Reasons to Vape

“Dis-embody: Ellen” by Winslow Schmelling

You started vaping six months ago at the suggestion of your trainer. He was trying to help you not smoke.

“You cannot be a smoker,” he had said.

Before this, you didn’t even know what vaping was, other than it was something teenagers did. Something that you heard about on the news.

Now you vape the moment you get out of bed, before the kids are awake, before you feed the dog.

You still haven’t told your ex-husband about your habit. You are closer since you got divorced. He will think it is disgusting and juvenile. And you hide it from your children, of course, which is easy because, unlike cigarettes, there is no smell. You haven’t told your sister either, and you tell your sister everything.

Your plan is to quit so you don’t have to tell anyone.

*       *       *

Your ex-husband has a new girlfriend. They’ve been dating for three months. For him, that is a long time.

“I like this one,” he had said.

They met on a dating app. You found out he was on this dating app when you were married. Its logo is an image of two identical red cartoon hearts smiling at one another. Your therapist tells you that you blame yourself for your divorce. That it was your job to keep the marriage together. That if you were better somehow, it wouldn’t have happened. If you were more open, sexier perhaps, or if you had good jokes.

You’ve now been divorced for four years. He was a shit husband but is an excellent ex-husband. He does things like take your kids to indoor playgrounds that you avoid because they smell like feet.

But he wants to introduce his girlfriend to your kids. That has never happened in the past.

Her name is Melody.

*       *       *

You pull up to your sister’s house and pocket your vape pen. You estimate that you’ll be there for an hour or so, maybe two. It occurs to you that it would be smart to buy some nicotine gum for occasions like these. In the meantime, you can vape in your sister’s bathroom.

Her house is a two-story craftsman set on a modest, pristine lot that she got to keep in her divorce. Your sister insists that the house is painted white. Her ex-wife thought the house looked purple.

“It looks like it’s choking,” her ex-wife had said.

You bring chicken Caesar salads. You both sit at her kitchen table and eat the salads out of the containers. The parmesan cheese tastes like little strips of plastic. You talk about the surprise party you are going to throw your parents for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It is one month away. 

“We could do something ASU-themed,” your sister says.

Your parents went to Arizona State University and are fanatic Sun Devil fans. You had a van growing up that was painted the university’s colors — maroon and gold — with an ASU license plate that said “4DVLS.” Your parents are season ticket holders for the football team, men’s and women’s basketball teams, baseball and softball team. You think their shared obsession is part of what has kept their marriage together all these years. You wonder if your mom really loved all those sports or if she faked it, just a little.

“Great idea,” you say, chewing on plastic.

“We could do it at the golf club,” your sister says.

“I can give them a call.”

“What about invitations?”

“I can do it.”

Your sister looks at you like she knows something about you. 

“It’ll take me two seconds,” you say.

*       *       *

The invite is a time suck. You sit on your couch with your laptop obsessing over word choice, font, character size and color. You read and reread it, searching for misspellings, grammatical errors, and mistakes. Anything that might cause confusion, or worse, embarrassment. Your shoulders have inched up to your ears.

You include an old photograph of your parents: they are in their late twenties, on a boat, seated at a table having dinner. Your mother is beautiful with straight, long brown hair that she used to iron and high cheek bones, and your father looks like a young Jack Nicholson. The photo was taken before they had you and your sister, when they were still living in Los Angeles. Before they moved to Phoenix because it was cheaper, when your mother still worked as a children’s clothing designer and before your father sold his brown Datsun.

*       *       *

There’s a pharmacy located a few blocks from your house. When your kids were still in strollers, when you were still married, you used to walk them there to get some fresh air. Now you are there looking at the display case of Nicorette gum behind the cashier. Your thinking is that you’ll start chewing the gum while you vape, but then you’ll slowly taper off and shift over to the gum.

Then your sister calls.

“Invites went out,” you say.

“Great.”

“I called the club, too. They’re expecting twenty.”

“Thank you. We should probably get a cake.”

“I can do that.”

“So can I.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You do everything.”

“So?”

An announcement is made over the store intercom. Something about needing assistance in aisle three. 

“What are you doing?” your sister says.

“Shopping.”

“You hate shopping.”

After you hang up, you go back to the shiny Nicorette boxes on display: fruit flavored, cinnamon, mint. You take a furtive glance around the room to make sure there is no one you recognize in the store before you ask the cashier for a box of the cinnamon kind.

*       *       *

“I’m going to introduce the kids to Melody this weekend,” your ex-husband says.

You are at home sitting in your office, which is crowded with stacks of paperbacks and paintings on canvas your boys have made over the years. Most paintings are abstract, some are portraits. You stop vaping while you talk to your husband on the phone so he can’t hear you take hits.

“I haven’t even met her,” you say.

“You should! She’s great!” he says.

“No, I mean, you’ve only been dating for three months.”

“Melody is a big part of my life.”

Theo’s self-portrait — orange hair and red eyes — faces you, unflinching. It is something out of a fever dream. He made this painting for you one Saturday afternoon when he was bored. Actually, he sold it to you for seven dollars. You went to the art supply store together to get the canvas and paint and this made you feel good. This made you feel like a present mother. This was a year or so after you had found out your husband had been seeing multiple women.

“I want to meet her first,” you say.

         *       *       *

You watch television with your children after dinner. It is Japanese anime that is very popular among Lucas’ fifth grade class. There is a pillow in your lap and they both lie on it, Lucas lying down on the couch to your left side, Theo to your right.

Suddenly, Theo pops up. He looks at you. “I have a trick,” he says.

“Show me,” you say.

“How many tongues do I have?”

He then folds his tongue in half.

“No way,” you say.

“Mama?” Lucas says, his gaze fixed sleepily on the television, the soft blue glow of the screen reflecting on his face.

“Yeah?”

“Scratch,” he says.

You start playing with his hair, brushing your fingertips along his scalp, tugging softly on individual strands.

“Mama?” Lucas says again.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Melody?”

The room shifts. “Daddy’s friend,” you say. “Why?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Do you know her?” you ask.

“No.”

“Wait, who?” Theo says. “What?”

“Nothing, Theo,” Lucas says.

“But I want to know!”

You say, “Melody is a friend of Daddy’s. That’s all.”

*       *       *

The name of the bakery that you go to order the cake for your parent’s anniversary is Bake That! It is a shop that you’ve ordered from in the past. It is located a few blocks from your house and you prefer to go in and order rather than do it over the phone because they always have samples.

There’s a cheerful woman behind the counter in an apron. You ask her for the Triple Berry Cake. You take a sample. Today it is marble.

“What size?” she says.

“1/4 sheet,” you say, chewing. “How much is that?”

“Two-hundred and forty.”

“For a cake?”

“Any writing on it?” the woman says.

“Happy 50th Anniversary,” you say.

“Ooh, big one.”

“Yeah.”

“Whose is it?”

“My parents.”

“Lucky.”

You take a second sample.

*       *       *

You meet your ex-husband and Melody at a farmers market for lunch. It is crowded, so you find a table upstairs. You sit facing them. Melody has long brown hair in ringlets and large brown eyes and is wearing more makeup than you wore at your wedding. She also looks fifteen years younger than both of you. You guess she’s twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight.

“Thanks so much for meeting me,” she says.

You take a large bite of fried rice. It tastes like hamster bedding.

“Melody is a teacher,” your ex-husband says.

“So is my sister,” you say.

“That’s what I said!” your ex-husband says.

“What grade does she teach?” Melody asks.

“High school. What about you?”

“Kinder,” she says. “I like working with kids that age. Mostly, I just want them to want to come to school.”

Melody smiles. She seems comfortable. But it is your husband who catches your eye. It’s the way he’s looking at her. You’ve never seen him look at anyone like that before. He’s adoring, perhaps even in love.

*       *       *

You play tennis with your sister at a public court near her house. She is serving. Her motion is smooth and rhythmic. She spins the ball to your backhand and you return it cross court to her forehand. You engage in a long rally, moving each other from side to side. Your lungs feel like shriveled balloons. Finally, the point ends when you hit a ball out. You double over. Your sister walks up to the net.

“Are you okay?” she says.

“Out of shape,” you say.

You play another point. This rally is even longer. You are gasping by the end of it. Your sister notices.

“Allergies,” you say.

“That is not allergies,” she says.

You both sit down on the bench.

“Are you smoking again?” your sister says.

“Vaping,” you say.

She laughs. Then she realizes you are serious. “Wait, really?”

You nod.

“What are you, sixteen?” she says.

“Don’t tell mom.”

“Since when?”

“Six months.”

Your sister stares at you. She shakes her head.

“What?” you say.

“It’s okay, you know,” she says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to keep it a secret.”

“I know.”

*       *       *

When you get home, you gather up all of your vape pens. You have one in the back of your desk drawer, one in your glove compartment, one in the back of your bedside drawer. You put them all in a grocery bag. Then you drive to a neighbor’s trash can and dump them.

*       *       *

It is your ex-husband’s weekend to have the kids. He comes to your house at six o’clock to pick them up. You answer the door when he knocks. The kids are upstairs packing their bags.

“They’re almost ready,” you say.

He looks handsome in blue jeans and a rumpled collared shirt. He has a mop of blonde hair.

“Have you thought about it?” he says.

“A little bit.”

“I won’t bring her around this weekend, but I can’t keep hiding her.”

You don’t say anything.

“You met her,” he says. “She’s great. Why are you being like this? They’re going to love her.”

*       *       *

The next morning, you wake up at six. You think of the vape pen that used to be in your bedside drawer. You roll over.

In the kitchen, you make coffee. You reach for the vape pen that is usually in your robe pocket but remember it isn’t there. You feel itchy. You feel like you could sprint five miles. Or go back to sleep.

You feed the dog. He jumps up on you as you carry his bowl to the refrigerator where you keep his overpriced dog food. You shout at him.

You decide to go for a walk.

*       *       *

The morning sun is an affront. You can’t walk fast enough. Then your mother calls. 

“Don’t be mad,” she says.

“What?” you say. You are breathing hard, even from walking.

“What are you doing?” she says.

“Walking,” you say.

“I have to ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“Are you and Tamara planning something for our anniversary?”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. I know.”

“How?”

“Someone at the club told me.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry, hon. He didn’t know it was a surprise.”

“Does Tamara know that you know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell her,” she says. Then she adds, “But there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“Your father bought tickets to go see ASU play Stanford up north that weekend. He surprised me. As a present.”

“Really?”

“Devils are having one of their best starts to the season in a decade. Your father thinks we could be heading to a bowl game this year. You should watch it on TV if you can. You can look for us in the stands.”

*       *       *

You go to Bake That! to let them know you no longer need a cake. The same cheerful looking woman in an apron stands behind the display case. You have not vaped in nearly twenty-four hours and her cheeriness feels personal. There’s a plate of samples in front of her. It looks to be chocolate, which is your least favorite, but you take two.

“Welcome,” she says.

You tell her your predicament: your parents’ anniversary, the surprise party, the cake you ordered, your parents’ unexpected trip up north.

“Oh no!” she says.

“I know,” you say. “So what’s your cancelation policy? Is it okay to cancel since it is a week away?”

The woman’s cheerful facade turns grave. “No,” she says. “I’m afraid we have a zero cancellation policy on cakes of that size.”

You expect her to say something else but she doesn’t.

“Oh,” you say. “So I can’t cancel it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“So you’re just going to make it, even though I don’t want it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And then I have to come get it?”

“Yes.”

You stare at her for a moment, taken aback by the simplicity of it all. She seems unfazed. “What do I do with it?” you ask.

She thinks about this for a moment. Then she says, “I think you eat it.”

*       *       *

The next morning, you meet your sister for bagels at a place near her house. You're sitting outside on a patio. It is crowded. You talk about what you’re going to do next weekend now that there’s no surprise party. You make a plan to watch the ASU game on TV together like your mother suggested. You will have cake. You decide that you will invite some of the guests who were supposed to come to the party to watch the game with you; otherwise it will be too depressing. Your uncle, your aunt, your cousin who lives a half-hour away.

“I quit,” you say even though you itch.

“Quit what?” she says.

“Vaping.”

“Oh.”

“I’m two days off.”

She looks at you, then takes a bite of her bagel. She speaks with her mouth full. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

You are annoyed. You deserve praise. “Isn’t not vaping a good thing?”

She shrugs.

There’s a group of teenagers sitting next to you. Two boys and a girl, probably around seventeen. The girl is sitting on one of the boy’s laps. They look like they’ve just rolled out of bed, but somehow their confidence is still intimidating. You try not to stare. But you notice the girl, blonde hair with blue streaks and a nose ring. She starts to vape, not giving it a second thought. The boy whispers something into her hair. 

*       *       *

You pick up your kids at your ex-husband’s house that night. They’ve been playing video games and are now gathering their things. It is quiet and dark except for the security light that went on automatically above you.

“I have to tell you something,” he says. He looks at you with an odd expression, one you haven’t seen before. It is part concern, part fear.

“What?” you say.

“I’m going to ask Melody to marry me,” he says.

The security light clicks off.

You drive your children home. Everyone is silent. Lucas sits in the passenger seat next to you — he’s now big enough — while Theo sits in the back.

“Can I have your phone?” Lucas says.

“For what?” you say.

“To play a song.”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you guys to fight over it.”

“We’re not fighting.”

Theo adds, “I don’t mind, Mama.”

“Still,” you say.

“But we’re not fighting,” Lucas says.

“I know. Isn’t it pleasant?”

“It’s not fair.”

Your cheeks flush with irritation. “But you will fight if I give it to you. That’s what always happens. I want no fighting!”

*       *       *

After you drop your kids off at school the next day, you go straight to the newsstand that sells vape pens.           

When you get to the cashier, you ask for two of the clear kind and a pack of gum.

When you get to your car, you sit in the driver’s seat and shut the door. You don’t turn the engine on. Instead, you take a long, deep drag.

When you come home, you go into the kitchen and pour a glass of water from the tap. It is warm and has a metallic flavor. Then you sit at the kitchen table and send your ex-husband a text.

Okay for Melody to meet the kids, you write.

Your ex-husband calls you an hour later.

“Thank you,” he says.

You both agree that Melody will meet the kids that weekend. They will keep the visit short. Your ex-husband will introduce her as his girlfriend. He will be honest. He will answer any questions they have.

*       *       *

Your ex-husband arrives to pick up the kids. They will go pick up Melody at her apartment, then get ice cream. He’ll explain to them on the drive that Melody is his girlfriend who is looking forward to meeting them. He will bring the kids back to you afterwards. A short visit.

“Thank you for this,” he says. He’s standing on your doorstep. The kids are in their bedrooms putting on sweatshirts and shoes. He’s looking at you with genuine gratitude, though it isn’t the same way he looks at Melody.

You say: “I have a new habit.”

He smiles in a curious way. “A good one?”

“Depends.”

He frowns. “It’s not smoking, is it?”

“I did it so that I wouldn’t smoke,” you say.

“It’s not drugs?”

“What? No.”

“Then what is it?”

You hear your kids coming down the hallway. “Vaping,” you say.

He laughs but his smile disappears just as quickly. “That’s disgusting,” he says.

“I know.”

“Won’t that give you cancer?”

“No,” you say. “I don’t know. I need to look into that.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Not that long.”

“Can’t you just snack? Eat some nuts?”

“Nuts? No.”

He stares at you. He has a look on his face like he’s trying to understand you. You wonder if he’s judging you. He might be. You are about to tell him not to worry, that you’re going to quit. But you don’t.

Then your kids appear next to you.

“Ready?” your husband says.

*       *       *

You are at your house watching the ASU game with your sister, uncle, aunt and cousin in your living room. The afternoon sun comes through the front picture window, creating a bright glare on the television screen. The Devils are down by ten points at the half. You look for your parents in the stands, but you haven’t been able to find them.

You ask if anyone wants cake.

You go into the kitchen and open the white box containing the cake. “Happy 50th Anniversary!” it says in bold, red lettering. Your sister follows you inside.

“Need help?” she says.

Suddenly, you feel your throat close. Your nose prickles.

“Sure,” you say.

Your sister sees this. She puts a hand on your back. You want to crumple under her touch.

Then you say, “I started vaping again.”

“That’s okay,” she says.

“I don’t know when I’m going to quit.”

“That’s okay.”

Then you pick up a knife and slice into the corner of the cake.

“Let me do that,” your sister says.

“I got it.”

“Stop,” she says.

You ignore her. You start to cut a slice.

“Just stop,” she says. She gently puts her hand on yours.

Later, you and your sister come back into the living room. You have pieces of cake. You hand them out.

You sit on the couch with your piece. You got the letters H-A-P. Then you look at the television. They’re showing the visitor’s section of the stands. For a second, you think you see your parents, but you don’t. You wait for your children to come home. The house feels different when they are gone. Emptier, quieter. You wonder how the introduction went. You wonder if your children liked Melody. You wonder if they are going to fall in love.

About the Author

Katie Knight is a student at NYU’s low residency MFA fiction program. Her background is in screenwriting. She co-adapted a screenplay titled Len and Company, which was a New York Times Critics’ Pick. Katie lives in Los Angeles with her family. This is her debut publication.

about the artist

Winslow Schmelling is a writer, teacher, and maker from the Sonoran Desert. She has an M.F.A in Fiction from Arizona State University and B.A. in Modern Languages from Northern Arizona University. She teaches creative writing and interdisciplinary arts in and around Phoenix. Her creative work explores deserts, magic, cycles of landscape and family, and how to coax the scent of rain from a creosote bush. She is at work on a novel about sisters and survival.