Two nights ago, Ryan had picked up Dari’s journal to read its contents. Dari always left it open, not caring who read it. The average person might jot down some notes about a dream and then proceed with her day, but for Dari that was only the jumping-off point. She would write notes and then create a story from the notes, philosophizing throughout the day about the dream. Ryan began to read the new entry: “the moving statue in bed . . . on a bunk bed . . . white marble . . . muscle . . . ropy hair . . . Greek . . . face moving with anger.” Below these notes was written, “I have a metal spear and it appears for a moment that I am triumphant as I smash it into him chipping off part of his marble. Some light blood comes out. I sleep with my spear by me on the wall. He sleeps outside but keeps hovering up to the window. He is strangely able to float. He was a lover of mine? Dad walks up, proud and slow. Dad shoots big slow glass bullets at the light. He is unaware of the danger of him (statue companion). Cannot communicate with Dad.”
Ryan set down the journal. Tingling warmth was creeping through her, pausing in between her legs and gathering force there. These days, she couldn’t look at Dari in the same way as she had before. Dari was always surprising her with her unique ways, waking up to scribble down dreams, shifting Ryan’s bad moods with her energetic work, her small hands working along Ryan’s spine. When Ryan stayed over, she watched as Dari slept and to Ryan she resembled a little rabbit, her lips sometimes mumbling nonsense. She was tiny and warm, and she held on to her pillow with a silly ferocity during the night.
That night Ryan was careful not to touch her, but she found it difficult to sleep. She felt slightly delirious, lying inches away from this breathing body, wrapped up in the same comforter, looking at her face in the semi-darkness. She held back from Dari because she seemed asexual. Ryan had never heard mention of a boyfriend, and Dari never spoke of sex or romance, except for slight mentions of them in her dreams. Ryan was partially ashamed of the lust that grew inside her. She felt so exaggerated next to Dari. Full lips, big breasts, hips, hair, everything seemed so huge next to Dari’s slight frame and androgynous look. And now with these raging feelings and lustful thoughts she felt even more estranged from her slender friend.
* * *
One evening, Ryan sat on a barstool in the Winstons’ kitchen, talking to Dari’s mother, Lydia, and drinking a cup of tea. Dari was out picking up her brothers from school, and Ryan was happily waiting for her. Her body felt limber from the yoga they had done together earlier that day, and it was a Friday, so they had the whole night free and could do whatever they wanted. She had the blissful security of knowing that time was no factor; she could sleep over and need not return home anytime soon.
Ryan felt a moment of guilt when she thought of her brother stuck in the house without her. She had been away as much as possible recently, and the last time she had returned home, she’d seen how lonely her brother had become. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, coloring books spread out before him, his face huddled over the paper in intense concentration. He’d exhaled forcefully as he bore down onto the crayon with his little hand. When he’d seen Ryan come through the door, the level of excitement on his face was evidence of the emptiness of his hours.
“Hey there, Max!” Ryan had scooped her arms around his neck. He’d closed his eyes, relieved at her touch. He had turned around in his chair and clung to her in a way that made her uncomfortable; he was desperate to be in her arms.
“Okay, okay,” she had said as she lifted him up, trying to ignore the fervor of his grip. They went out into the yard, and watched her mother and John Randolph deciding on the placement of a walkway of stones through the garden. It was dusk, and her mother had obviously been out in the garden for some time. Ryan saw that her mother had been weeding and planting in one of the flower beds in the yard because her gloves and gardening tools were still lying in the grass by the newly manicured plot of dirt.
Her mother’s hair was pulled up from her neck, and her face was flushed from the day’s exposure to the sun. She and John were chatting and occasionally laughing as they mapped and remapped the placement of the stones. She thought how nice it was to see her mother fully occupied by something. And how nice not to have her father around, glowering in the corner. She felt she should get a move on to prevent being there for his return from work.
Ryan went up into her room, allowing Max to follow her around. She even let him sit on the bath mat and color while she took a shower because she felt such guilt at being home so infrequently. She remembered the sight of him as she left. He stood there in the kitchen with a quizzical look on his face, watching her go.
She thought of all this as she sat on the stool waiting for Dari.
“What are you thinking about, dear?” Lydia asked her.
“My little brother. I hate leaving him over there. Something seems pathetic about it.”
She described to Lydia the way her father completely ignored her brother, the way Max was his mother’s creature and would cling to her when he wasn’t staring around numbly. She described how painful it was to hear him try to breathe and to witness his constant state of vulnerability. He could never feel confident because he was never comfortable and was forever at the mercy of others’ aid or pity. She expected some reaction of astonishment from Lydia after hearing this sad story.
“Who really knows what he’s feeling? He’s a little boy,” she replied. The response struck Ryan as peculiar, especially since she sighed after she said it and looked away. She guessed she had hit some nerve in the woman. She quickly scanned everything she had said in the hopes of finding the error in communication.
“Am I bothering you? Did I say something wrong?” Ryan asked, and the question seemed to hang there awkwardly.
“What do you mean by bother? I just hate pity. It is so ugly to pity another person.”
“Well, I don’t think you can really understand,” Ryan replied, trying to control her shaking voice. “But I can see what a hard time he’ll have throughout his whole life, how much social torture. It’s easy for you to be abstract because you’ve never met him. Your family is as close to perfect as is humanly possible.”
Lydia laughed. “My dear, you think we’re perfect? You have no idea the things Mr. Winston and I have been through—the betrayals, the heartache, and how my children have suffered.”
The conversation was quickly taking a dive into the strange. Ryan fumbled to recover it.
“I’m sorry I offended you. I had no idea stuff went wrong for you.”
“It’s okay, honey, don’t worry so much,” Lydia reached out and stroked the side of Ryan’s face. “Such a pretty face, and always so stern and preoccupied. You could never offend me if you tried. For all we know, Max could be just fine. He could turn out very well. You never know which child is going to head off into the land of broken dreams and which one is going to rocket off into the best expression of him or herself. You just never know. If someone were to look at you, they’d think your life was perfect, right? You have it all—brains, beauty, et cetera. But look how much you suffer, look how much you worry about everything and struggle just to feel good. Don’t pity your brother—he may end up just fine. Look at our daughter Kumiko—rescued from a slum in Japan, abused, neglected. It would seem her life would follow suit into disorder, but, no, she is our shining star. She could be preoccupied with the fact that she is the only one who isn’t of us, but she isn’t. She is the most integrated and healthy one of us all. Oh, I’m so excited. She should be home any minute.”
The Winstons had an adopted Japanese daughter, Kumiko, whom they adored. Ryan had met her when she had returned from music camp. She was eight years old and very small for her age. Ryan recalled how Kumiko had walked into the house and been embraced by everyone. She’d kept her eye on Ryan the whole time, suspicious of who was in her house. It was clear that she felt it was, indeed, her house, and the way she was treated did much to affirm her theory
.
Everyone was chattering around her. Even Mr. Winston was home for the occasion, no doubt to see her. She smiled up at them and then glanced shyly at Ryan.
“How was it, Kumiko? Did you make friends?”
“I made a few. Bill was with me, so I didn’t need to make that many.”
“Who’s Bill?” Ryan asked.
Kumiko turned and looked squarely at Ryan. The rest of the family looked over as well.
“That’s Ryan, Kumiko. Dari’s friend.”
“Hi there,” Ryan said and waved.
“Bill is my soul mate,” Kumiko answered and walked into the other room.
Dari whispered in Ryan’s ear, “Don’t ask questions about it—she’s really touchy about Bill.”
“Is he an imaginary friend?”
“No, not really. Bill was her husband in her last lifetime. He hasn’t been born yet in this lifetime.”
* * *
Although she spent most of her time at the Winstons’ now, Ryan was careful not to overstay her welcome. She would leave occasionally and return to Jill’s instead of to her own house. Jill and Ryan commented little on the fact that Ryan came by so infrequently now and instead tried to revert back to their old ways. But something had changed, marring their easygoing exchange.
They watched movies together more and more to ease the tension and to avoid speaking to each other directly. Ryan lay on the couch, while Jill was spread out on the carpet with a pillow behind her neck. They were watching Should I Dance?
“You’re prettier than that girl. You could be a movie star, you know?” Jill had taken to flattering Ryan more and more, which Ryan enjoyed, yet after every instance of praise, she liked Jill less than she had before.
“Not really. That’s a little bit of an exaggeration. But thanks anyway.”
“No really. You have better bone structure than all these girls in this film.”
“Thank you, Jill.”
“Do you want to go hiking with me next weekend? I’ve been dying to check out this new trail.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
* * *
Sometimes Carol joined them, and that made everything somehow less awkward. Carol could sense that they had lost their intimacy and felt less threatened by them. The best night they had had in years came one evening when they were cooking a Mexican feast of fajitas and tacos with Max there, mashing up the guacamole with Carol as she sat on a stool by the counter. They had been playing Spanish music and all were laughing and peaceful. Ryan had felt a camaraderie with Carol, and the two had even joked in their old way. After eating the feast in the living room, they began watching Signor, Don’t Shoot.
They all cleaned up together after the movie and then ate their dessert of cupcakes. Then Ryan drove Max home, took him inside, turned around, and drove back to Jill’s house.
Jill was up in her “study” but came back downstairs as soon as she heard the car door slam.
“Carol went to bed,” she said, staring intently at Ryan.
“Let’s make drinks,” Ryan said and breezed into the kitchen. Jill followed her and watched as she poured the two glasses of vodka and cranberry juice. Jill said nothing and stood near her, pretending to look through a catalog. Ryan despised Jill for her lack of spine, her lack of boundaries. She was seized with the sudden urge to do whatever she wanted.
“Let’s go into the living room,” she said and went into the living room before Jill answered. Jill followed her and sat down across from her on the floor.
“Why do you just keep staring at me?” Ryan asked as they sat in silence taking guzzles from their drinks.
“I don’t know, Ryan.”
“I’m getting another—you want?”
“No, not really.”
“I insist.”
“Fine, if you insist.”
“You have to learn how to stand up to people, Jill,” she said when she returned, handing her the full glass of dazzling bright pink liquid. She tried to say it lovingly, putting a hand on Jill’s arm. “Otherwise people will walk all over you.”
“You mean I should stand up to you?”
“Me, everyone. I mean, I’m sitting here drinking in your house and I’m a teenager. You should lay down the law.”
“I know I seem like a doormat, but you’re a hard person to say no to.”
“I know, I know.” Like wildfire, thoughts were catching in her brain one by one: Jill was helpless around her. Jill was weak. Jill was hers to do with what she wanted.
“Let’s put in another film,” Ryan said. “Your choice. Whatever you want, Jill.” She crawled over to the box of films under the TV and read out names.
“These all suck, never mind.” Ryan made herself another drink and lay down on the rug beside Jill.
“Do you like girls, Jill?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I get the sense that you like me?”
“You’re beautiful, irresistible, and if I were a guy and not an old lady, I’d like you,” Jill responded.
Ryan found her way back up and sat facing Jill with her knees folded under her. She put her hand on the side of Jill’s face and pulled it closer to her own. Jill was breathing quickly and had a drugged look in her eyes. Ryan could have kissed her if she wanted to.
“Yep, it’s what I thought,” she said and let go of Jill’s head.
* * *
Ryan woke up on the couch in Jill’s living room and remembered vaguely the events from the night before. Shame seized her, and she felt as if she might throw up. She got up, her head still buzzing slightly from the alcohol, picked up her stuff, and left. It was just after six in the morning. She felt entirely out of control. Had she kissed Jill? She couldn’t remember for the life of her. She only knew that she had gotten drunk and she remembered Jill’s face looming before her intently, studying her. If she had indeed kissed that woman, it would be the worst thing she had done in her life so far.
When she went upstairs, at first no sounds were heard and she felt she could make a clean getaway. But then Jill rounded a corner and stood before her.
“I’m so sorry, Ryan,” she said and reached out a hand. “I shouldn’t have let you have all those drinks.”
“Why are you sorry? We didn’t do anything. Did we?”
“Well, I kissed you for a minute, I think. It’s a little foggy. I think that’s all. I think you got upset and went downstairs,” Jill said.
“Oh, you do, do you? You think that’s what happened, but you don’t know. Well, thank you for explaining that.” Ryan tore past Jill and out into the yard. Her first kiss was with Jill? Jill followed her out, striding across the grass. Ryan stopped walking and turned.
“I think I’m done, Jill. I think I’m done with all this. With you.”
Jill stood as if bracing herself and then cleared her throat.
“But thank you for the class.”
“What do you mean, thank you for the class?” Jill responded.
“Just thanks. I met someone great there. Someone young and fresh. Good-bye, Jill.” Ryan got into her car and backed out, the image of Jill standing in her cargo pants, tank top, and long gray braid looming the entire time she reversed down the driveway. She wanted that image to break.
* * *
Ryan walked into the house and literally almost ran into her father, who was already up drinking his coffee by the kitchen door. It had been so long since it was just the two of them alone in a room together. She had avoided this moment for weeks. Why hadn’t she just come home in the evening when he was in his study? She could have slipped upstairs without his knowing she had come in.
He looked at her with the strangest of expressions and said, “I can smell alcohol on you.” His eyes widened, and he had the most intense look of shock on his face. In a soft, slow voice he said, “You smell like a
brewery.” They stood there staring at each other for what felt like a full minute. Ryan couldn’t move; she was planted there, unable to say or do anything. After the horrible evening with Jill, Ryan knew she was just not up to speaking with her father.
He stared at her, inhaled, and began to speak. “You’ve just had sex, haven’t you? You have got to stop acting out and slinking around or your life is really going to go in a terrible direction. Who is this boy? Is he your age?”
Ryan’s right arm shot back, and then, without premeditation, she slapped his face.
“You’re the one who’s always drinking,” she said through teeth mashed together into a grimace. “I bet you don’t even remember biting me when you were drunk! Don’t you dare lecture me on how to live life.”
She did not know why, but she felt it was his fault for what she had done the night before with Jill. His brooding presence had caused her to flee their house and kiss an old woman. They both stood there, stunned, as he raised a shaking hand to touch the side of his face. Her senses returned, and she forcefully pushed past Michael, ran up the stairs to her room, and slammed the door. He was saying something in the hallway, but she could not hear it. He seemed to be mumbling it or speaking in a low and stern voice. She locked the door, but she stood and watched it just to make sure it stayed shut. She sat still, breathing hard and looking at the door, for more than fifteen minutes. Eventually, she saw his car leave but she still waited for ten minutes before leaving her room to go into the bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door, took off her clothes with trembling hands, and sat under the hot water in the shower, tears streaming from her closed eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There loomed the impression—the glass on Michael’s office building was sea foam green that reflected the sunlight in one brilliant facade. The silver letters that spelled “Phairton” gleamed and stretched across that green glass. Michael remembered his first few years there, when he had been the one to recruit the talented William Young to work for them and his ideas about computer programming had revolutionized the industry, allowing Phairton to become a major company in a matter of six months. What a thrill that year had been. At Phairton no one had cared about Michael’s tense demeanor; they were too busy admiring his innovative achievements.
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