Wish You Were Here

by Stewart O'Nan

  He’d promised he would write her and then their last night together they’d had that fight. All July she waited for the mail jeep, watching the flag on their box from the kitchen window, then trudging up the driveway with her arms full of catalogs for her mother, the magazines that still came for her father. She had to stop herself from writing him first. All day she spoke to him in her head, said his name to the blue sky. Lying on a towel beside the Kramers’ pool, she composed quick and simple letters, sometimes just one question. An ant skittered by on the concrete, skirting the dark stain of a drying footprint, then vanished into the jungle of grass. Bees crawled over the clover blossoms, working, while she lay there waiting for the day to end and tomorrow to come, another shot at the mail jeep.

  She’d stopped him from unbuttoning her cutoffs and he’d called her a tease and she’d hit him and called him a fucker. He just wanted her body, to get whatever he could.

  He tried to apologize but she said, “I’m going home.”

  She didn’t, not right then (he knew she was serious, and that was all she wanted). But by her curfew they hadn’t completely made up, and the next morning he was gone, leaving her to rethink her decision and remember the nights she’d come in sopping and wanting more.

  The pool was just a place to waste time. She rode past his house going home, even though she had to push her bike up Stagecoach so she could coast down Carriage like it was on her way. It was one of those big, perfect homes her mother pointed out when they drove by, impressed with the flowerbeds. The driveway was empty except for the backboard, the garage doors down. One day she’d seen a newspaper, and the next day it was gone, so his parents were home. She wanted to run into them by accident and rode by on Saturday, hoping his father would be out in the yard, but it looked like it did all week, so maybe they were away. Maybe a neighbor was taking care of things. Mark hadn’t said anything about them going on vacation. She wondered if his mother was inside all the time, watching her.

  The days ran into each other like a looped sample, the same cereal for breakfast, Justin in his PJs playing Pokémon Stadium in the basement, their mother asking the same questions: Weren’t the Kramers getting tired of her? Why didn’t she ride her bike to the library? Did she want to invite Liz over?

  Every day the flag was still up, still up, still up, and then it was down and she went out in her bare feet, stepping gently, flipping through the pile as she walked back up the drive, but it was all for her mother. There was no mail on Sunday, and Tuesday it came early and was all junk, and suddenly it was August and they were supposed to go to the cottage.

  And so she’d given in and written him, sent him a short, carefully worded letter that said she missed him and hoped he was having a good summer. She was fine and getting tan, he wouldn’t believe how dark she was. She’d bought a new swimsuit. She even joked that she was getting tired of waiting by the mailbox every day, but not anymore because they were leaving. If he wanted to write back, he could use this address. When she came to the end, she wondered how she should sign herself, and finally decided on “Love.” Love, S., she wrote, and licked the envelope closed and added a ladybug sticker to be safe.

  If she set it on her desk she might not send it at all, and she didn’t want her mother to see it, so she slipped it in her backpack along with her rolled-up towel and found her flip-flops and headed off, stopping at the box on the corner of Buckboard and sliding it in as she straddled her bike. The metal was hot, wavy lines coming off the top. Once the weighted door swung shut, she wanted it back, but it was too late, and really she was glad. If she hadn’t, she’d be thinking of him the whole time she was at the cottage. At the pool, she imagined the jeep coming to pick it up, the guy unlocking the box and dumping it into a sack, then driving away, as if she had nothing to do with it. On the way home she passed the box and wondered if it was already gone.

  That had been a week ago, and this was postmarked Monday from Petoskey. So he’d gotten her letter and written back immediately. She wished she could remember exactly what she’d said in hers, every word.

  Saturday she would see him. It seemed months away, but it was just three days. Two and a half.

  She turned the envelope over in her hands and slit the end of one flap with a nail as far as it would go, then dug a finger in and tore the hole open.

  16

  “Your machine’s blinking,” Margaret called.

  “Just a second.” In the kitchen, Emily finished refilling Rufus’s water dish and gingerly set it down in the corner, Rufus crowding her knee. “There you go,” she said, and he looked up from drinking as if to thank her.

  “Okay,” she said, breezing into the living room, “what’s all the hollering about?”

  The answering machine had been a late addition, and they’d never found a suitable place for it. She had to lean over the arm of the couch and reach under the lamp to hit the button. It was so seldom used that she was surprised to find there were two messages.

  “Hello, Mrs. Maxwell,” Mrs. Klinginsmith said, “this is Dorothy Klinginsmith. Friday I have a man coming to inspect the septic system, if that’s all right. I’ll be there to coordinate things so you won’t have to do a thing, I just wanted to warn you.”

  “She couldn’t wait till next week?” Margaret asked.

  Emily just shrugged, still intent on the machine, waiting for the second message. She hoped it was Mrs. Klinginsmith canceling. The thought of anyone intruding on their last day at the cottage was dismaying.

  “Hey guys,” a man said, and it took Emily a second to recognize him as Jeff.

  “Dad!” Justin said, turning from the TV.

  “I guess you’re probably out on the boat or something. I’ll call back tomorrow. Nothing big, just wanted to say hey. Hope everyone’s having a great time. Okay, bye-bye.”

  “Can we call him?” Justin asked.

  “It’s late,” Margaret argued, though it was only nine. “You can talk to him tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Justin said glumly, dragging back to his spot on the floor slump-shouldered, and Emily had to restrain herself from butting in. She couldn’t imagine denying Kenneth or Margaret their father. It wasn’t her right.

  “‘Just wanted to say hey’?” Margaret asked later, while Lisa was getting the boys down. “What the hell is that?”

  “Maybe he’s just checking up,” Kenneth said.

  “I don’t think it’s that odd.” Emily had no reason to doubt Jeff’s sincerity. All along she’d suspected Margaret of exaggerating his irresponsibility, especially toward the children, whom she was certain he loved. Emily’s only criticism of him—unspoken and, she hoped, unfounded—was that he hadn’t protected them from Margaret at her worst and was now abandoning them to her.

  “You don’t think he did that on purpose? Come on!”

  “Am I missing something?” Emily asked.

  “She thinks Jeff’s trying—” Kenneth started.

  “He’s playing games,” Margaret said. “Pretending he’s Mr. Reasonable. Did you hear the voice he used—‘Hey guys.’ I mean, please. You don’t want to hear what he sounds like when he talks to me.”

  Emily thought that what evidence she had was to the contrary. She could bring back all too easily Margaret’s distorted face and the torrent of saddening profanity and vicious threats leveled at her, the late-night finger waved in her face, prodding her to retaliate. At times she had, and then had been ashamed at what could never be retracted, the measured, devastating words that lingered between them even now like wreckage.

  She’d never seen Jeff get mad. Maybe that was saved for those closest to him, and was all the more horrible for it, like the few times she’d seen Henry angry. You could only know people so much.

  “He wants you to think it’s all my fault,” Margaret went on, “and it isn’t. I’m not perfect, I admit that, but I was trying to make things work, and the whole time he was sneaking around on me. So I don’t want you buying any of that ‘Hey guys’ bullshit.�
��

  The room went silent around her, and Emily felt a responsibility to reassure her they were on her side, no question. Because that’s what she was asking.

  “Do you want me to unplug the phone?”

  Margaret checked her face to make sure she was serious, and this seemed to placate her. “No. Now Justin has to talk to him. I’m sure Sarah will want to too. It’s not that, it’s the whole thing.” She waved her hands to indicate how large the problem was, and how sick of it she was.

  “I understand,” Emily said, and she thought she did. She was more puzzled by her own hesitation to give Margaret her support from the beginning, as if she needed to earn it. That was how Margaret must see her—stingy, setting conditions on her love. She’d been accusing Emily of this since she was a teenager, insisting she’d been wronged, that at bottom Emily was disappointed in her. She was surprised to discover it was true.

  17

  Lise had been trying to be nice because of Sam’s tooth, and then he couldn’t find his damned Game Boy. They were all exhausted.

  “It’s not in the bathroom?” she asked, because Sarah was taking an endless shower and had thoughtlessly locked the door. Lise had bullied the boys into their PJs and then into their sleeping bags with instructions to brush their teeth when Sarah was done, but had gotten stuck on this one last point. “Could you have left it in the car?”

  “No,” Sam said, sure.

  But he was always sure. Last winter she’d had to search the school’s lost and found for his new ski jacket three times. He couldn’t tell her how it had ended up there. Things were never his fault, they just happened to him.

  “Did you take it into the restaurant with you?”

  “No.”

  “Ella, have you seen your brother’s Game Boy?”

  “No,” she said venomously, as if Lise had accused her of something. She was still angry at him for elbowing her in the mouth while they were horsing around before bed. Her braces had cut her lip and Lise had had to intervene to prevent further bloodshed. It seemed the hardest thing in the world for him to say he was sorry. She wouldn’t put it past Ella to kidnap the game in retaliation, but unlike Sam she wouldn’t lie right to her face.

  The room was a shambles, clothes thrown about, towels on the floor. She was too tired to make them pick up, her patience sacrificed to the drive, the makings of a headache branching like an aneurysm behind one eye. She thought she should take some Advil, but the bottle was in her kit sitting on the back of the toilet.

  “Well, if it’s not in the car and you didn’t leave it at the restaurant, it’s got to be around here somewhere. Maybe tomorrow we can clean up in here.”

  Sam sighed, unhappy with her answer, but she held back. “I’ll look downstairs. I don’t see why you need it now because you can’t play with it anyway, you’ve had more than your hour, but I will look for it. In the meantime, entertain yourself with this.”

  She took the cheap tin telescope Ken had let him buy from off the low wardrobe and handed it to him. He held it as if he didn’t know what it was.

  “Good night,” she ordered.

  He barely answered, Justin drowning him out. She retrieved her book from the cedar chest, determined not to let him get to her. On her way to the stairs she knelt down and asked Ella if she was okay and she said yes coldly.

  In the shadow of the stairwell she composed herself, an actress waiting for her cue. The day had gone fast, thankfully. Her plan was to read for a little and then excuse herself, whether Ken was ready to go up or not. She could have died for a glass of wine, but it was late, and with Meg she thought she ought to be careful. She took a breath and stepped down, turning the knob and letting her weight open the door.

  Arlene hunched over the puzzle, a dish of ice cream at her elbow. Meg had taken the far arm of the couch by the light, her legs tucked to one side. Lise noted Emily’s absence not with relief but apprehension, as if she were lurking for her. She raked her gaze over the floor but didn’t see the bright yellow case.

  “Have either of you seen Sam’s Game Boy?”

  “No,” they both said.

  “Is your car open?” she asked Meg.

  It was, and when she went out to check she saw the light was on in the garage. Framed by the doorway, Ken was holding up a fat golf bag while Emily wiped it down with a rag.

  She snuck by and tried to slide open the door of the minivan quietly, the oiled rollers gliding along the runners. By the dome light she leaned across the old french fries and lollipop sticks bonded to the carpet, involuntarily making a face. She twisted her head to peek underneath the seats but saw nothing except greasy bags and dented cups, straws pushed through their cracked lids. She had to climb in to check the far door pocket, and then the pouches in the backs of the seats, stuffed with trashed maps and atlases.

  Kneeling backward on the seat, she thought of calling the restaurant. Information would have the name. She could even picture him taking it on the Maid of the Mist—he was that addicted. She wished it was lost. No, because if it really was, Ken would buy him another one, and think her mean if she suggested any different (while Emily could say whatever she wanted and then hold her responsible as the last line of defense). She should have never given in in the first place. TV was bad enough.

  “What in the world are you doing in there?” Emily joked, Ken at her shoulder, carrying both bags.

  “I’m looking for something of Sam’s.”

  “If it’s his video game, I put it on top of the fridge. It was lying in the grass there. I figured that wasn’t the best thing for it.”

  “Thanks,” Lise said.

  “You could have asked,” Ken said later, in the kitchen, the two of them whispering under cover of the radio. Emily had turned it on, supposedly for the weather. “How could she have known what you were looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” Lise said, “but I don’t like being made fun of. I know you don’t think so, but I’m telling you that’s how it felt to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as if he could apologize for Emily. And still he didn’t see it; he was just trying to appease her. Typically, they ended up mad at each other while Emily skated away untouched.

  “Forget it,” she said, not forgiving him but not hard enough to really hurt him either, and took her book into the living room. Sam could wait till tomorrow for his Game Boy.

  “Any news on the girl?” she asked Emily.

  She held up a hand as if Lise were interrupting her concentration, except the story was something about road construction in Jamestown.

  “They haven’t said anything yet,” Arlene answered her.

  Emily put the hand up to her as well, so that when the newscaster switched to the latest in the continuing case of missing convenience-store clerk Tracy Ann Caler, they could all hear it.

  State police investigators were using infrared cameras mounted on helicopters and had brought in specialized K-9 units, but so far they’d turned up no significant leads. The nineteen-year-old Mayville woman was last seen more than four days ago. Today’s Jammers game that had been rained out would be played tomorrow as part of a single-admission doubleheader. The weather would be sunny and warm for a change.

  No one spoke until Emily turned it off, and then it was Ken, saying they’d have to wake up early if they wanted to get a decent tee time, as if talking about the girl was bad luck. Lise thought it was morbid the way Emily had adopted her, not that it surprised her.

  “Well,” Emily announced, rising, “I think I’ve had about enough excitement for one day.” She thanked them all for taking her to Niagara Falls, then negotiated a time she and Ken should get going.

  “Be quiet leaving,” Lise joked, thinking that would give her the whole morning. The afternoon she would spend on the boat with Ken—but as soon as she caught herself thinking this, she erased it, afraid of jinxing the day. Counting her chickens, as Emily would say.

  They all watched Emily go, so when she stopped by the TV and asked
if anyone minded if she left the bathroom light on tonight, they all responded, nodding or mumbling.

  “The Lerners’ alarm must have me conditioned. I keep waking up at three in the morning or some ungodly hour.”

  As if anyone cared, Lise thought, and the sour taste of this stayed with her once Emily had brushed her teeth and closed her door.

  “Why the big sigh?” Ken asked, beside her.

  “I’m just tired,” she said, bypassing any real explanation, and went back to her book.

  Harry was learning how to use spells and curses. The rules were confusing, and all the cute names were losing her. She found it hard to believe Ella thought this was funny, and very soon the pages revived her headache and she had to stop.

  Around the room, they each sat quietly in their own circle of light, Ken bent over an old New Yorker, Meg reading, Arlene intent on her puzzle. In the bathroom, the toilet trickled, refilling, a jet rushing, then suddenly cut off. They had reached the peaceful end of the night, the children down, Emily safely in bed, yet instead of a feeling of release or freedom Lise felt constricted, the darkness pressing at the windows. If it were just herself and Ken it would be different, but the silence, being shared, was almost enforced. To put on the TV would be an affront. There was nowhere to go but outside, and then everyone would watch you leave and wonder where you’d gone and what you were doing.

  Across the room, Arlene straightened up in her chair and clicked off her light. She rose and hauled on a padded jacket thirty years out of date, checking the pocket for her cigarettes.

  “I’m going to take Rufus for his constitutional, if anyone’s interested.”

  Lise saw it as an opportunity to excuse herself, telling Ken she was heading up. He seemed disappointed, as if to say, Stay, it’s still early.

  “Don’t be too late,” she said. “Remember you’ve got golf tomorrow.”

  If he wanted to stay up all night with Meg, that was his decision, but upstairs, reading on the pot, she marked the time on her watch.