by Ari Rhoge
I sighed. “Just… take care of yourself. Please?”
“Yeah, right. You like these opportunities — look how effectively I changed the topic without even planning to.” When I shoved at him, he started laughing. “Fine, fine, kidding. Well, seriously though. Should I expect more moping at New Year's too?”
“No,” I said, crisply. “It's over with, Dad. Practically forgotten about.”
“Okay, then,” Dad smiled. He looked at the TV screen, then, and turned back to me, a slow smile creeping across his face. “Hey, Lizzy?”
“What?” I snapped.
“Merry Christmas.”
I whipped my head toward the TV, at the corner where the time was displayed, absolutely shocked. Dad grinned.
• • •
Two days after Christmas, I roamed around town with Jane, revisiting the borough and our cozy, remote little plazas that were always family hotspots during the holidays. We drove to Hawker's Village, where they sold hot pretzels and coffee outside shops in the daytime, parents squawking about with their strollers and the toddlers who had burst free from them.
We were due back at school on the 15th, jump-starting the second semester. I was nowhere near ready, perfectly contented to stay at home, for once in my life. Jane grumbled the exact same sentiment, taking a sip of her coffee as we took a seat at the bench by a frozen duck pond. We watched a young boy sprint by, his scarf whipping in the wind.
“Jesus, it's cold,” I said, shivering, rubbing my hands together. They felt raw and tingling, and I remembered Charlotte's description and consequently smiled a little. Jane took off one of her gloves and handed it to me, and I snorted. “Glove socialism? —— Thanks, sweetie.”
“Sure thing, chicken wing,” she grinned.
I laughed. “You're in a good mood.”
“I am,” Jane said, nodding, and smirking into her cup. “I really am. It smells clean and woodsy out, and the sun is shining, and we're not in class, and I'm not miserable and obsessive and regretful. I am A-Okay.”
I popped my lips.
She snorted, “what… you're not?”
“I'm fine,” I said, slowly, smiling. I narrowed my eyes at her, taking in all the bubbliness. “You didn't… meet anybody, did you?”
“Why? Does my happiness have to be based on a relationship?” Jane said, very quickly and defensively.
“Oh,” I said, nodding grimly. “Oh, right. Sorry, I mistook that singles-awareness, burst-of-feminism thing for genuine happiness. I understand. It gets me sometimes, too. Girl power… woo.”
Jane rolled her eyes, and snorted, “seriously, Lizzy. —— You're going to doubt me, but I'm over him. I'm completely over Charlie. I think taking a vacation really got me back on track again, focused on what was important. Family, friends, being happy. I'm done being hung up on things that won't change.”
I looked back out across the walkway, taking a long sip from my cup. Then I looked back at her. Man, she was just so dang pretty. What, with her blonde hair poking out adorably from under her beanie, bangs side-swept and falling into her blue eyes, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She was something out of a greeting card. Honestly, why haven't I developed an inferiority complex by now?
Jane raised an eyebrow. “You've gone mute on me.”
“I'm just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how some people are really so unbelievably stupid.”
Jane sighed, tracing the rim of her cup. “Don't even worry about it, Lizzy. I doubt we'll have anything to do with that lot again. I'm just… I'm completely done overanalyzing everything, of crying, of freaking out. I'd be perfectly fine if I never saw him, or his sisters, or his friends, ever again. Good riddance.”
I swallowed. I wanted to mention what I knew, so badly. I practically wanted to scream it. And it was so detrimental, too, that it would only lead to her heartache. But, my conscience, my damn conscience, didn't seem to understand that. So, I beat it back with a metaphoric baseball bat, and sipped coffee instead.
But something slipped out, and it was Jane's fault:
“So, tell me about Rosings —”
“Will Darcy was there.”
I clenched my eyes shut, about ready to pull my own hair out. What the hell is wrong with me?
I guess this is what happens when somebody's on your mind a lot. It tends to translate into verbal diarrhea.
Not that I wanted him to be on my mind. I couldn't really help it. But it happened a lot, especially when it was quiet. He would sneak into my head during chores, or reading, or the gaps between conversations. I had gotten into the habit of analyzing that huge parking-lot spat. Of mentally cringing over hurled insults and expressions. Of tracking conversations backward and looking for signs. It was just plain unhealthy.
Oh, right, Jane.
Jane was staring at me thoughtfully, brow creased. “Will Darcy?” she repeated. I explained quickly about his relation to Catherine de Bourgh, left out about a novel's worth of detail, and concluded that I hadn't seen him much at all. Then I looked away.
Jane was quiet. Then, slowly, she asked, “you didn't… you didn't ask about Charlie.”
“… No.”
Not a lie! Well, technically.
“And Will didn't mention anything about him…”
“No.”
Damn.
“Just curious,” Jane murmured, staring straight ahead. I looked at her, concerned, and she suddenly took my hand, pointing to the window of the closet shop. “Let's go in there. Look at that pashmina in the window. Pretty, isn't it?”
I snorted softly. She sprung up, and grinned, walking ahead. I followed numbly behind, thinking that I really had to do something about controlling what came out of my mouth (or, perhaps more importantly, what bombarded my brain). I had to clear my head. I would have to squeeze in another getaway trip soon. Weekend sabbatical. Something.
20
—
In Which Lizzy Matches Tomato Soup
Put your weight against the door
Kick drum on the basement floor
Stranded in a fog of words
Loved him like a winter bird
On my head the water pours
Gulf stream through the open door
Fly away
I Feel It All - Feist
• • •
If you ask me now, January to early March was pretty much a blur. Honestly, I can sum up what happened in a handful of sentences — it's all pretty tame.
1 — Jane and I remodeled the house. Somewhere between chipping tiles and hand-me-down sheets, we booked it for Bed, Bath & Beyond. And we painted all the walls olive-green. It made us feel accomplished;
2 — I got buried in the avalanche of schoolwork. This semester was more challenging. I had also sent some pieces to the university paper, and was now successfully writing some choice articles for the Hertfordshire Herald. The editor-in-chief was a friend of mine. It was a great, cozy environment, but late nights were inevitable;
3 — Oh, and Jane started seeing other people.
They were all practically shitty carbon copies of the Bingley prototype. Polite and smiley, only with about an eighth the personality. I didn't mention this, of course. When Jane asked about Kevin or Matt or Vince or whatshisface, she usually got the standard answer — “he seems nice.”
“He's got a great sense of humor, huh?”
“Definitely, Jane.”
He's about as amusing as oatmeal.
“And his eyes are so pretty! Almost sky-blue, right?”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Indigo.”
They're empty and cold.
“I think he liked my spaghetti.”
“Who wouldn't?”
I saw him shove some into his napkin.
Did I mention that there was a rift of dishonesty forming between me and my twin around this time? I never meant for it to happen. It sparked after Rosings, and lit up like a bonfire, devouring everything. She felt it, too. We starte
d talking less and less, mostly on the grounds that Jane felt that something was up, but she never confronted me about it. And I would never let on.
I thought we had a good deal going, too. Until one weekend early in March, exhausted from a double shift at work and a cram session, I collapsed on my bed, and she stormed in.
“Lizzy Bennet, get up.”
“Mmf?” I mumbled, against my pillow, craning my neck. She loomed over me, hands on her hips. “Oh, hey, Jane.”
“Let's get you out of the house.”
“I was just out of the house.”
“You were at work — that doesn't count.”
“It does so. I mingled.”
“Up. Get up!”
I didn't budge. She wrapped a hand around my upper arm and yanked me forward, and I yelped. “Stop that! What is your deal? God…”
“I've been talking to Charlotte,” Jane said, crisply, folding her arms. “And don't think I haven't been noticing it either. You're overworked, and quiet, and miserable.”
“I love being talked about behind my back. Did you guys compose a list?”
“Lizzy,” Jane sighed, running a hand through her blonde hair. “You're an excellent student. You're really doing an incredible job. And the paper I can appreciate. Lee tells me you're practically made for the job. But all these other groups? And the extra job you inquired about? You're going to pass out one of these days from exhaustion alone.”
“It's an internship, not an extra job,” I mumbled, sitting up. “My econ professor recommended me for it. It would look good.”
“But you don't even sleep anymore.”
“I sleep.”
I don't.
“At least let Charlotte cover one of your shifts. It's nice of you to pull double-duty after Brenda's accident, but you don't have to kill yourself.”
“I like my job.”
Jane raised her eyebrows, and I looked down.
So, the justifications were starting to sound unconvincing. I was exhausted. I almost hoped for an IV filled with coffee one of these days. I don't know when I started heaping so much stuff onto my plate, but it was comfortable, in a sense. I didn't want to think about anything — I just wanted to do.
“Drop something and have dinner with me some night,” Jane whined, sitting on the edge of my mattress. “I miss you. I don't understand why we don't talk anymore.”
“We're talking right now,” I smiled.
“Yeah, but something's different. Something's been different.”
I sighed, and turned my head, looking out my window. It was raining out.
“Anyway,” Jane slumped, back against my wall. “Trish and Benny called today. They're on the way back from Mom and Dad's, and they want to stop by, tonight. That okay with you?”
“That's fine.”
“Good.” Jane got up quickly. She was about to turn for the door, hesitated, and kissed my cheek. She tucked a strand of my hair behind an ear, and smiled. “Help me set the table?”
• • •
Benny Gardiner drummed his knuckles on the kitchen wall, inspecting the paint job. Then he checked the bathrooms. Then he checked the front yard. And after about 20 minutes he came back inside, inquiring for a cup of hot cocoa or coffee or water. Or whiskey.
Trish, his wife, narrowed her eyes at him, and tossed a bottle of Evian his way. “Now that you're convinced that the girls don't have mold or leaky tiles or a burst septic tank, would you mind sitting down before we waste a perfectly good evening?”
“Just being a thorough landlord, sweetie,” he grinned, then turning to wink at me. “You know, since I show up here only around every four months or so. I'm not that attentive, am I?”
“You trust us too much,” Jane teased. He smiled.
Benjamin Gardiner took too much after my father — which was bizarre, since he was on Mom's side. He got along wonderfully with my dad, though. They were amused by practically all the same shit. Corny jokes, side-winks, an indulgence in alcoholic beverages that burned down your throat. There wasn't much else to him. He had wide, hazel eyes, a love for flannel and traveling, and a deeply rooted respect for the woman in his life.
Well, actually, you couldn't not respect Trish Gardiner. The minute I called her Patricia, she practically bit my head off. This was five years ago. It took me three to learn to like her. She was just that combination of shrewd and calculating and eventually warm. You had to earn her trust and her love. After that, she was an absolute sweetheart.
We ordered Chinese for dinner, and I was at the counter, unsticking mountains of rice from their white, paper containers. It came out kind of like a sandcastle, and Trish snorted, flattening it with a fork.
“It smells delicious,” she said. “Delivered?”
“Naw,” I snorted. “We picked it up 15 minutes ago.”
“You finally got a car,” Benny said, commendably, feet propped up on our table. Trish glowered at him, and he cleared his throat, setting them down.
“It's temporary,” Jane grinned. “Our friend Charlotte saved enough for a MINI Cooper she wanted. Left us a crappy Ford Pinto, but we're used to it by now —— and grateful, because, well, I hate the bus.”
“I like the bus,” I shrugged. “I like the characters.”
“That's scary,” Benny snorted.
“So, where you guys been, lately?” Jane asked, setting a plate of General Tso's chicken on the table. “I didn't get any postcards or anything. Do you understand how disappointing that is?”
“Sorry,” Trish grinned. “We've actually been taking it slow in terms of trips. We did take a vacation through the Czech Republic to Austria late January. Went up from Karlovy Vary, to Prague, to Vienna. It was wonderful.”
“I wish I lived your life,” I grinned, popping a piece of rice into my mouth. “I would use up so much film.”
“We do,” said Benny, smiling.
“It's not that fun when you go back home and have to deal with the reality of a sucky housing market,” grumbled Trish, emptying a container. “Why did I go into real estate? I'll never understand it.”
“Because that boy who asked you out in sophomore year of college was majoring in it,” my uncle prompted, smugly. “And he was built… just incredibly, incredibly sexy.”
“I'm going to throw a spare rib at you,” Trish warned. “Get over yourself.”
“Are you going anywhere soon?” Jane asked. I looked up at her.
Trish shrugged. “My brother's birthday party is in about a week. It's this extended family thing in Myrtle Beach. Ben and I are taking a road trip down through Maryland, then Virginia, to the Carolinas. We haven't done that in years. Why? You girls free?”
“Seriously?” Jane perked up.
“That's a good idea,” Benny added. “We could do with another hostage. A buffer. Between Trish and the GPS, I need some other person there before I kill myself. Traffic and bad directions will do that to a man.”
“It's nice to know how loved I am,” said Trish, smiling. “Thanks, hon.”
“Why don't you take Lizzy?” Jane suggested.
I glanced up quickly. “What? No.”
“I'm serious,” Jane said, laughing, turning to Trish. “She just needs to get out. She's been locked in since the holidays, and one of these days I think she's going to snap.”
“Hide the knives,” Benny winced. I threw a piece of rice at him.
“Oh, come on.” I rolled my eyes. “Jane, you've barely gone anywhere all year.”
“We took her to Florida with us,” Trish argued. “Fair is fair. What, do we offend?”
“No!” I said, laughing. “No, I love you guys.”
“Are you too busy?”
“She's not,” Jane piped up. I glared at her, and she shrugged. “I can iron out some scheduling problems, Lizzy. I'll talk to Charlotte and Lee. And you don't even have exams this week — you told me so yourself.”
“That settles it!” said Benny, grinning. “Pack your bags, kid. You're going with us.”
“But I —”
“You'll have fun,” Trish assured me, grinning. “The whole trip is what, Ben? 10 hours through? We'll probably stop for meals, of course. We leave early Wednesday, should arrive by Thursday. —— That okay?”
“I,” I stammered, laughing. “I feel forced into this.”
“You know you want to,” Benny nudged, smiling crookedly. “You can be a camera-whore, buy tacky souvenirs. Then spend a day with us down at Trish's brother's house. He's loaded. It's good stuff.”
Jane snorted, and gave me puppy-dog eyes. “Come on, Lizzy.”
“Yeah, come on, Lizzy.”
“Come on, Lizzy!”
“I hate you guys,” I said, laughing, chucking a spoon into the sink.
But they did it. Tuesday night, I was on the floor of my room, packing my beat-up red suitcase to the brim. And in the midst of wrapping up my iPod and shoving freshly laundered pajamas into a side pocket, I suddenly realized it — I was excited.
• • •
“Goddamn you, TomTom,” Benny swore, banging a fist on the GPS system. He glanced up at his wife under the brim of his cap, and she laughed, unfolding a map.
“Leave TomTom out of this,” she advised, soothingly. “She's just a poorly programmed GPS system. I'm more reliable, anyway.”
“Fat chance of that,” grumbled Benny.
“You should program her to sound like John Cleese,” I yawned, resting my head on the window.
“TomTom or Trish?”
“TomTom,” I said, laughing. “Poor Trish. —— I'm sorry.”
“You learn to tune him out after a while,” grumbled Trish, flipping a page of her map. She rested a hand on her stomach, and groaned. “Ugh, I just wish we hadn't gorged on breakfast so early. IHOP stands for International House of Puking, right?”
“Window, please,” said Benny, sharply.
I grinned, looking out the window, iPod earbuds firmly in place. We had been on the road for five consecutive hours, since six in the morning. Traffic was remarkably on our side, but Benny wouldn't hear any of it — “you'll jinx us!”
Either way, we were making great time. We had practically brushed through Maryland (well, I had napped through the entire state, anyway). A sign advertising 'Richmond' up ahead surprised me, a few hours later. Then again, I kept weaving in and out of sleep, lulled by music and car vibrations and the buzz of Trish and Benny's arguments — “no, exit IC, it merges into I-945, south. —— No, take that exit! —— Jesus!” “You're wrong! Wrong!”