Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  I evaluated myself in the full-length mirror. I flipped my head, tousling my new short hair. Although it wasn’t the most refined look, I still felt energized by it. A new person was taking shape before me, unfamiliar and unresolved. The core would always remain me, no matter if I passed an exam or saved a life or worked this job or another. But the rest was open-ended. This new me could have entirely different feelings and problems, different questions and struggles and dreams. There was so much to learn about her! It was both exciting and unsettling.

  I stepped closer to my reflection. I needed just a touch of something else, to really distinguish her. I returned to the zippered pouch and sifted through shimmery tubes and glass jars, a metal eyelash curler, a set of brushes. I felt inspired by the pops of color, the wonderful clicking sounds they made as they shifted. I unscrewed a pot of cream foundation. If I had clean fingers and only skimmed the very surface, it wouldn’t be the worst transgression. I dabbed a bit onto my face, concentrating on the purple sacs that had swelled up under my eyes over the past week. The tint was wrong for my skin, too dark and orangey, so I had to take a bit more to extend it down my neck and blend it in. She had a large palette of eye shadows in a spectrum of light to dark brown, and I tapped the spongy applicator into the middle box and swiped over my lids. She had an eyebrow pencil with a point on one end and a tiny brush on the other, and I alternated between the ends until I had two decent arches.

  I stepped back to take in the full effect. The makeup looked rather clownish on me, but that was probably just because I wasn’t accustomed to it. I remembered Nnenna once painting bright glittery swirls around my eyes for a “color party,” her hands holding my head steady as she worked. I was trying to talk without moving my jaw, so my voice had a funny, stiff quality. I was telling her about the first time I experimented with lipstick. I’d gone out to walk to school with Angela, and the first thing she said was, “Wow, you’re wearing lipstick,” which devastated me. I tried to wipe it off when she wasn’t looking, rubbing so hard my lips began to bleed. Nnenna laughed warmly. She blew across my skin to help it dry, making me tingle head to toe. “But you were wearing lipstick,” she said. She couldn’t relate, which I envied, but she also didn’t judge, which made me love her even more wholeheartedly, unconditionally—even now. I tried googling her once, a year or so ago. I found she worked in an after-school drama program for at-risk youth. I wished her the best, wherever she was now. Maybe I would even write her an email someday.

  The time was 7:14. I picked up the telephone on the bedside table and dialed my father’s number. When his voice came on, a strange whimper came out of me, and I had to bite the side of my finger. It was an automated recording. “Dad, it’s Amy. Sorry it’s early, but I wanted to tell you to cancel the magazine subscription. If it’s too late to get a refund, I’ll pay you back for it. I’m not an EMT, I’m sorry. But everything’s okay. And, I’m . . . Do you remember when Mom and I snuck into that party at our hotel, an office holiday party? And she ended up winning one of the prizes in the raffle? A little neck massager. She was so excited. Do you think you still have that around somewhere? Anyway, you can’t call me back at this number, but I’ll call you again in a couple days. And I’ll explain everything. You don’t have to worry. Okay. Bye, Dad.”

  Through the window, I could see members or guests who had been properly introduced filing down the dock and taking turns clambering into the launch boat. I put my dirty clothes into my backpack and then puffed out the sides and readjusted things, to make it look as full as possible. I folded my clean clothes neatly and placed them on the dresser. It certainly wasn’t a fair trade. I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and laid it on top of the clothes. Then, after one last glance in the mirror, I marched down, eyes straight ahead, to join the line.

  * * *

  They didn’t appear to be using any ticket system—on this secluded dock, among the gentle lapping of waves and sleepy conversation, any concern about Doug’s so-called mosquitoes would have felt laughably out of place. But, speaking of Doug, he might be coming in early today, to sort out any last-minute issues before departure. I kept one eye scanning for him on the shore behind me. The other eye sized up the amount of baggage beside each person in line. I should’ve brought something else. I squirmed, desperate to find a use for my conspicuously empty arms. I tried mimicking the stance of the person in front of me, but a kid was clowning around, quaking the wooden planks under my feet and making it difficult to stabilize. I weighed the idea of returning to room 6 and swiping a suitcase, but I couldn’t run the risk of bumping into Doug or Roula, or Jeremy. I had to push on.

  The line moved quickly. Two launch boats did laps out to the cruise ship and back again, and one of the boys in polo shirts shepherded people along, motioning when the boats had reached capacity. Before long it was me, my turn. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone as I stepped aboard and swung my backpack into my lap. The boat jerked into motion. As we coasted away from shore, I held my breath, but no one questioned me.

  The ship towered above us, casting a cool shadow. A set of stairs ran from a side door down to a platform, where we were to disembark. “Permission to come aboard!” an older man next to me said, giddy as he hoisted himself up. An employee offered his hand to me, just as he did for everyone else. I squeezed it as I crossed the threshold, landing firmly, right foot, then left foot, on the platform. I followed the group up the stairs and into the belly of the ship, where staff members were collecting luggage and showing people to their cabins. “I travel light,” I said when one began to approach. I smiled and twisted to indicate my backpack. “I’ll just keep it with me for now. I’m anxious to get up on the deck and take it all in.” He nodded with zero interest. “Up that way,” he said.

  The deck had a wide walkway along the perimeter, with a pool and lounge chairs in the middle. The veneer on the flooring felt slick under my sneakers. I stationed myself at the railing on the outer edge, my backpack lodged between my feet. People streamed up and down the tiers of the ship, but I didn’t dare wander. Naturally, the worst-case scenarios came to mind: someone recognizing me, asking incisive questions, putting in a call to Doug or the authorities. But I refused to feed into them. And as I watched the launch boats fetch more and more people, lulled by the methodical back-and-forth, I began to feel oddly safe. Not because of the clothes and makeup, which hardly amounted to a disguise, but because I had no reason to analyze anyone else, and they had no reason to analyze me. What an extraordinary and unjustified privilege to be able to go from an elite university to a courthouse to a supply closet to a cruise ship without anybody raising an eyebrow.

  Feeling confident, I turned around and propped my back against the railing to admire the deck. A woman stood nearby, middle-aged but with a ribbon tied around her ponytail that made her seem youthful and spirited. She was also alone. “Nice day,” I said, striding up to her.

  “Mm-hm.” She covered her mouth. “Sorry. You caught me with my mouth full. Interested?” She pulled a bag of red licorice sticks from her purse.

  “Oh, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  “You probably find it appalling, this early in the morning, right? People always look at me like I have three heads. But it’s all because of this cheerleading coach I had as a teenager. She was strict about our image, completely over the top. And she pounded it into our heads that if we were ever craving candy and absolutely had to have some, we should eat it first thing in the morning. Since that’s better for burning calories. I ended up quitting the team, you can imagine. But by then, I’d already made a habit of it. Which of course is not at all what she had in mind.” She wiggled the bag as if to entice me. “You could be my first convert . . . ,” she said, making her eyebrows jump.

  “Well. Why not.” I’m not the biggest fan of licorice at any time of day, but I chomped through it with enthusiasm, like a good first convert should. “I think I could get used to it,” I said, tonguing the gummy bits out of my molars.

&n
bsp; She stuck out her hand. “I’m Meredith, by the way. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

  I met her hand, trying to think fast. “Florence,” I said. Even if we no longer shared a calling, I could still pay tribute to her and all she’d done for me. “I’m new. So I haven’t met many people yet.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. There are a few other ladies here—we all left our husbands and kids at home to fend for themselves. A fun bunch. We mostly came for the bottomless margaritas. You should find us tonight for dinner if you want. We’ll be the ones drinking our weight in tequila.”

  “That’d be great, thank you.”

  “I’ll save a seat.” We heard a disturbance behind us, and Meredith whirled around. I turned as well, though hesitantly, my neck prickling.

  A boy had gotten in the pool. His mother was kneeling at the side. She seemed infuriated rather than concerned, trying to keep her voice down as she reprimanded him. She alternated between a growl and a whimper, and though I couldn’t make out the precise words, I could sense she was on the brink of a meltdown. Finally she reached in and grabbed his slippery arm, so that he dangled in the water. Meredith and I moved toward them, but just barely—our way of showing that we were empathetic but hoping not to get involved. We were everyday people, Meredith and I, with a healthy respect for the boundaries of other everyday people and no Hippocratic oath to fulfill, no need to be a hero.

  A man came up behind, the father, and told her to let go. “Robbie, get out,” he said with authority. Robbie planted his hands and rose up and out of the water like an acrobat. He looked scrawny in his dripping T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. “Go change. Now,” his father said, and the boy obeyed. The father eyed us, the scattering of spectators. “Nothing to see here,” he said flatly, waving a hand, and we all turned away.

  “Bet you’re feeling glad you left your kids at home,” I said to Meredith, but found she’d become engrossed in her phone.

  “Sounds like my presence is required downstairs. A skin-care emergency.” She went on typing as she spoke. “These women would commit murder if their facialists told them to. Not even kidding. Anyway, sorry. See you later?” She stepped away, eyes still on her screen, then looked up and smiled right at me.

  “Definitely,” I said. “See you soon.”

  Robbie’s parents were walking nearby, speaking in low, stern tones. I faced the ocean and pretended not to eavesdrop. “The second you turn your back, a switch goes off,” Robbie’s mother said, her voice quivering. “And he loves every second of it, seeing me suffer like that. I don’t know what else I can do. Honest to god, it’s like he really truly hates me.”

  I peeked over my shoulder as they passed and caught the side of her face. Up close, I recognized her right away: she was the generous one who had once walked the length of the hotel floor to give me the gift of a peppermint.

  A voice came over the intercom system. “This is Captain Perry Burkett here. It’s my pleasure to welcome you folks aboard the Sea Orchid. We have officially weighed anchor here, as of eight twelve Eastern Standard Time. And it looks like we’ve got a beautiful day ahead of us, sunny skies and calm seas straight to Portland.” I shut my eyes and breathed in. I was really doing it.

  The boy, Robbie, reemerged in clean, dry clothes. He stood alone a few paces away, stabbing his toes against the side of the boat. I inched closer. He bent over the railing to gaze down at the water, so I did the same. We watched the ripples break and swing and blend, a perpetual shape-shifting. It looked chaotic and unpredictable, like something just freed from a cage. “So, you like to swim?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Not me. It’s always made me nervous.”

  He seized the railing and thrust his chest over it, launching a mucusy ball of spit into the air. I lost track of the trajectory and hoped it hadn’t curved back into a window. “It’s not even scary,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it’s the fact that you can’t see what’s under you, or behind. And you don’t know what will be there when you pop back up. My mother made me take lessons. She knew it was important. But I was so stubborn. I hated to let go of the side.”

  He began to karate-chop the railing. “Hi-ya!” He gave it a roundhouse kick. Just when I thought he’d forgotten about me altogether, he said, “Seventy percent of the earth is water.” He widened his stance and kicked again, with impressive flexibility. “And sixty percent of the human body.”

  I considered this. “Wow. You’re right. That’s true.” I shouldn’t be afraid of what was inside me. Earlier Robbie had tortured his mother with his reckless behavior, but that didn’t make him rotten. People are more complicated than that. I considered offering some advice, about being kinder to his mother, but I trusted him, and her, that they would come together in their own time. She might never understand everything about him or the way he acted, but she would still love and forgive him, even when, especially when, he didn’t deserve it. One day he might look back and wish he hadn’t treated his own family worse than enemies, but over time he’d learn how to live with regret, and his family would understand, because they lived with it too.

  Robbie was in the midst of another karate sequence when a boy ran up and jerked on the back of his shirt. “Come on,” the boy said. Robbie took off. A moment later, I felt a sudden yet gentle push against my back. “Don’t fall in!” he yelled, to spook me. Then he snorted and went galloping after his friend. I smiled as I watched them go.

  Captain Perry Burkett came back on the intercom to invite everyone inside for a brief welcome toast, but I still wasn’t ready to move.

  So now I’m alone out here, holding the rail of the giant ship, as the sun melts the makeup off my face. Sparkles blink across the surface of the water, a dazzling show. They leave an echo at the back of my eyes, flashing yellow spots. I feel I could dance among them, without any effort at all. I am light and wispy as a moth. Even the weight of the world’s dust has escaped from inside me and blown off with the breeze.

  The land is just a stray mark now, the tip of a fingernail. I don’t panic or pine for it, but I’m not running away from it either. Rather, ten times, die in the surf, heralding the way to a new world, than stand idly on the shore—Florence Nightingale said that. She has never stopped rooting for me, I’m sure of it.

  I’m still young, and quite lucky. I don’t yet have a bed to sleep in or a clean change of clothes, but in two days, I’ll be in Halifax. Florence Nightingale said that people need variety: we suffer from seeing the same rooms, the same streets, the same walls, day after day. In Halifax, I won’t see any of the same things. In Halifax, I can be and do anything. I can adopt a dog or join a swim team, grow flowers, ride motorcycles, make my own pastries or hats. But in the meantime, I have an unbeatable view of the Atlantic Ocean. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing, and Meredith is saving a spot for me at her table tonight.

  Acknowledgments

  An immense thank you to Dee McNamer for your faith, generosity, and wisdom from the very beginning. This book exists because of you. Thank you to the teachers and classmates who read bits and pieces along the way, especially Alida, a brilliant reader and friend. To my first writing teacher, Joe Hurka: your encouragement made all the difference.

  I am forever grateful to my agent, Sarah Bowlin, for your guidance and insight, and to my editor, Sara Birmingham, for choosing this book and making it better. I couldn’t imagine two more talented or patient people to help me through this process.

  Thank you to my remarkable parents. And thank you to Brian, for listening, for reading and rereading, and for everything in between.

  About the Author

  KELLY MCCLOREY is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Montana. She lives in Massachusetts.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, ch
aracters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  NOBODY, SOMEBODY, ANYBODY. Copyright © 2021 by Kelly McClorey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Ecco® and HarperCollins® are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers.

  FIRST EDITION

  Cover design by Allison Saltzman

  Cover art: Wilhelm August Lebrecht Amberg, Das Naschkaetzchen, 1862 (photograph © Album/Alamy Stock Photo)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McClorey, Kelly, author.

  Title: Nobody, somebody, anybody : a novel / Kelly McClorey.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Ecco, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021002239 (print) | LCCN 2021002240 (ebook) | ISBN 9780063002654 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780063002678 (ebook)