Stay Where I Can See You

by Katrina Onstad

  4

  MADDIE

  On Friday night, Gwen sat at the new dining room table, pulling felt. Maddie watched her from the doorway. The table had arrived yesterday. Her mother had showed her how the centre popped out, repeating what some sales guy had said, “Butterfly leaf. Internal cable and ball bearings for a smooth transformation. Solid walnut. Designed by a Danish firm called Fordin, which is a combination of ‘Odin’ and ‘forward.’ Handcrafted in the UK.” Maddie couldn’t tell if Gwen was joking or not.

  “Come sit with me,” said Gwen. “This poor owl needs wings.”

  Maddie checked her phone: she had time. As a little kid, she had loved the cupboard in the living room with its clear plastic bins of buttons and string, loose balls of wool unravelling. She had spent hours digging around in that cupboard.

  But when she got to high school, Maddie learned that despite her mother making a gallery of her stick people and sunsets, she wasn’t artistic. She basically sucked. Back home, her friend May had a sketchbook, and she would sit in the lunchroom, tossing off portraits of her friends, one after the other, that were beautiful and true, saying, “Oh God, it’s nothing.” Maddie knew that her own pictures were stiff, with wonky perspective. Heads too small always. A lack of necks. She had no feeling for it. She couldn’t solve art.

  But at home, her mom would still pull out the clay and the paint from time to time. Maddie liked that crafts made her mother happy. Maddie thought of her mom as a shaking bird in a pocket, but her nervousness stilled a little when she sat at a table, fingers working, hunched over a creation.

  So far, Gwen had made a fox, a snake and a bird, each the size of a golf ball. Maddie wondered if she had been crafting all day.

  Maddie sat beside her mother. She picked at the piece of brown felt with a needle, pulling the wings out. Doing this childish activity, she felt content, but then, next to that little-girl feeling was that other thing you get, like you’ve lost something.

  Gwen was looking at her too hard. “Oh, what am I going to do without you when you go away?” The spell was broken.

  “You’ll be fine, Mom.”

  But Maddie couldn’t picture it either—her in one place, Gwen in another. Maddie’s earliest memories were of her mother crawling into her bed, placing her hand on Maddie’s heart. Her dad would come eventually and extract Gwen. When he’d ushered her out of the room, he would return to Maddie and give her a kiss on the forehead. “Mommy’s tired,” he’d say. “Sleep now.”

  Maddie stood up and handed Gwen the tiny wings. “Yours. I need to get ready.”

  As she walked away she glanced back at her mother, bent over the table. The curve of her back reminded Maddie of Gwen leaning over Eli’s crib. “Can you believe it?” she’d say with astonishment, looking down at Eli’s chubby body, his feet in tiny socks. Maddie would come to see, too, standing on tiptoes next to her mother, who exclaimed: “Look what we have!”

  * * *

  After a long time in front of the mirror, Maddie decided to go to the party underdressed and makeup free. It was better not to try, probably. She wore jeans and a tank top. Her one concession to fashion was the chunky black sandals with the high heel, bought with money her dad left on her dresser: three hundred-dollar bills. She had never held money like that, and he had just put it there with a wink.

  Seth sat in the living room with his laptop open, frowning at the numbers spinning on-screen. He had a new company, Maddie knew. Something involving software for small businesses, totally boring. Seth looked up. “I smelled you before I saw you,” he said. She halted.

  “Too much perfume?”

  “Just right. Come here.”

  Maddie did, and leaned down to give her dad a kiss on his forehead. He gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  “Did you talk curfew with Mom?”

  “Midnight.”

  “How will you get back?”

  “Subway.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Phone charged?”

  “Yes.”

  Gwen appeared, with the owl in her hand, hovering next to Seth. She didn’t comment on the sandals, but she raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, Maddie felt the strap above her right heel rubbing into her skin, as if to articulate Gwen’s unspoken thought: the sandals were an impractical choice. She would have a blister, or worse, by morning.

  “Who is this girl again?” Gwen asked.

  “Clara.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “She’s in a lot of clubs. She dances.”

  “Keep your phone on,” said Gwen.

  “Please don’t text me.”

  “I won’t! Just keep it on.”

  “Seriously. I might not even check in. It doesn’t mean I’m dead.”

  Gwen went in for a hug, and Maddie ducked suddenly, as if she needed to adjust the buckle on her sandal. She recognized her own cruelty, but so what? You can’t just touch me whenever you need to, she wanted to say. You don’t always get to pull me in.

  Seth stood up and put his arm around Gwen, whose eyes were downcast. “She’ll be fine,” he said, and it was unclear who he was referring to.

  * * *

  They were waiting outside Clara’s house, on a grassy hill. “House” wasn’t the right word: mansion. Castle. Three cars sat in the long driveway.

  Clara’s upper body was collapsed over her long legs like a rag doll, her feet bare. Sophie sat cross-legged, clicking at her phone. They both had their hair down, and it was long and straight, like matching sheets on a clothesline. They have so much hair, thought Maddie. More hair, perhaps, than necessary.

  “You look delightful,” said Clara, drawing out the word “delightful” just enough to unnerve Maddie. “Sophie said my feet are too gross for these shoes.”

  She gestured toward a pair of high-heeled sandals, just different enough from Maddie’s that Maddie knew she had bought the wrong ones. Maddie reflexively complimented Clara’s feet. But then she looked closer, and saw that Sophie had a point. Clara’s feet were sausage raw. Bones jutted out from the side like extra toes. Each smaller toe had a rough circular callus at the knuckle.

  “Disgusting. Am I right?” said Sophie. Maddie made a non-committal sound, somewhere between supportive and a shrug.

  “Not disgusting when I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy, coming this holiday season.” Clara said it in an old-movie voice. The kids at the U used voices more often than her old friends did. They put on accents, throwing in the catchphrases and jargon of commercials and movies, always winking and nodding at texts that Maddie half recognized.

  The three girls walked along Yonge, past the flower shops and clothing stores.

  “The likelihood of this party sucking is about seventy percent,” said Sophie.

  “That seems generous,” added Clara.

  “Leo used to go to the U, but he got kicked out,” explained Sophie.

  “What did he do?”

  The girls exchanged a look. “Stole a test,” said Clara.

  “Hideous,” said Sophie, stopping in front of a window display of frilly dresses.

  “Not if you’re a prom queen,” trilled Clara.

  “Or a Disney princess,” said Maddie, surprising herself. She thought, guiltily, of her friend Emma, who had gone on a Disney cruise two years ago, when she was already too old: “It was so tacky—and so fun!” She bought Maddie a Little Mermaid keychain. Maddie had only facetimed her once since moving, and her heart ached suddenly for someone who knew her.

  “Let’s go in,” said Sophie.

  Clara was buoyant. The salesclerk, a middle-aged woman whose paperback novel sat open and facedown nearby, looked at the three girls and said, “We’re closing soon.”

  Clara pointed at watches and rings behind the glass counter, which were obediently pulled forth, laid out on a silk cloth. Sophie twirled between the low tables, fingering the envelope-thin stacks of folded sweaters and shirts.

  Clara held out her hand, which now, on her
left wedding finger, held a gold ring with a thick green stone in the centre. “What do you think, guys? Will Tony get it for me?”

  Sophie twirled over. “Oh, definitely. Let me take a picture.”

  She snapped a photo of Clara looking pouty, the ring by her face. “Tony’s in the military,” Clara explained to the clerk. “So I only see him at holidays. But he’s coming home soon, and he wrote me that we’re getting engaged. At least, I think that’s what it said. His emails arrive very redacted. He’s high up, you see.” The clerk’s lips tightened. Maddie wanted to back out of the store.

  “I don’t even really know what he does. Just that he loves me.” Clara sighed.

  “It’s eleven hundred dollars, miss,” the clerk said.

  Clara looked at the ring more closely. “A nice setting,” she said. “I’ll be sure to send him your way. Once the ship docks.”

  Maddie left last, with a quick backwards glance that she hoped would pass for an apology.

  They walked past vans, giant concrete mixers, plastic over windows—a neighbourhood under renovation, everything improvable. A man in work boots at the top of a ladder hooted as they passed. Sophie curtsied.

  “Ever heard of feminism, asshole?” yelled Clara.

  Maddie laughed, but she could not get oriented. She did not know how upset to be.

  The sun was dropping fast. Days were getting shorter, thought Maddie. She could feel the fall coming, and wished she’d brought a jacket.

  The music identified the house. A faint, pulsing drumbeat that grew louder as they approached and turned up the long path toward the front door. They stood next to tall marble pillars. A word she’d read in school popped into Maddie’s mind: “portico.”

  “Speaking of Disneyland,” said Maddie mockingly.

  “Bit much, right?” said Clara. “He’s okay, really. A little . . .” She paused. “Privileged.”

  Maddie pictured Clara’s three cars. Kids at the U were always talking about privilege, Maddie had noticed. She hadn’t heard it much before, this slippery word. Sometimes privilege seemed to be measureable by stuff, and sometimes it seemed to be an internal state, to be gauged by others. Maddie suspected it might be meaningless when tossed around by people she knew, but deathly important to people on the wrong side of it. But what were the sides, again?

  “Hey, Jared,” said Clara to a boy who appeared behind them, trailing vape.

  “Hey,” he replied.

  Maddie recognized him from the fields—a soccer player. Cute.

  “Did you bring anything to drink?” he asked. “It’d be cooler if you did.”

  They laughed, and Maddie recognized it as a line from a movie, but couldn’t identify which one.

  Sophie pushed open the heavy door without using its brass ring knocker, and went first into the crowd. It was like a concert: hot and moist, deep with people moving in all directions, calling for one another, scanning for the lost and missing.

  The girls were carried along by the crowd, past a fireplace, toward a vast kitchen. There were empty chip bowls on the island, and fast-food boxes stuffed with empty pieces of greasy wrapping. Clara found a fridge, concealed in the cabinetry.

  “Check it,” she said, opening the door to reveal row upon row of beer bottles. “Here.”

  Maddie took the beer. She hadn’t seen this label before: a cartoon fox and the word “microbrew.” She had only drunk beer featured in beer ads, and never loved it anyway, wishing always for something sweeter. But tonight she would drink fast, because she was thirsty, and it dulled the noise that knocked on both sides of her skull.

  She finished one beer in the kitchen, squished between two texting girls. She drank a second while following Sophie and Clara through the mansion. They stopped frequently and traded one-liners with boys and girls, always laughing and touching, arms slung around shoulders. Clara introduced her differently each time: “This is Maddie. She’s our genius friend from Slovenia.” “Meet Maddie. She’s actually an android.” “Andrew, this is Maddie. She came to the U when her father took a job in counter-intelligence.”

  “Everyone’s named Andrew,” said Maddie.

  Clara could drape herself anywhere. “You’re the best, most favourite Andrew,” she said, now nestled in the lap of a blushing boy.

  Sophie led Maddie through the bodies to the basement. Two girls stood behind the bar in a vaping cloud. Maddie went past them toward another fridge, knocking against the soft backside of one boy, maybe deliberately. This fridge was full of beer, too, as if the refrigerators were replenishing themselves.

  Kids were lying on the floor, lining couches and chairs in front of a large-screen TV. Maddie could barely make out an image of a man in a straitjacket, his eyelids pinned open with metal claws. Then flashes of a different man being kicked and beaten, blood streaking across his face. The boys closest to the screen leaned closer.

  “So gross!” said Sophie.

  “Shut up, Soph. The man is genius,” said a boy, not turning his head.

  “I love this movie,” said Clara, who had left behind the boy upstairs—probably stiff and pissed off, thought Maddie. “Have you read the book?” Clara dropped down on the couch, squeezing between bodies.

  Maddie shook her head, making a note to google later: “Eyeballs. Genius.”

  “You should join the film club,” Clara said.

  “Jesus, Clara, she doesn’t have to join everything.” Sophie sat on a couch next to a girl with a longboard under one foot. Sophie and the girl kissed—hard, Maddie noted. The longboard moved back and forth under the girl’s foot, and Sophie ran her hand through the girl’s hair. When the kiss was over, Sophie rested her head on the girl’s shoulder and turned her attention back to the movie.

  The man on the screen was now wailing and begging to be released, and Maddie needed air. She split off from the girls. In a corridor, she tripped on a litter box that had been shoved there, maybe on purpose. Cat litter sprayed into the hall, and a single, dark turd landed at her feet. Maddie looked around to see if anyone had seen. Then she headed upstairs and through French doors into a backyard.

  At the edge of the pool, Maddie imagined diving into the water—down, down, down to the wobbly bottom. A circle of kids sat cross-legged on a patch of lawn nearby. Maddie went closer, to see what they were looking at so intently. She tripped over a wicker chair as she approached; her footing was off. Her heel throbbed from the sandal. She was drunk, she thought, and caught a whiff of floral. There it was, something beautiful on a vine, tendrils climbing and choking a trellis, pink poking through the dark.

  “We’re playing spin the bottle,” said one of the boys. “Wanna play?”

  “Mmmmm,” said Maddie, falling to her knees.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Fuzzily, Maddie recognized some of their faces from school.

  “I’ll just watch,” she murmured. She put her beer down, and then observed without moving as it tipped over and the liquid poured out into the grass.

  One boy was obsessed with rules. The kisses were accompanied by shrieks and handclaps, but were also brief and chaste. A boy kissed a boy. More shrieks. A girl kissed a girl. Things she’d done with dolls. There was nothing to be turned on about.

  Maddie lay back on the grass and looked up at the stars, trying to find that pink smell.

  When she looked around again, the group of kids was gone. The music had stopped.

  She stood uncertainly and made her way into the house.

  Maddie felt wrapped in black, her eyes dry, the room pulsing. She needed to find Clara and Sophie. She needed to get home. But where was the front door? She stumbled into one of the fireplace rooms. A girl played guitar. She had a craggy singing voice, buried beneath the mumbles of the crowd.

  “You okay?” asked a boy, and Maddie nodded.

  She kept walking through the house, looking for her friends, and then reversed and reconsidered the word: Were they friends? she wondered. Up the staircase, over the bottles (at a knocked-over beer bottle on
a Persian rug, Maddie thought: That will stain, and then sighed with recognition because she was, for a moment, just like her mother), Maddie felt her stomach fold in on itself, but held her sickness in. A closed door might reveal a bathroom, she thought, turning the knob.

  By opening the door, she let in a beam of light from the hallway, illuminating shapes in space: an animal perched on a bed, and behind, the chalk outline of a person. Then the outline moved—repetitive, slamming. Now Maddie saw that it wasn’t an animal. It was a girl, because she collapsed from her knees onto her stomach, as if the air had been let out of her. Is this sex? thought Maddie, who had never seen sex before, not live, just sometimes online, where the hairless women made fake noises and the men looked angry.

  This, though, real life—this was truly shocking. The flattened girl’s neck bucked, and her long hair flew from her eyes, which were bleached in the shadows. Maddie thought: Not sex. Not good. Maddie froze, letting the scene slide, waiting for the pieces to land and take a shape, something recognizable, with meaning—but then she stepped back. She removed herself from the picture and pulled the door shut, her heart racing.

  Immediately, she felt a hand behind her and thought: Oh God no—don’t push me in there. She turned quickly, panicked, and the hand dropped from her back. Joshua, in the dim hallway. They were alone.

  “I know you,” he said.

  “What is it?” she asked, frantic.

  “What’s what?”

  But he couldn’t explain what was going on in there either, she realized. Even if he had seen it, too, he couldn’t explain it. The only one who knew what happened was that girl, that unrecognizable girl.

  “I have to get home.”

  “Are you okay?” he said. Maddie had to shove him slightly to get by. He was light, wiry, and she felt that she could lift him up and place him anywhere, like an empty suitcase.

  There, at the bottom of the stairs, was the door to the outside. In the living room, she could hear the girl with the guitar still singing quietly, a song Maddie didn’t recognize. She was so tired of knowing nothing, of all the scattered dots that she couldn’t join. She pushed open the door, running sideways onto the walkway, the strap of her sandal cutting into her tendon like a dull butter knife.