the front door, eyes red-rimmed and wracked with sleep deprivation. She would give me a sterile hug, and my mom would sweep her into the kitchen, out of sight. I perched myself on a stool outside the room, hearing only the sound of their murmured voices without making out any words. After those days, normality resumed. Belle’s inner sunshine returned, reappearing in her blue irises. But, there was always a flicker of sadness that I found difficult to ignore.

Many evenings, when we had finished a movie or a glass of cold Coke, I felt questions on my tongue threatening to exit my mouth. “Are you okay?” and “Where does all that noise come from?” And, “Why are you sad?” I couldn’t ever bring myself to voice them, though. It seemed that if I ever learned about a different version of Belle than the one I experienced, everything would shatter. The infrastructure we’d constructed out of sun, Elvis’ songs, and lemonade would crack and collapse, leaving us with only fragments of everything. And even then I knew how difficult it would be to replace the shards.

As July bled into August, and breeze finally began to whisper to the trees again, Belle became progressively more reclusive. She didn’t come over nearly as much, and when she did, everything about her felt more restrained. Her laughs, her hugs, and her words. Like there was an invisible string tied to every sign of happiness she showed, threatening to whisk it away. Reminding her that it could.

And it wasn’t until I truly met that invisible string, that I saw why. I had only spoken to Jeremy once. It was when he and Belle brought over some muffins to introduce themselves officially to our family. He wore salmon colored shirt. As an only child, I was allowed to sit at the table with the grownups as they discussed things like the President and economy and weather (which was a surprisingly vibrant topic in Arizona).

The second time I spoke to him was when he came over for dinner. He was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a salmon button down again. His wedding band glinted on his otherwise bare fingers, juxtaposing Belle’s jeweled ones. The two possessed the same robotic quality that I’d noticed the first time I saw them together. Every motion felt eerily calculated. I wondered what they spoke about. Whether they laughed together.

He entered our home, casually swinging his large arms by his sides, taking up space. His voice was loud and boisterous as he shook my father’s hand. It was clear he was comfortable in the lead, maneuvering his way through the house and picking up glasses to pour iced tea for both himself and Belle. They were a package deal, and operated as such, constantly linked in some way. At the hip, fingers threaded together, his hand on her lower back.

The conversation never veered from topics that Jeremy found interesting, and he never let a silence continue for too long. It was like I was watching a dance. A push and pull. He spoke, then listened, then laughed, then asked a question, then shared. A cycle he effortlessly cultivated. The whole thing was as polished and well-manicured as his coiffed, dark hair. TURN PAGE >>