Michael’s e-mail address.
Back when we lived in San Diego, we’d sometimes IM each other, making dinner plans or arranging when he’d pick me up from a friend’s house. Before I can stop myself, I click on his address and start writing.
To: michael_blaustein
From: VVV927
Date: Thursday, July 14 10:51 P.M.
Subject: hello from chicago
Michael —
Hey, it’s V. Remember me? I was thinking about you recently and just wanted to see how it’s going. How’s Mama? Do you still take her to that beach? I miss doing that.
Well, I don’t know what else to say. I was living with my grandparents since I left San Diego, but now I’m driving to Texas to see my mom. But you probably don’t want to hear about that, so I won’t get into it or anything.
I hope your life is going well. Oh, I’m going to Boston University in the fall. I’m hoping to do a lot of theater stuff. Maybe someday I’ll be on one of your TV shows???
Anyway, I hope it isn’t too weird that I’m writing to you.
Take care,
V
As soon as I’m done, I hit SEND and stare at the screen for a while. I thought I’d feel all panicky and wish I could reach into cyberspace and yank the e-mail back. But the strange thing is that now that I’ve written to Michael, I’m wondering why on earth I waited so long.
It’s three hundred miles from Chicago to St. Louis, and I’m determined not to get lost. Before I leave Mara’s, I study my atlas and mark the route down I-55 with a yellow highlighter. I even write the directions on a Post-it to stick onto my dashboard in case the traffic is too crazy for me to be able to look at the map.
Mara fills a bottle of water for me, chills two cans of Coke, and lets me take the Pizza Hut leftovers. As she’s packing my snacks, I go online and make a reservation at a hotel on the outskirts of St. Louis. It’s cheap, right off the highway, and none of the customer reviews say anything about mice or midnight howling.
Once I’m in my car, I plug my iPod into the stereo, sip the first Coke, and sing along with the music when I know the words. As I leave Chicago, it’s all factories and sprawling industrial warehouses. But after an hour or so, I’m surrounded by nothing but cornfields, soybean fields, and the wide blue sky. And it’s so flat I can actually see entire trains off in the distance, chugging their cargo through the countryside. Also, I keep spotting these weathered old farmhouses and I imagine how they’ve probably looked exactly the same for the past century, generations of children waking up in those same bedrooms, pressing their faces against those same windows, and staring out at those same fields.
I used to get that feeling in Brockport, when I was wandering along the Erie Canal or crossing the lift bridge or passing that stone house that has a post out front where people used to tie horses. Sam pointed it out to me as we were walking to Luca’s one evening. The funny thing is I’d driven down that street a million times and had never noticed the post before.
I’m reading a billboard for the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library when my phone rings. It’s in the middle of the passenger seat, so I reach for it, but then change my mind and leave it sitting there untouched. I’m in a good groove right now, and I don’t feel like having anything change that.
I drink the second Coke from Mara. I adjust the rearview mirror. I’m polishing off the cold pizza when Sam’s song comes on. I consider skipping over it, but I brace myself and listen anyway.
I’ve definitely been thinking a lot about Sam today. Partially, it’s the stuff Mara and I were talking about. But also, every time I see a sign counting down the mileage to St. Louis, it reminds me of this joke we used to have. It started at the cast party for Chicago, when the director had us reach into a hat filled with DVDs of old-time musicals. I pulled out this one from the 1940s called Meet Me in St. Louis. The next night Sam and I curled up on my couch and watched the movie together. Actually, we didn’t catch the second half because as soon as my grandparents went to bed, we started kissing and the next thing we knew the credits were rolling. From then on whenever Sam and I made a plan to meet at my locker or his house or wherever, we’d say, Or maybe we should meet in St. Louis? If anyone else was listening, they’d give us a strange look, but we’d just crack up.
As I’m crossing the Mississippi River, I spot that enormous silvery arch that marks my arrival in St. Louis. According to Let’s Go USA, this is the famous Gateway to the West. I grab my phone and snap a photo.
I’m a few miles from my hotel when I notice a Whole Foods off the next exit. I hit my blinker and cross two lanes. Aimee had a boyfriend in Oregon who was obsessed with Whole Foods. He called it Whole Paycheck because everything costs so much, but it’s so delicious. His name was Elias and he was a wanker, but even I had to admit their food rocked. It’s healthy and organic, but not in the bulgur and barley kind of way.
I find a parking spot and slip my feet into my flip-flops. As soon as I’m inside, I grab a basket and head to prepared foods, where I load up on seared veggie dumplings, Thai chicken satay, shrimp quesadillas, and a container of pasta salad. After that I hit produce and toss in a box of raspberries and a bag of fresh cherries.
I know this is going to be insanely expensive, but I’ve already decided to use the money Linda gave me on my last night at Pizza Hut. She said it was to treat myself to something special. I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but after a thousand miles of Pringles and pretzels and Pop-Tarts, I’m actually craving something real. Also, I’m going to dig out that cooler from my grandparents and fill it with ice at the hotel. That way I can stretch these groceries through dinner tonight and a few meals tomorrow.
I’m on my way to the registers when I smell the bakery. I wander past the multigrain rolls and picholine olive focaccias, remembering all the breads Sam used to bake. Sourdough was his favorite. Before I can stop myself, I grab a sourdough baguette and head to the checkout line.
The dumplings rock. The chicken rocks. The quesadillas rock. The pasta salad rocks. The sourdough baguette rocks.
I’m sitting at the small table in my hotel room, sampling bites of everything. The outside of this place is shabby, but the room is actually okay. If you have a thing for cupids, of course. It’s a regular room with a bed and a dresser and a TV cabinet, but there are naked, arrow-wielding boys adorning the wallpaper, a stuffed cupid doll reclining on the pillow, and five or six cupid candles on the bedside table.
It definitely seems strange that a hotel would encourage candle usage, but as I was checking in, the woman at the desk handed me a key on an angel-winged chain and a pack of matches.
“Matches?” I asked.
“Light a candle,” she said breathily. “Light many candles.”
I stared at her, wondering whether this was an insurance scam, enticing guests to burn down the building so she could collect the cash. But she just smiled, gestured toward my room, and said, “This is your night, dear.”
After I’m done eating, I pile all the containers into the cooler, on top of a mound of ice. Then I flop onto the bed, shove the cupid doll off to one side, and reach for my phone. I should probably try my grandparents. They were the ones who called while I was driving today. Then again, I’m still not in the mood to deal with them. I click on the photo of the Gateway Arch and write them a text message about how I’m in St. Louis and will call tomorrow.
I text Linda and thank her again for the money and let her know the trip is going well so far. I hesitate for a second, wondering whether she’s found out that I hooked up with Nate. He didn’t seem like the kiss-and-tell type. At least I hope not.
I’m about to close my phone, but then I open the photo of the arch again and enter Sam’s number. I consider writing: Meet me in St. Louis. But then I think about how by tomorrow I’ll be in rural Missouri and the next day I’ll be in Oklahoma and the next day I’ll be cruising through Texas, so I quickly type: Meet me in the middle of nowhere. That seems more appropriate given this
drive and the basic state of how Sam and I left things.
I stare at the message for a long time, thinking, Should I or shouldn’t I? What if he writes me back? What would I say? Or what if he doesn’t? Either way, I’m not ready to handle it.
I delete the message to Sam, plug my phone into the charger, and head into the shower. I shampoo my hair and massage in extra conditioner. I shave my legs. I dry off with a towel and put on my new tank top from Chicago. I brush my teeth, tweeze some stray hairs from my eyebrows, and rub moisturizer onto my shins. I pull back the comforter on the bed and reach for the remote. But then I set it down again and grab the matches instead. I light two candles, slide between the starched sheets, and stare up at the shadows flickering on the ceiling.
I slip my hand past my stomach and start rubbing between my legs. As I’m touching myself, I think about how I’m doing this for me. Not to impress some guy or turn him on with my footloose and free-loving ways. And that, more than anything, feels really, really good.
I haven’t seen the Tanners since I was eight, but the instant I step onto their front lawn, they feel like family. Melissa and Drew were Aimee’s friends in Seattle. We all lived in the same building. Melissa was in med school and Drew was getting his Ph.D., so they were as broke as we were. On warm evenings we’d sit on the roof and eat Oreos and complain about their professors and my third-grade teacher and Aimee’s boss.
Ever since we left Seattle, Aimee and Melissa exchanged occasional e-mails and vowed to visit, but so far it has never happened. At some point we learned that Melissa became a neurologist, Drew got a job at a college in the Midwest, and they had a daughter named Bella Rose.
It took me four hours to get from St. Louis to their tiny town outside of Springfield, Missouri. They meet me in the driveway and take turns hugging me and commenting on how beautiful I look, so tall, such long hair. I hug them back and, I have to admit, I’m soaking up the praise.
Drew grabs my suitcase and Melissa takes my hand and we head into the house. Melissa and Drew load the kitchen table with breads, salads, deviled eggs, and leftover barbecue chicken. As we’re talking, Bella hovers near the sliding-glass door, stroking a sandy mutt and eyeing me curiously.
“Please make yourself at home,” Melissa says.
“We mean that,” Drew says, pointing out where I can find plates, forks, and glasses.
I pour myself some iced tea and stir in a spoonful of sugar. It’s funny to see Melissa and Drew looking like grown-ups. They’re probably the same age as Aimee, so when we lived in Seattle, they must have been in their midtwenties. Melissa had long brown hair and Drew had wild curls. Now her hair is layered and his is sheared close and graying around the temples.
Bella, who is almost six, has a tangled ponytail, a freckled nose, and cut-off shorts. As we’re eating lunch, she’s still shy, but by the time I return from my car with the bag of cherries, I’ve learned that she loves the Judy Moody books, hates her middle name, and loves horses.
As I’m dumping the cherries into a bowl, Melissa says, “So how long are you staying?”
I shrug. “Probably just overnight. After this, I’m driving to Oklahoma City.”
“I don’t know if this would work, then.” Melissa glances at Drew. “But we may as well run it by you.”
I listen as Melissa explains how their regular sitter just flew to Mexico because her sister had a baby. Drew is in charge of a writing program at the college, so he can’t take the week off. Melissa was going to bring Bella to her office, but then I e-mailed and said I was coming and, well, they hatched a new idea.
“Feel free to say no,” Drew says, “but would you like to hang out with Bella this week? Christina promised she’ll be back by next Monday.”
“We’d pay you, of course,” Melissa adds.
“You wouldn’t have to pay me.”
“We’d insist,” Melissa says. “We don’t have a guest room, but you can sleep on the sofa bed. And Drew has a flexible schedule in the afternoons, so you guys can go swimming at the lake. Or you can even do your own thing then.”
I glance around the kitchen. The fridge is wallpapered with Bella’s crayon renderings of horses. On the way in, I noticed the living room was filled with photos and shelves of books. Through the rear window, I can see pastures and hills and that endless blue sky.
“I should call Aimee first,” I say, “in case she has anything planned.”
“Of course,” Melissa says.
“You don’t have to rush the decision,” Drew adds.
I eat a cherry, set the pit on my plate, and take a sip of iced tea.
“I’m so glad we get to see you,” Melissa says, “however long you can stay.”
I help clear the table, but they insist on doing the dishes. As Melissa washes and Drew dries, I dig my phone out of my bag.
“Why don’t you use our room?” Drew says.
Melissa gestures down the hall. “Feel free to close the door, make yourself comfortable.”
I head into their bedroom, kick off my flip-flops, and sit cross-legged on the faded patchwork quilt. I scroll through for Aimee’s number and then hit TALK.
One ring, two rings, three rings, four rings, five rings . . .
Damn.
I hate that I always have to wonder with Aimee.
“V!” she shouts after the sixth ring. “I had my phone on vibrate and then I couldn’t find it. So where are you?”
“I’m at the Tanners’. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, my God,” Aimee says. “How are they? Has it really been ten years? How do they look?”
I describe their house and Bella and their backyard and how Melissa and Drew pretty much seem like real adults.
“Huh,” Aimee murmurs.
After a moment I say, “I have a quick question.”
“Sure . . . what’s up?”
I explain how Melissa and Drew asked if I could babysit Bella this week, which means I wouldn’t arrive in San Antonio until next Monday or so.
“I really want to see you,” I add, “but it might be nice to get some time here. They live way out in the country. It seems really peaceful.”
“Of course that’s fine. I know how much you used to love them in Seattle.”
“So you’re not mad?”
“We’ve waited this long,” Aimee says. “We can wait another week.”
I know it’s the answer I wanted, but when Aimee says that, I get this flash of anger and I want to say, YOU weren’t the one waiting. You were the one not showing up.
“There’s something I need to run by you, too,” Aimee says.
“Yeah?” I ask hesitantly.
“Remember how Steve had that kidney stone last month?”
It’s obviously a rhetorical question, but I’m tempted to say, How could I forget? It’s the reason you missed graduation. But it’s been so long and Aimee and I are almost together again, so I don’t want to screw anything up at this point.
“Well, ever since then . . .” Aimee pauses. “Ever since then, I guess you could say things have been a little tense.”
When I don’t say anything, Aimee continues. “It’s like it was this big life-changing experience for him, and he suddenly wants to talk about the future and . . . you know me.” Aimee laughs. “I’m a live-for-the-moment kind of —”
“I can still come stay with you, right?”
“Of course! I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Oh,” I say.
As Aimee describes how we’re going to visit the River Walk and the Alamo and maybe even SeaWorld, I pick at my toenail polish. Finally, she tells me to keep her posted about my driving schedule, and then we say good-bye.
After we hang up, I stare at the framed wedding picture of Melissa and Drew on the bedside table. They’re on some beach and they’re all decked out except for their bare feet. They have their arms wrapped around each other and they’re kissing and the sun is setting and everything looks so romantic and the best thing is that
you know it’s not bullshit and they didn’t get divorced seven minutes after the photo was developed.
Every morning after Melissa and Drew leave for work, Bella and I walk down this long, dusty road to visit a horse named Crispo. We bring quartered apples and slices of carrots. As Bella braids his mane, I lean against the fence, close my eyes, and aim my face toward the sun.
By noon it’s hot and muggy, so Bella and I pour glasses of lemonade and dodge into the shade on the back porch. I read Judy Moody Predicts the Future to Bella and we play hangman and she teaches me the latest “Miss Susie” clapping choreography.
Most afternoons Drew and Bella go to this nearby lake. One day I join them and Drew gets us ice-cream cones and we rent a canoe and paddle far out into the water. But usually I take a shower and then read or doze off on the back porch for a few hours.
In the evenings Drew barbecues on the grill while Melissa returns calls to her patients. Bella brushes the dog and attempts to tie ribbons around his ears. On Monday I help Drew shuck corn and poke veggies onto shish-kebab sticks. On Tuesday I devour a compilation of mystery stories I found on their shelf. On Wednesday I’m lounging on the steps, painting my toenails a sherbet shade of orange, when Bella comes barreling around the side yard, shouting, “V! V! There’s someone here to see you!”
For some crazy reason, I think it’s Sam and my heart starts pounding, even though that’s completely irrational because I never sent him that text message, and even if I did, it’s not like he could locate me in the middle of nowhere. Though I guess if he called my grandparents and they gave him Aimee’s number and Aimee passed on the Tanners’ address and —
“It’s the mailman,” Bella says, “but he’s wearing a different color outfit.”
I rise from my chair and follow Bella to the driveway.
Guyaholic Page 10