The Possibilities: A Novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings

Author:Kaui Hart Hemmings [Hemmings, Kaui Hart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2014-05-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Billy’s response, “Holy shit,” echoes through my head. I mouth it. I say it out loud. I feel it and hold on to it, not wanting to think or feel anything else right now.

I look out the window of my room, trying to gauge the weather—it looks like holy shit. I put on black jeans and my gray oversized sweater, as if the news demands a new costume. I somehow put on makeup while avoiding the mirror, as if not seeing my reflection saves me from admitting or understanding something. I have nothing else to do in my room. Taking a shower or making my bed would feel ridiculous, like tidying up your house while it was burning down. I have to go downstairs now. I open my bedroom door.

The three of them wait at the bottom of the steps and I walk down, feeling like a debutante. By the looks of them I know they have talked, decided on something, and I will be shuffled because I’m too stunned to think straight. I’ll float like flotsam. Drift like driftwood.

“The car is packed,” my dad says. “And I lent Kit some things from the laundry room.”

At first I don’t know what he’s talking about, then remember our one-night trip.

“Did you get my bag?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Everything’s taken care of. We can head out, but first I thought we’d get something to eat—all of us.”

Kit is wearing one of my favorite sweaters, the dark gray one with diagonal ridges.

“We need to get Suzanne,” I say. “We’re late. I hate being late.” I guess I won’t be shuffled after all.

No one bothers to answer me, making me understand that our lateness is hardly a pressing matter right now.

“We’ll get some lunch at the Whale’s Tale,” my dad says. He looks at his watch. “Brunch.”

He has always done this. When we have a conflict or an issue to address, he takes it to a restaurant, to neutral ground. He thinks one behaves better and thinks more clearly, carefully selects words. The meal serves as a timeline. By the end something needs to be determined, accomplished, but it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.

“Not now,” I say. “Not for this.”

“We are not speaking about anything here,” he says, then walks outside.

“This is stupid,” I say. “We can talk right here.” Kit and I look at each other and I feel like a child who’s been wrongfully blamed.

“Save it,” my dad says. “No sense repeating yourself, repeating yourself.”

We all follow him out the door. Kit puts on her nice coat. I look at her stomach, then look away.

“Careful,” I say to her, when she starts to walk down the icy steps.

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