The Foreseeable Future Read online

  “He doesn’t really handle Audrey,” Jake said. “She’s spiraling out of control.”

  “I’m tempted to agree,” Mom said.

  Before I could choose between defending myself and walking out of the room, the five of us were simultaneously distracted by the sound of car wheels on the gravel road. Our house was the second to last on our street, our neighbors an elderly couple who rarely freed their rusted Cadillac from its weedy parking spot. Car wheels, more often than not, meant visitors.

  The engine grew louder, then shut off. We heard a door slam, followed by the thump of someone’s shoes on our front porch.

  Not just shoes. Cowboy boots.

  “Seth,” I whispered.

  “Who?” Mom asked.

  Rosie’s eyes nearly escaped their sockets. My brother was already sliding across the floor in his tube socks. Madly, he scampered down the hall, making a beeline for the entryway. I listened, frozen with panic, as he threw open the front door.

  “Seth O’Malley! What a perfect time for you to drop by! Come in, come in.”

  I cringed, picturing my brother’s Justin Bieber T-shirt on proud display, the fear that must have been flashing in Seth’s eyes as he asked, “Are you sure? Can I just—is Audrey here?”

  “Let’s go find her!” Jake bellowed.

  I was dressed in an old pair of boxers and the tank top I’d been wearing beneath my scrubs all night. Before falling asleep I had twisted my hair into a bun, but now the bun felt sort of like a wild animal clinging desperately to the top of my head. I wanted to dart inside my room, but it felt imperative to stand guard between Seth and my deranged relatives.

  He entered the kitchen, trailing behind my brother. Upon seeing me, Seth smiled with one corner of his mouth.

  Our nonfight suddenly seemed abstract and inconsequential. Was I allowed to kiss him in front of my entire family?

  “Hi,” I said. Embarrassed, elated.

  “Hi.” Seth sounded almost shy.

  “Hello,” Dad interrupted, as if some great injustice was taking place under his roof.

  “Sorry, Mr. Nelson.” Seth turned to my father and stuck out his hand. “I’m Seth. I’m Audrey’s . . . we work together.”

  Without getting up from the table, Dad shook Seth’s hand. “You can just call me Nelson.”

  “Um, sure,” said Seth. I’d never explained the deal with my father’s name, having never actually intended to introduce the two of them.

  “You work together?” Mom looked Seth up and down. “You’re a nurse assistant?”

  “He’s janitorial,” I said.

  “You’re a janitor?” Mom asked.

  “My official title is janitorial slash kitchen aide,” Seth said.

  My parents were frowning at him like he’d spoken a foreign language—one in which neither of them was fluent. In the chaos of Seth’s arrival, Rosie had slid off the counter and was now hanging monkey-like from the doorframe, a pose Mom always insisted would weaken the integrity of the house.

  Jake was leaning against the pantry, shoveling dry Cheerios from the box into his mouth.

  “It’s a good job,” Seth said.

  “Sounds like it.” Mom smiled, her sense of decorum gradually returning to her. “Sit down, Seth. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” He sank obediently into one of our rickety chairs. He looked tall and cramped and captured sitting there. Several strands of hair had escaped his ponytail, and I wanted to tuck them behind his ears.

  I could have explained to my family that Seth and I had been in the same grade all through school. I could sense my mother trying to figure out how old he was—if he was some rough-handed laborer I’d picked up at my grubby summer job, or just a kid, like me. But I wasn’t ready to give her the peace of mind. She would have to earn it.

  Dad, as far as I could tell, was more concerned with Seth’s physique than with his age. His effort to visually measure the width of Seth’s shoulders was obvious; his eyes kept darting from side to side.

  “Do you play a sport?” Dad asked.

  Seth swallowed. “I played some football.”

  Nelson looked at me like I had crushed his every dream.

  “Audrey is going to Whedon College in September,” Mom said.

  “I know,” Seth said.

  “Whedon’s a good school,” Jake piped up, his mouth full of cereal. “Very hard to get into.”

  I glared at my brother. “No one here believes I got into Whedon on my own merits, Jake.”

  “I do,” Jake said. “I believe in you.”

  I rolled my eyes, hating him for making me play the little sister role.

  “Seth, what are your college plans?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t actually have any. Not yet.”

  When Mom tilted her head in confusion, I noticed the ballpoint pen stuck behind her ear. I wondered how long the pen had been there—if she’d spent the plane ride marking up her latest article, or jotting notes into the margins of a book.

  “I’m going to keep working for a while,” Seth explained. “Save some money.”

  “Responsible,” my father said.

  “It’s a good job,” Seth repeated. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it.”

  Mom’s smile contained a trace of condescension. I didn’t think Seth would detect it, but I was painfully aware of it. In fact, I was painfully aware of a lot of things: my mother’s arrogance, my brother’s eagerness to emulate her attitude, Dad’s discomfort with a perfectly disarming teenage boy—one whose only error had been to drop by unannounced, today of all days—and Rosie, with her Popsicle-stained lips, her California board shorts. My sister was unwilling to utter a single word in front of Seth; she was equally unwilling to leave the room.

  “I like my job, too,” I announced.

  “I’m glad,” Mom said. “I knew it would be a rewarding experience.”

  My heart raced as I said, “I’m not quitting in September.”

  Jake froze with his hand buried in the Cheerios box. Dad lowered his glasses so he could massage his eyelids, aggressively, and Rosie made a humming noise in her throat, like a toy airplane about to take flight.

  Mom was cautious, calculating. “Well . . . maybe you can keep a couple of shifts after school starts. Or else you could stay on as a volunteer. But I have to be honest, sweetheart, I think freshman year is a full-time job.”

  There was something funny about this moment, when my mother seemed to believe—against all evidence—that my life was still under her control.

  I could let her believe it. I could cling to the small, dimming part of me that still thought Whedon College might turn me into a true Nelson; all it would take was the right class or the right book to draw me into my parents’ world. And then I would understand the rush of the all-nighter, the satisfaction of crawling into bed at dawn, my mind exhausted.

  I looked at Seth, imprisoned in the center of the kitchen. He looked back at me with tired, patient eyes. We already understood the rush of the all-nighter.

  “I’m not going to Whedon,” I said.

  And whatever had been knotted tight in my chest all year—some combination of dread and anxiety—came loose.

  “Excuse me?” Mom said.

  I was eighteen years old. If I didn’t start college in the fall, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It would just be the end of a bad idea.

  “I’m not going,” I repeated.

  “You know it’s too late to apply elsewhere,” Dad said.

  “It’s too late for this year,” I said. “There will be other years.”

  “And what about this year?” Mom’s voice verged on distraught. “How do you imagine spending your time?”

  “Working. Figuring out where I might go to nursing school.”

  Seth was tugging on t
he end of his ponytail, staring at the spaghetti-sauced linoleum. Mom had yet to comment on the state of the house, but a tirade was forthcoming; I had caught her eyeing the grease-streaked microwave, the full-grown dust rabbits lurking beneath the table. My siblings were watching Seth in awe, as if he alone had set today’s events in motion. As if he had managed to lure me away from our parents’ careful plans—with his four-wheel drive and rugged good looks—and was here now to oversee the fallout.

  I remembered, too late, the question Seth had asked me just before we kissed the first time. Heat flared across my cheeks. I needed to get him out of this house. I had so much explaining to do.

  “Audrey, I don’t know if I want that for you,” Mom said.

  “Want what?” I asked, preoccupied by Seth, who wouldn’t look at me.

  She took a breath. “I don’t know if I want you to spend your life taking care of other people.”

  At first, what she had said seemed harmless, a routine concern. In another second the concern gained weight and her words, as they echoed in my head, were as jarring as if she’d called me by the wrong name.

  I faced my mother. “Why not?”

  We were all watching, waiting. Nelson appeared especially rapt. If Iris didn’t want me to spend my life taking care of other people, why had she spent hers taking care of us?

  Most of her life, anyway. Everything up until the last four months.

  Mom tore her gaze away from me and, briefly, met Dad’s eyes. She blushed. I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. Seth had gone from uncomfortable to miserable, and my priorities realigned themselves. We needed to get out of here.

  With an exaggerated sigh, I said, “Let it go, Mom. I’ve sprung free.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s over. My mind’s made up. I’ve sprung free.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Why do you keep saying that, Audrey?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She was pinching the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply. Of course she didn’t understand. She had believed her blog anonymous, and it had probably felt anonymous—sitting in her rented apartment in a foreign country, typing about places her family had never been, people we’d never met.

  “Mom,” Rosie squeaked, “are you okay?”

  Our mother opened her eyes. Silently, she pleaded with me, terrified I would keep talking, would reveal—recklessly, unceremoniously—that she’d had an affair with some European winemaker, some horror movie buff.

  And despite everything I’d already said, it killed me that she thought I would do that to her.

  “She’s fine,” I said. “We’re fine. Everybody’s fine. Seth?” He stared at my outstretched hand as if it were on fire. “Want to get out of here?”

  Seth stood, gingerly, taking pains not to elbow my father—who was still seated at his side—or bump into my mother, who hovered above his chair. “It was nice to meet you all,” he said.

  Jake was the only Nelson who responded, securing the cardboard flaps of the Cheerios box and suggesting, in a neutral tone of voice, “Come back soon.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Wordlessly, Seth and I sank to the porch steps. We were side by side but staring straight ahead at the overgrown grass of the front yard, at all the dandelions gone to seed. I stretched out my bare legs, absorbing the warmth of the sun. A thin layer of hair covered my calves and reflected light. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shaved.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so unsure of what to say to him.

  Seth appeared deep in thought, leaning over his knees and compulsively picking at the stitching on his boots. The Jeep was parked in my usual spot, its nose nearly touching our garage.

  “Nursing school?” he said finally.

  “It’s just something I’m thinking about.” I wanted to inch my thigh closer to his, until there was no space between us, but I couldn’t tell how Seth felt about the space.

  “Makes sense,” he said.

  “I think so. It feels like a solid plan. Going to Whedon felt like a bad plan, from the start.”

  He nodded, processing this information. “So . . . where’s the closest place to get a nursing degree?”

  I threw a look back toward the house, where I’d abandoned my entire family. “To be honest, I think I’d be more interested in the farthest place.”

  Playfully, Seth clamped a hand over his heart. “You lied to me, Audrey. You said I could kiss you into September and beyond.”

  “You can. You will.” I shifted, closing the gap between our legs. “I’m not going anywhere before September. And I didn’t lie to you about Whedon. At least, not intentionally. Dropping out was—”

  “A spontaneous decision?”

  Seth forced a smile, but I could see the hurt behind it. I remembered Sara theorizing that I overwhelmed him. Lately, I overwhelmed myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and then the apologies just kept unfurling. “I’m sorry my brother dragged you into the kitchen. I’m sorry I let you sit in the one chair that’s about to break. I’m sorry my little sister ogled you, and that everyone was so—”

  “Hey.” Seth took my face in his hands. We kissed, and I was so relieved that I forgot about my unbrushed teeth. Nothing mattered except the warmth of the sun, the warmth of his lips. The fact that, after everything Seth had witnessed, he was still interested in kissing me.

  Then, remembering how three pints of beer had turned my mouth into a desert, I pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” Seth asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just my breath. I got drunk after work.” It was an awkward confession, but I was done keeping secrets from Seth.

  “You got drunk? With who?” Concern edged his voice.

  “With my supervisor. She took me to Dot’s Tavern.”

  “Oh.” Seth relaxed. “My dad loves that place.”

  “Everyone’s dad loves that place,” I lied, knowing Nelson wouldn’t be caught dead in Dot’s. Nelson would sooner be buried at sea.

  “You didn’t get carded?” Seth asked.

  “Nope.”

  “How drunk did you get?”

  “Drunk enough to drown my regrets.”

  “Ah. I have some of those.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, a little bit hopeful.

  “That’s why I came over. To apologize.” Seth pulled my hands into his lap and started playing with my fingers. “I shouldn’t have acted like you committed some grave sin, going on the news. It’s just . . .”

  His face was tense as he searched for the right words. More than anyone else I knew, Seth spoke carefully. Deliberately. “Cam’s not ecstatic about the video being all over the Internet. She’s tired of the attention. She’s tired of being that girl who almost died. But I get that it’s your story, too. You’re allowed to be proud. You’re allowed to be . . .”

  He trailed off, unsure of my rights.

  I said, “Audrey Nelson, Certified Nurse Assistant.”

  Seth laughed, nervous. “Um, what?”

  “That’s how I thought they would introduce me on the news. All fast and professional-sounding, like when they introduce a politician, or some kind of expert.”

  “Kristy Summers didn’t make you feel like an expert?”

  My cheeks warmed. I’d never told Seth that my interview had been with Kristy, meaning that someone else had told him. “Kristy Summers made me feel like a Crescent Bay townie,” I admitted.

  “You are,” Seth said.

  “Yeah, but I’m your townie, right?”

  With his arm around my shoulders, Seth squeezed. “Right. Beer breath and all.”

  “So I’m guessing you didn’t get wasted last night?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I don’t drink.”

  And then I remember
ed—I already knew that about Seth. Or at least, I’d known it a long time ago. In tenth grade, when Rusty Tillman had called her boyfriend to come pick us up from that party, she told me not to worry; her boyfriend didn’t drink.

  Fresh memories of Seth had a way of stunning me. It was hard to fathom exactly how I’d overlooked him, year after year.

  “Were you always so good?” I asked him, knowing the question was too vague. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to answer unless I came much closer to saying what I meant. But after a second of bemused, uncertain stammering, Seth sat up straight. He frowned at the Jeep.

  “Hey. Why am I parked in your spot?”

  Seth was right; the driveway should have been occupied by the MINI. Mentally I retraced my steps—from work, to the front seat of Maureen’s car, to the backseat of Elliot’s.

  I groaned. “It’s possible I need a ride.”

  I had left my dad’s car at the retirement home, and then—in the chaos of this interminable morning—forgotten all about it.

  “Hurry up and get dressed.” Seth nudged my knee with his. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Still courting fame, I see.”

  In room 64, Tamora Sinclair remained nocturnal. Tonight she was propped up in bed, dressed in polka-dot pajamas. To explain her comment, she handed me a section of the Sacramento Bee.

  The reporter had called a few days ago. Her voice was warm, containing none of Kristy Summers’s syrupy-sweet condescension. Still, I might not have agreed to answer the woman’s questions on the spot if my mother hadn’t been following me from room to room, shooting me tight-lipped looks and mouthing, anxiously, “Who is it?”

  I’d tried to tame her with a cold, hard stare—a stare that meant I remembered every word of the blog she’d hastily deleted, the day she arrived home. Since that day, my stare had lost its potency. She knew she had me. I wouldn’t say the words Italian suitor to Dad, or trial separation in front of my siblings. Iris was in charge of her own life; all I wanted in return were the keys to mine.

  But Mom was having trouble with the trade. She hovered over my shoulder for the duration of the phone interview. Consequently, my answers had been less than eloquent.