Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  “But at least I’d keep things interesting.” We smiled at each other, and I could see that despite his joke, he already considered me to be his partner, and not a terrible one in the least. We were in harmony more than ever before, thanks to everything we’d shared that day and over the course of the summer, and we were ready to take on anything together, the brightest days and the blackest nights.

  He caught his breath and stood admiring the house. “I’ve got to say, I do like what he’s done, just the whole feel of it.” He draped an arm across my shoulders. “Yeah, they’ve got a little piece of heaven up here.”

  I followed Gary’s gaze upward. A house had never seemed so precious or consequential, and everything that went on inside it, even the most embittered exchanges or tedious chores, seemed precious and consequential as well. The four of them up here together, working through life—wasn’t that all the heaven a person could ever hope for?

  “A family, and a nice big house for the kids to grow up in, with an office and a yard—all the details planned out just the way they like,” he said. “It’s really all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I know what you mean. Family is what’s most important, in the end. But I’ve sort of been putting that off to the side. I figured I probably wouldn’t have kids.”

  “I think that’d be a shame. Honestly, I do.”

  I bit my cheek, envisioning it: a porch with a swing, a green lawn, bread rising in the oven, Gary bursting in from work to start up some horseplay with the kids, and always, one child or another calling for me or tugging on my leg and their friends coming for playdates and neighbors popping in, a warm home full of rollicking chaos where moments of solitude would be so rare that they would be treasured and even sought out. It was the most generic scene, and yet it appeared in my head like a divine revelation.

  “What about your family? Like, growing up?” he said. “I don’t know anything about them. Except you have a brother.”

  He wanted to know me, everything there was to know, and for once it didn’t seem impossible to talk about it. “My mother died. Six years ago.” I swallowed. I’d never said it aloud like that before. “I guess it’s kind of like you with being married—I don’t like talking about it much. But you told me, so I should be open too.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The words sounded sincere, and I found their lack of originality comforting—I didn’t want to feel original. My throat filled. Even if I’d been able to speak, I knew there were no words that could communicate just how undeserving of sympathy I truly was.

  “I’m glad you told me, though,” he said. And then he understood, either from my face or from instinct, not to say more. It felt like I’d weathered a storm and just discovered all my belongings still intact: I’d somehow managed to hold on to myself. I wanted to squeeze every inch of Gary’s body but settled for his hand. He interlocked his with mine, filling the gaps between my fingers so we formed a solid block and I could no longer sense which parts belonged to me.

  Our conversation had swept the sound of the music away, and in this interlude, it came flooding back with even more intensity, a rhythmic thumping and a lyric set on repeat: There’s no limit, no, no, no limit. Gary winced. “I think I’ve had enough synthesizer for one night. I’m pretty exhausted. But I had a great time. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came.”

  “Me too.”

  “So should we head back?”

  A cynical part of me cried out, telling me to stall, to cling to this place and this day for longer, for forever if possible, but that was a vestige of my old life. I had every reason to feel confident and strong. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s head back.”

  * * *

  On the highway, Gary put his hand on my knee and let it rest there, a declaration. In the seclusion of the car, our new togetherness felt more significant and more nerve-racking. But his hand on my leg proved that it was durable, not only meant for a dance party and a stranger’s basement but also for a future beyond.

  The “future beyond”—those words sent my mind into a hyperactive state, spurred on by the music he played at low volume, the ideal soundtrack for private fantasy. Soon I was overflowing with inspiration, all the plans we could make, how easily we could weave our lives together. I could help him find a renter to take my place so we’d have the extra income when I moved downstairs. I’d do the cooking so he wouldn’t have to stress anymore, and watch cooking shows for tips and recipes until I could really impress him. We’d go shopping for more furniture and decor, this time with just the two of us in mind, then invite his mother over for a big housewarming dinner during which she’d take me aside to say she had a feeling when she met me that we’d end up together, and she’s so happy she was right. I’d bring him to meet my father at a restaurant, and when Gary snuck off to preemptively pay the bill, he’d take my hand and say he’d worried I’d never get out of my rut, but now he saw I’d come through it and found a kind, good man to settle down with, and he was beyond ecstatic that we could finally start a fresh chapter as a family. For Thanksgiving, we could host everybody at our house potluck style, with my brother on video chat so he wouldn’t feel left out. Or, if Gary and his mother had their own tradition, we could switch off every other holiday between his family and mine.

  “You know,” I said, trying not to sound too frenzied, “I just can’t believe how much time I’ve spent worrying about becoming an EMT and having some important career, when maybe I don’t even need any of that to be happy. Maybe it was just something I had to go through, like to get me here. And now I can leave all that behind. It’s weird, but it’s also kind of freeing in a way.”

  “Really? But your EMT stuff, that’s like who you are. I couldn’t imagine you without it.”

  “It’s just a job.”

  “I thought you said it was a calling. Like that woman you like. With the bird’s name.”

  “Florence Nightingale.”

  “Yeah, Florence Nightingale. In any case, might as well give it a shot for a while, right? See how it goes. I mean, you’ve already done all the work to get certified.”

  “Well, not exactly—” I hardly got the words out before I burst out laughing. The whole matter had lost its hold on me, and I felt unbelievably light and giddy, as though I’d just recalled some ridiculous antic from my youth. “Actually, I skipped my exam. It was supposed to be today.”

  “Huh? I thought you already finished all that, like a month ago.”

  “I lied. Just a little,” I said impishly, waiting for him to get in on the fun. He didn’t respond, so I added, “Not to you. I mean, I did lie to you, but it wasn’t on purpose, like to trick you. It was to trick myself.”

  He squinted at the road. “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s just that I’d been having trouble passing the exam. I’d already tried twice.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I knew all the material, I just needed to get out of my head. You know, like, just relax, believe in myself. So, if I convinced myself I already had passed, then I would pass. That was the idea anyway.”

  “Huh.”

  “Do you get it? It probably sounds a little nuts. But like, you’ve heard of the placebo effect? Doctors will use a little deception to help convince the patient they’re getting better, and then they really do get better.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Never mind. It was a stupid idea anyway, I see that now. More of an experiment than anything else.”

  He was quiet, seeming to mull that over. I thought about adding further explanation, but it all sounded lame in my head.

  “So everything then . . . ,” he said. “And when I got you that cake—”

  “I know, I felt terrible about that, really. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you the truth, but then it would defeat the whole purpose. My intentions were good. It was the whole ‘ends justify the means’ kind of thing, you know?” I wished we were sitting across from each other so I could see more of his face. “I’ve never lied t
o you about anything else, I promise. And I’ll never do it again. I hope you aren’t mad.”

  “Well, honesty is a big thing for me. Probably the biggest thing, given my past. You should understand that.” His voice had an edge that startled me. I hadn’t really expected him to be mad. I thought he might call me weird or crazy, have a laugh at my expense, roll his eyes, but this sounded like real anger. I felt moved by how much he cared, by my capacity to injure him. It seemed to validate everything and guarantee that with a little time he would forgive me and we would look back on this and laugh. “But wait, so, the test was really supposed to be today?” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter now. I decided to go with you instead, and I’m really glad I did. I knew how important it was to you.”

  “It was just a dumb wedding! I could’ve gone alone. I would’ve survived. If I’d known, I—I just wish you’d told me all this before. Because now I’m feeling guilty, like it’s partly my fault.”

  “Please, don’t feel guilty. Really. It was my choice. And it’s not like I won’t have another chance to take it, if I want. But to be honest, now I’m not even sure I want to.”

  “I thought it’s what you always wanted, to be out there saving lives, helping people.”

  “You don’t need to be an EMT to help people. Having a family, that’s all about helping other people. And you get to bring new life into the world.” I loosened my seat belt so I could shift my body to face him. “Just picture it. You could design the perfect house, with everything we want put together in one, all the details exactly how you like them. And I could have a garden and grow fresh vegetables. You wouldn’t have to worry about cooking anymore, I could do all that. And take care of the family. I mean, eventually, down the road. It could be really nice, don’t you think?” I pinched his leg, the visions playing one after another like a spectacular movie in my head.

  “Oh. That’s—I mean, we were just kidding around before. I don’t want you to go making any decisions based on me, if that’s what you were thinking. We still don’t even know each other that well—obviously. That’s really clear to me now.”

  “Of course. I only meant it’s fun to imagine things like that, just daydream really. It’s not like I’m planning our wedding or anything.” I tried to laugh, but it had a fraudulent sound that I couldn’t reel in, as though my own voice was determined to incriminate me. “We can just take it one day at a time,” I said as firmly and soberly as possible. “Get to know each other better.”

  “I don’t know, Amy.” The way he said “Amy,” I almost didn’t recognize it as my name. He leaned his elbow against the car door and breathed audibly. His eyes stayed locked straight ahead on the road. “It’s been a crazy week, and this is kind of a lot to take in right now.” He paused, but I could see his jaw still working in his cheek, his teeth grinding together. “Not to mention, things with Irina are still kind of up in the air. I’m not in the right place to go jumping into anything. This is my fault, I shouldn’t have let things go so far today. The whole thing was a bad idea. Can we just take a step back?”

  “Back?”

  “Yeah, like back to being friends. That seems like the best thing for right now. Don’t you think?” He swerved around a car, mumbling “Delinquents” under his breath. We were tearing down the dark highway with a velocity that made my breath catch, as though he wanted to demonstrate just how desperate he was to be rid of me, to put an end to this day and all the promise it once held.

  My voice came out shrunken and creaky, almost not at all. “Should I still plan to come for dinner this week?”

  “I was just going to cancel my meal subscription. The whole point of it was for Irina. I’m perfectly happy heating up frozen dinners. Save a lot of money too.”

  He pretended to be interested in a song and turned up the music, bopping his head along to make it seem convincing.

  I felt stunned and confused, and slightly hostile too, like someone had just snuck up behind me and whacked me in the head. I struggled to replay everything that had been said since we’d entered the car, to isolate each moment and find some logic in the progression. I compulsively touched my temple, as though it might help my mind function better. But the whole situation was just preposterous, beyond reason, against the laws of nature even. I gave up trying to understand and instead scrolled through every possible thing I could say now that might redeem me, even minorly. Finally I gave up on that too, deciding I couldn’t trust my judgment.

  My fingers crept toward the space between our seats, the emergency brake. I could pull it, take charge, prevent us from going on this way any longer, but then what? It would only stop the car and not Gary, who had already retreated as far as he possibly could while still stuck in the seat beside me. We streaked past a sign for Duxbury, and I thought of the cat-naming game. It seemed like a memory from a previous lifetime, as unreachable as the quarter-moon I knew was out there but couldn’t currently see.

  “So what were you printing then?” Gary said. “That night. When you said you passed your exam.”

  “It was . . . nothing. Just something I had to get printed.” If there had been an emergency brake to stop the mechanisms inside my body, I would have pulled it then, but the world is not that humane. My body held me hostage while it carried on: my lungs extracting oxygen, my pituitary gland secreting hormones, my gallbladder collecting bile.

  A couple miles later, Gary stirred, and I sat up, confident that he’d come around and was ready to make amends. “What did you say?”

  “I yawned,” he said.

  Despite my infuriating good health, I was like an invalid there, trapped in tight quarters with nothing to do except stare at the window, which the night had converted into a mirror. No matter how I scrunched my eyes, trying to force my vision to the outside, my own reflection bled through: my right eye blinking back at me with its 6 million cones and 125 million rods, the pupil dilated into a big black hole. A student group on campus once hosted a debate between a scientist and an evangelical, and the evangelical said that the complexity of the human eye was proof of God’s existence. God!

  At some point I said, “You’ve had to do a lot of driving today. We could pull over and switch. I haven’t driven in a while, but my license is still good.”

  “No. It’s fine. I want to.”

  I must have dozed off after that, because the next thing was my head colliding with the window as Gary made a sharp turn, and then I realized we were back home, in the driveway. I closed my eyes again and pretended to be asleep in the hope that somehow it might disarm him, like when I was a child and wanted my parents to have to carry me inside. He poked my shoulder with all the warmth you’d use to flick a bug off your food and said, “We’re here.”

  Eleven

  I wiped the bedposts in room 9, my rag going up and down and up again, losing track of which post I’d started with and whether I’d already completed all four posts and, if so, how many times. Despite having slept through Sunday and as many hours as possible on Monday and Tuesday, I was in a heavy fog and planned to stay that way, depriving my brain of even the mildest pleasure or stimulation. I wished I could tear open my skull and flush it out with bleach and felt it was an injustice that I couldn’t—why shouldn’t people be allowed some say over what goes on in their own skulls? The room went dim. I figured it was my imagination acting up, trying to get a rise out of me. Then I looked out the window and discovered the sun missing. Fat clouds had trundled in, and the ocean was churning. Wind began to blow raw against the glass. I watched waves hack at the sides of the boats and people dart in and out of the tiny house at the tip of the T-shaped dock. The room fell quiet and still. There was a rumble of thunder, and when a splintering noise followed, the earth blinked and I felt a release. A storm—it was so perfectly fitting I felt I must have manifested it, just by the force of my own violent mood.

  Doug’s voice came booming in from the hallway. He was singing to the tune of an old hot-dog commercial:

&nbs
p; Oh, I wish I were an internal auditor

  That is what I truly wish to be

  ’Cause if I were an internal auditor

  Everyone would be in love with me

  Oh, everyone would be in love with me.

  He was constantly coming up with new versions of this song. He didn’t often come up on the hotel floor, and his singing grew louder and louder, and then the door to room 9 swung open. “Time to batten down the hatches, eh? Just making sure we’re all sealed up.” He knocked twice on the door frame.

  Thunder cracked, louder this time, drawing us both toward the shuddering window. We stood side by side, watching. The anticipation made me feel off-kilter. A rod of lightning skewered the clouds and finally the rain fell, thin and distinct at first, in bullets that burst when they hit the surface of the ocean. Then came a surge like a giant exhale and the rain crashed down, blending the sky and the ocean into one big gray stew. “And we like to think we’re the ones in control,” he whispered. “Kind of puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  I murmured in agreement. I felt exposed, imagining that all my vengeful urges and inconsolable thoughts had escaped from inside me to set this storm in motion, and any moment now he would recognize my role in it.

  “A good storm always gets me thinking about the old days,” Doug said. “Can you imagine? A bunch of guys stranded out there on a ship, running around like mad while the captain barks orders. Not knowing what the hell is going on or how long it will last. Just that some god is mighty angry.”

  “Yeah, they used to think everything came from the gods. Even diseases,” I said, discovering how glad I was for conversation (how long had it been? days, not since the ride with Gary) and how ridiculous I’d been: attributing a storm to my own mood was even more absurd than attributing it to a god—how egotistical I could be! “Hippocrates was the first one to challenge it.”