Where You End

by Anna Pellicioli

  We didn’t use a condom. This is the part where I should say we were drunk, or stupid, or didn’t have time to think. That would be lying. I knew one of the thousand sperms could make it to one of my numbered eggs and that could mean the thing that didn’t end up happening. I had been told, and I had been warned, and up until then I had been safe, and smart, and honest. But the thing I wanted was for him to want me. So maybe we could have had a baby. But nobody had explained to me how or why I should refuse the chance to feel whole again. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. All I wanted was for us to be enough to cover everything, from here until there.

  Every moment after that was a little more dirt on the grave, until the day I knocked over the sculpture, when my body kicked my mind into gear and I could not hide anymore. That August afternoon, we slept until the heat got unbearable and we both had to shower. I tried hard not to say anything, but when Elliot came out of the bathroom, I could tell he had been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “You look upset.”

  “It’s nothing, Miriam.”

  “All right. I was just asking because you … ”

  “Look, I’m glad I came,” he said.

  That particular brick is still lodged in my chest.

  “Whoa, well, I hope so.”

  “I came to say I was sorry about the way I acted. At the house. With my father and you.”

  “I know. I get it. Why are you upset right now? I feel like you’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad. I just don’t want anybody to get hurt anymore.”

  Ring. The. Alarm.

  “Get hurt?”

  “I don’t know, Miriam.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you right now. Are you saying you wish we hadn’t … ”

  “No. That’s not it.”

  “Well, what are you saying, Elliot?”

  “I don’t know. Just forget it.”

  I wish I had wanted to pick him up and throw him against the wall, then kick him hard, a hundred thousand times. Right as he was putting his clothes back on, when he wouldn’t see it coming. I wish I had wanted to hurt him, but all I wanted was yes. One, unmistakable yes.

  “Do you love me?” I said, trying my best not to sound whiny.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you in love with me?”

  He looked away. “I don’t know, Miriam. I don’t know.”

  Thank God he kissed my wet hair and left right then, because I would have actually tried to make my case. Really. Nobody likes to take no for an answer, but “maybe” is even worse. It’s nothing. He left me with nothing except for his socks, which is the only thing I can hold over Maggie Sawyer.

  “Do you need Monday’s notes too?” Maggie asks, all timid, but loud enough for our neighbors to hear.

  I shake my head. “That’s okay.”

  “Are you sure? It’s all right with me. I don’t even look at my notes half the time.”

  “I’m all right,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean I don’t need the notes. I do. I’m just so bad with math. Sometimes I don’t even want to look at it.”

  I scan the notes for any evidence that would support her cute self-deprecation. The writing is neat. The pages are supple. I am sure she looks at the notes, does her homework, and gets it right at least eighty-percent of the time. She’s just good at making herself smaller, so you have more room to feel important. It’s disarming. I will give her that. I hand the notes back.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Not a problem. If you ever miss class and need crappy notes, you know where to find them.”

  I cock my head a little. “Thanks, but I don’t plan on missing class.”

  She looks away and bites her pink tongue. “I didn’t mean that you do.”

  “Look, I don’t care. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You just missed some classes this week, so … ”

  “I missed some classes, and now I’m back. Thank you so much for your notes. They’re not at all crappy, and I’m not at all offended.”

  She turns a little red, in uneven blotches, which immediately makes me feel better until I think of Adam, who is waiting for me at the main gate.

  “Good,” she says, finally. “Good.”

  It occurs to me that Maggie Sawyer will never know I could have been pregnant with her boyfriend’s child, that he doesn’t even have to know, that it doesn’t even matter anymore. I’m not. As Maggie Sawyer writes numbers in her notebook, I see how easy it is to be around her, how much more humble and understanding she is. How much lighter.

  Adam’s last class is French, on the third floor, almost directly above me. When the bell rings, I can’t think of a better place to hide than Ms. K’s office, where she opens the door and looks surprised. I have no plan, so I spend the first twenty minutes talking about the photo assignment and how it’s going, throwing in an apology or two for my mother’s outburst and for skipping class. Ms. K is pleased with my improvised enthusiasm, and she takes it as an invitation to ask questions, which leads to the signature tea and another twenty minutes of nodding and sharing my favorite photographers.

  After the second cup of tea, she says she can’t wait to see the pictures, that they’re going to help me a lot. The clock reads 4:10, forty minutes past dismissal. Ms. K reminds me of our next family meeting.

  “Right,” I say. “We’ll be here.”

  I stay on the couch for a few more minutes.

  “Did you need anything, Miriam?”

  “No, no.”

  “Did you have a question?”

  “No.”

  “You just came in to tell me about your project and how excited you are about it?”

  “You really can’t wait to see the pictures?” I ask.

  She smiles.

  “That’s pretty much it,” I say.

  “Do you have a ride home? Is your father picking you up?”

  “Nope. He brings me in. You know, for now.”

  She’s looking for her phone, packing her bag, grabbing her coat. She’s in a hurry.

  “Well then, let’s walk out together. I have a workshop this afternoon.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s in Columbia Heights, and it’s rush hour so I have to run. I would stay if you needed me.”

  “Of course. No, no, no. I’m fine. I was just checking in.”

  “All right then.”

  Ms. K closes the door and says goodbye to everyone in the adjoining offices. Most people have cleared out already, except for the athletes and the extracurriculars. I exit through the parking lot with Ms. K so I won’t run into Adam, in case he’s still waiting after forty-five minutes. We both squint as we say goodbye. The days are getting shorter; the sun struggles to stay above the roof of the gym.

  “You know I can’t give you a ride,” Ms. K says.

  “Right.”

  “I would, but I can’t.”

  “I don’t need a ride. I’ll walk. It’s nice out.”

  “They said it might rain tomorrow. That’s too bad, right? Not that you trick or treat.”

  “No, but my mom usually makes me sit with her on the porch until the last candy has been given out.”

  “That’s nice. I’m gonna have to get a poncho for my niece,” she says, shielding her eyes from that sun.

  Neither one of us wants to be the first to leave, but Ms. K has more practice at this, so she smiles broadly, wishes me a good evening, and unlocks her car. She tucks her skirt under her thighs as she slides into the driver’s seat. She has a workshop to go to, a car she can steer in the direction she pleases, a job, and a niece to take pictures of. She still has time to have her own children, whenever she’s ready. She’s not my mother, but she’s a
n adult. I try to reach for that in my future, but it’s too far ahead to get a good grip. She rolls down the window and sticks her hand out to say goodbye, or to warn me she is backing out.

  “Ms. K?”

  She switches out of reverse and hits the brake, looking for my voice. I walk to her window.

  “What’s she going to be?” I ask.

  Ms. K looks confused. There are at least three paper cups on the floor by the passenger seat.

  “Who?”

  “Your niece … tomorrow … what’s she going to be for Halloween?”

  Ms. K smiles in relief. “A butterfly.”

  “Of course,” I say, “of course.”

  “I’ll see you on Monday, Miriam.”

  “Yep.”

  She drives away, and I check my phone: two missed calls, one text. All from Adam.

  Where r u? Are u coming? Where is my camera?

  I shut my phone and start walking home. Eva’s key must be there. This will take me less than two hours, and that’s counting a soggy bagel from the Greek coffee place.

  thirty-three

  did you go back home?

  thirty-four

  Mom presumably stopped smoking when she got pregnant with me. I’ve seen her pull out a cigarette occasionally, when Dad is really getting to her, but never ever in the house. She always says the pregnancy was a great excuse to quit. Hence the surprise, when I walk in and she’s chain-smoking Lucky Strikes on our living room couch.

  The smell belongs to another era, a time before cookbooks and NPR, and Mom looks like she’s stepped into the time machine herself. She’s lying on the couch in her Barnard sweatshirt, her hair like a newly made nest sitting inside the hood. The pack of poison is on the coffee table, where my mother has spread dozens of pictures. She is looking at a print very closely, holding it up to her eyes, while her other hand holds a glass of something the color of pale wood. Switch the setting and she could be twenty. Something tells me I should not interrupt.

  “I can’t decide if this one is my favorite,” she says without looking up.

  “Hi Mom,” I say, trying not to breathe in the smoke.

  “It’s the saddest, for sure. With the sweater on the chair, and the mug.”

  I walk closer. It’s definitely whiskey in the glass.

  “What are you looking at?” I say.

  Mom puts down the Scotch, sits up and picks another print from the coffee table. She examines both closely, not the least bit distracted by my question.

  “It’s a close call. You are a master at composition, much better than I ever was. You spend so much time in that darkroom, but you’ve got your eyes open from the start. I can tell these things, you know. It’s my job.”

  “Are those my pictures?” I ask.

  “The dog is perfect in this other one. I don’t know how you got him to sit so still. It’s like he can smell you, but he can’t find you. Great use of foreground. Maybe this one wins.”

  I stomp over and snatch the photo out of her hand. I’ve seen it before. This is my stuff. I took this picture.

  “Why are you looking at these?” I ask.

  Mom goes to light another cigarette and finally looks at me and smiles.

  “These are my pictures. They are private.”

  She inhales and shrugs. “They weren’t in your darkroom.”

  “No. They were in my bed room. Since when do you go through my stuff?”

  This makes her laugh, but not with the same abandon as in Ms. K’s room. This laugh is more evil, more condescending.

  “What stuff?” she says when she catches her breath. “You got rid of everything you had up there.” She looks at the table. “Except for these … ”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “This is entirely my business.”

  “I don’t go in your room and look through your shit.”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Watch my mouth? You’re the one who’s, like, the rebel, smoking cigarettes and drinking.”

  She smiles. “You’re funny.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Give me my pictures back.”

  “I spent all this time talking to you, never pushing you or asking you questions, avoiding power struggles, trusting you.”

  I start piling up the night pictures, but they’re all over the place. She must have been looking at them for a while before I got here. I find a couple on the armchair, three under the table, one on the end table under the lamp.

  “Don’t do that,” she frets. “They’re organized. They’re in categories.”

  “They’re mine.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “I was trying to find a system, to group them by season, by emotion. I was looking for clues. I haven’t had this much fun in a while, playing detective with my own daughter.”

  “You are acting crazy. You shouldn’t have taken these.”

  “I didn’t take them.”

  I’ve gathered them all except for the one in her hand. “Yes you did.”

  “Nope.”

  “You went into my room and found the pictures.”

  My eyes feel full and wet, but I’m incapable of crying. She puts the cigarettes down and sighs.

  “I didn’t take the pictures, Miriam.”

  “Okay. I get it. I did.”

  “No, I mean I didn’t take them from you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Adam came by.”

  “What?”

  “Adam came by looking for you. He seemed really upset.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to talk to you. He said you weren’t answering his calls. I told him that you would be home soon and gave him some water. He was really upset, Miriam. He looked like he was about to cry. I asked him if everything was all right, and he said he wasn’t sure. He told me he was worried about you, that he didn’t know what to do.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I just listened.”

  “Did you tell him about Ms. K?”

  “Yes. I figured he knew already. I thought you were with him when you skipped class.”

  Of course you did.

  “Anyway, he started getting uncomfortable. I think he was trying to protect you, so I didn’t want to push it. I told him you’d call when you got home.”

  I have to sit down.

  “Before he left, he asked for his camera. He said he’d left it here. He went up to your room to look for it, but it wasn’t there. He wanted to go to your darkroom, but I told him I couldn’t let him, that we had an agreement.”

  Although I’m pissed at my mother in her college sweatshirt, I’m also a little bit proud. She’s trying so hard.

  “You didn’t go in?” I ask.

  “No, Miriam, and neither did he. He looked everywhere for his camera. He said he was sure you had taken it. I told him you had your own, and he said you were using that for something else. I asked him what he meant, and that’s when he gave me the pictures. He said they were upstairs.”

  “I cannot believe it. I can’t believe he did that.”

  “He was worried, Miriam. We’re all worried.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “He gave me this,” she says, and hands me a large envelope with my name on it, my full name. It’s Adam’s handwriting.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, Miriam. Believe it or not, I do try to respect your privacy. Open it.”

  I start to open it and see there’s a picture in there. I close it back up.

  “Did he say anything else?” I ask.

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “What was he supposed to tell me?” Mom says.

  “Nothing. I’m going over
to his house.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “It’s five blocks away.”

  “It’s cold. Let me take you.”

  “These are my pictures, Mom.”

  “They’re good.”

  “I don’t know, but you weren’t supposed to see them.”

  “You took them in the middle of the night,” she says.

  “This is why you weren’t supposed to see them. I’m so mad. I’m so mad.”

  “I’m taking you to Adam’s.”

  “Mom?”

  “Miriam?”

  “Fine. But you’re waiting in the car.”

  “Sounds good. Bring his camera.”

  “We’ll see. Haven’t you, like, been drinking?”

  “Miriam. I’m your mother. I’m the most responsible person you know. I had a sip of whiskey.”

  She takes the pictures from my hand, straightens the corners in the pile, and lays them in the middle of the coffee table. “Let me get the keys.”

  When she walks out, I breathe and open the envelope. There she is again, this time in black and white: it’s the same picture I saw in his camera. Eva and the sculpture, my two Picassos. One standing, and one lying down, looking at each other for the first time.

  thirty-five

  It’s cold enough to turn the heat on in the car. I know the way to Adam’s with my eyes closed. First right, three blocks, speed bump, make a left, semi-circle around the cul-de-sac. I close my eyes to test myself and peek after my mother misses the second turn.

  “You’re going the wrong way.”

  She locks the door. “We’re not going to Adam’s.”

  “What? Where are we going?”

  “We’re not going to Adam’s until you talk.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “Then talk.”

  “Are you kidnapping me? Talk about what ?”

  “Whatever you want. I will drive until you tell me what’s going on. Something is going on.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Possibly.”

  “You can’t keep me in here. You can’t make me talk.”

  Mom is wearing her glasses now, which makes her look like she’s been up all night reading. She used to live in New York, without any money, or car, or children. The city is her most painful ex-boyfriend, her greatest heartbreak, her Elliot. You can tell by the way she dismisses it when people bring up the all-night bodegas, or the energy and the art scene. The only thing I miss is the subway, she always says. She had a filthy apartment by the Hudson River. I know because, a few years ago, our family froze its collective ass looking for it. When we finally got there, we all stood on the opposite sidewalk and looked up, following the fire escape stairs to the third floor. The wind was ruthless. Mom cried. Dad pulled her close, and nobody said a word until lunch.