That bad? Did you wear the lucky dress?
I hold the phone at arm’s length, making sure my prize possession—a yellow wrap dress I scored at a thrift store and was wearing the night I met Harrison—is in the frame and press send. Not so lucky, I guess.
I slip the phone into the front pocket of my portfolio case, exchanging it for my car keys. Then I unlock the door to my Toyota, get in, turn the key and start the fifteen-minute trek home.
Five months ago, Harrison and I decided to move to this tiny town on a whim, which sounds like something I would do, but not Harrison. It was January, in Philadelphia, and it was snowing. Again. The kind of cold, wet snow that seeps into your clothes and your bones and makes you want to never leave your apartment, and if you do, makes you feel like you’re never going to be warm again.
“Let’s get out of here,” Harrison said one Friday afternoon, when he got home from an extra-long shift at the hospital. He had had a tough few weeks, long hours on top of losing an eight-year-old boy during a routine emergency appendectomy. He didn’t talk about it much—he never does—but I could tell it affected him.
“And go where?” I asked.
“Anywhere but here,” he said.
Harrison is not the spontaneous type, so I immediately agreed. We drove north on 95 and ended up in Hope Springs, a tiny town west of the Delaware River. It was full of more antique stores and art galleries than any town needs, and I was drunk on its charm, and the way that the snow, for some mysterious reason, didn’t quite feel so wet and cold and was piled up in pretty white mounds alongside the road instead of the gray, slushy heaps we were accustomed to. By Sunday, when we were packing up to leave, and dreading the drive back to the city, and I said, “I wish we could live here,” which is what I say every time we go on vacation anywhere, Harrison said, “We can.”
Then he said he’d been thinking about it for months—how the city hospital was so stressful and how maybe at a smaller hospital he could scale back, breathe a little—so why not now and why not in Hope Springs. And maybe it was because I had just had my second miscarriage and my first huge career failure and all of those things happened in Philadelphia and not in Hope Springs, or maybe because I really was convinced that the snow here was less cold and less wet and more beautiful, or maybe because the name of the town, Hope Springs, suddenly seemed significant, like an omen, but I said, “OK.” And though it took a few months of interviews and tying up loose ends in Philadelphia, that’s how we ended up moving from the apartment we’d lived in together for seven years and living here.
Two right angles of white picket fencing flank our driveway, which is the only way I know where to turn, since everything on the two-lane road that runs past our house looks exactly the same—green and tree-lined. I pull the car between them and roll slowly over the gravel until the stone house comes into view. It’s a renovated three-bedroom farmhouse from the 1800s, so it has that great mix of old-world charm and a Sub-Zero fridge. The studio—a detached one-car garage behind the house—has windows on all four sides. Amazing light. That’s what sold me on it. Or maybe it was simply the idea of having my own studio, instead of a one-hundred-square-foot den that also held a TV, a small bookcase and a futon, all flecked with hardened bits of acrylic paint, shellac, egg yolk (from an ill-advised DIY tempera phase) and various other substances from my artistic endeavors over the years.
The futon. Where, in my early twenties, I ate countless bowls of buttered noodles and slices of Nutella toast and watched reruns of Family Feud and then, in my late twenties, made furious love to Harrison on his all-too-short breaks home from his surgical residence shifts at Thomas Jefferson. Harrison convinced me to give the futon to charity when we moved—It’s starting to smell, he said, gently, as if he were trying to talk me into euthanizing a beloved pet whose quality of life had deteriorated. And now instead of turning the car off and going into my studio to paint, which is what I should do, I have the sudden urge to turn my rusted Corolla around and drive to every single Goodwill store between here and Philadelphia until I find the futon and bring it home.
* * *
“Sorry I’m late,” Harrison says when he walks through the front door that evening around nine, even though it’s the third time that week he’s gotten home past dark. Harrison’s one of only four general surgeons on staff at the Fordham hospital, which serves not only the eight thousand residents of Fordham, but many of the surrounding smaller towns, including Hope Springs. Though he said a smaller hospital would mean a slower pace, lately it’s seemed like the opposite is true. He tosses his keys on top of an overturned cardboard box in the foyer that serves as our entry table, since I haven’t gotten around to buying one.
Harrison leans over the back of the butter-yellow sofa I’m sitting on—one of the few new things I have managed to purchase for the house. I offer him my cheek and he kisses it, his full beard (also new since we moved here) scratching my face.
“Did your day get any better?” he asks.
“Not really.”
He heads toward the kitchen, where I hear the fridge door open and then the muffled pop of a beer bottle being unscrewed. When he reappears in the doorframe, the beer’s turned up at his lips. He takes three deep mouthfuls, pausing to swallow in between.
“I think I’m killing the tomatoes,” I say. The house came with a large vegetable and herb garden that hadn’t been tended to since the previous owner moved out. I planned to care for it, starting with weeding, but then realized I couldn’t exactly tell what was a weed and what was a plant. And then the irrigation system stopped working. And rabbits or rodents or bugs started having their share until each leaf (on plants and weeds) looked like Swiss cheese. And I realized that gardening actually takes a concerted effort and I have no idea what I’m doing.
“Well, I’m sure they deserve it,” he says.
“Harrison. I’m serious. The leaves are yellow, which according to this website I’ve been reading means they’re getting too much water or not enough or there’s a lack of nitrogen in the soil or they’re diseased.”
“Huh,” he says. “That narrows it down.”
“Exactly.”
I stare at his profile, taking in his black square-rimmed glasses; his undone bow tie, the ends hanging loose on either side of his unbuttoned collar like a disheveled groom; the ruffian beard that I’m still getting used to—and I get that fleeting inkling of wonder that I ended up with him. I had a type—and MD educated was not it. I preferred guys that had gigs to ones with real jobs, guys that missed rent payments. Abandonment issues were a bonus. But to be fair, Harrison was wearing a Skid Row T-shirt and standing in an art gallery when I met him, so it wasn’t clear off the bat he was a functioning member of society.
I smile, remembering how it used to be, in the beginning. The anticipation of seeing him. The pure thrill of reading his name on caller ID or hearing his knock at the door. It’s unsustainable, of course, that level of elation and delight. Infatuation is like a rushing river that over time either dries up to a trickle and then nothing at all, or begins wearing its way into the earth, until one day it’s a deep, yawning canyon.
Harrison and I are lucky.
We’ve got the canyon.
“You know—it’s weird.” He slides his beer onto the antique trunk that doubles as our coffee table and sinks into the couch cushion beside me. “They should have stores that sell gardening supplies and are staffed with people knowledgeable about plants that could help novices in situations just like this.”
I jab my elbow to the side, connecting with his stomach. “Oof,” he says, then grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. He gently turns it over. Looks at it. Rubs his thumb over the red and blue splotches. “D’you paint today?”
“A little,” I say. And by little, I mean forty-five minutes. Though it was Harrison’s idea that I focus on my art when we moved here, I haven’t had a serious ses
sion or painted anything decent in the five weeks since we pulled the yellow Ryder truck up to the front curb. At first, I told myself it was because we were getting settled. But at this point, I know it’s something more . . . permanent. A zap to my confidence that started when that mustachioed Phillip Gaston typed, “an incohesive amateur display relying too heavily on an overly clever theme, without the talent to add depth and substance,” regarding my first-ever solo exhibition in Philadelphia last year.
“Did you wear a mask?”
He’s teasing me. I’ve been extra cautious with this pregnancy—to the point of asking Harrison if he thought the fumes of the acrylics I work with could be bad for a developing fetus. He said no, but even after he showed me proof online that they were safe to use while pregnant, I wondered aloud if I should wear a mask anyway.
“I didn’t,” I say. “Do you think I should have?”
“No,” he says, and then pauses, a half grin on his lips. “But if our baby comes out with twelve toes, we’ll know why.”
“Harrison!”
We sit in silence for a minute, the words “our baby” hanging in the air. At least they are for me. I think of the two babies that we lost, and suck in a lungful of air to steady myself. I had no idea how much I could grieve the loss of something I never really had. A person I never met. But I do. I am. And I wonder if the sadness will lessen with time—or if the fear of losing yet another will ever dissipate. I place my hand on my belly, silently willing this one to stay.
As if reading my mind, Harrison wraps his long arm around me, pulling me to his chest. They were out of his regular deodorant when I was at the store on Tuesday, so I picked out a new scent and the soapy pine forest tang of it tickles my nose. I burrow my head into him, as if I could tunnel a path and stay there for all of eternity. “You smell good.”
“Really? I thought it was a little teenager-drenched-in-Dad’s-cologne-ish.”
“No,” I say. And even though it’s different, a new scent, it’s still him. Still my Harrison. “It’s you.”
* * *
I’m on a ferry. At least, I assume it’s a ferry—a large, slightly rocking barge of a boat filled with cars and people—but I don’t know where it’s going or why I’m on it. The sky is dull, the color of ashes from an abandoned campfire. A flock of gulls squawks overhead and I look up. When they’ve past, I drop my eyes back to the horizon.
That’s when I see him. He’s far away on the sandy shoreline, and though I can’t quite make out his face, I know it’s him. A strong wind flattens his shaggy hair, pasting the front of it to his forehead, the back flying up every which way like confetti at a parade.
And then suddenly he’s on the boat. Standing in front of me. And the part of my brain that knows this is a dream wonders if it will be a kissing dream. Hopes it will be a kissing dream. The attraction I have for him is so intense, I have to will my dream knees to stay locked in place, my dream stomach to stop flopping over itself like a Raggedy Ann doll tumbling down the stairs.
“Hi,” he says, his lips spreading into a grin that matches mine.
“Hi,” I say.
He takes my hand. And though I know it should be chilly—he’s wearing a coat and all I have on is some flimsy sundress—I feel warm.
And then we’re in the middle of a museum, just like that. One setting morphing into another in the way only dreams can do. I’m staring at a sculpture, one that looks like Rodin’s Man with the Broken Nose, but it’s actually that awful Phillip Gaston’s countenance and it starts talking. Shouting at me, really. I can’t make out the words, but I’m both perfectly accepting that a sculpture is talking to me and equally embarrassed that it’s happening in front of him. And then he moves so close to me, the smooth buttons of his coat press into my bare arm, his hot breath on my neck. He’s saying something, too, but I can’t focus. All the sounds meld together into a steady beeping that grows louder and louder until I wake up.
I open my eyes as Harrison sits up, sliding his glasses on and palming his cell in one fluid motion, silencing the offensive beeping.
“What time is it?” I ask, my voice hoarse. I try to swallow past my guilt—even as I feel silly feeling guilty. It was just a dream. He’s just a dream.
It’s only that—at times—he feels so real. And has for all the years that he’s been starring in my nighttime reveries.
“Three thirty-five,” Harrison says. He slides out of bed to call the hospital, shutting the bedroom door behind him, but I can still hear the low timbre of his voice in the hallway.
I lie there, trying to return to sleep, but it’s gone.
When I was in high school and realized the same man was reappearing in my dreams time after time, it was exciting, a novelty. Some hot fantasy guy my hormone-riddled brain had conjured. I also thought it must be common, something most people experience, but when I mentioned it to my sister, Vivian, she hooted. “I wish a hot man would visit me every night in my dreams!”
“It’s not like that,” I said, embarrassed at how sexual she made it sound, even though sometimes it was exactly like that. “And it’s not every night.” And it wasn’t. It was more like every couple weeks, or months even. I’ve noticed they only become frequent during big life changes: Graduating college. Getting married. Pregnancy. The dreams have been almost nightly the past week—more than in either of my previous pregnancies, and I wonder if it’s because I’m further along. That this pregnancy is thriving. I take comfort in any signs I can get.
Anyway, after Vivian’s response, I never mentioned it again. To anyone. Not even Harrison—but still I wonder if maybe he has his own fantasy girl. Some Camila Alves look-alike that he doesn’t mention to spare my feelings. Then I think of the intensity of my interactions in my dreams, and a bud of jealousy sprouts in my stomach. On second thought, I hope Harrison doesn’t have his own.
The bedroom door opens and Harrison reappears beside me. “I gotta go in,” he whispers, leaning over to peck my cheek. I turn, so his lips land on mine, and reach up to hold his face steady, parting his lips with my tongue.
“Mmm,” he says, pulling back an inch to look at me. “What’s that for?”
I cheekily raise my eyebrows. His expression mirrors mine. “Three minutes,” he says. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ll take it,” I say. He grins and pounces in one quick motion and I laugh at his teenage-like eagerness. As his body so familiarly finds mine, his beard scrapes my cheek and his lips are against my ear. “Dios Mia,” he whispers.
It’s ours, this phrase, coined after we kissed for the first time huddled underneath the too-small awning of a dry cleaner’s to escape a sudden downpour on our way from an art gallery to a dive bar. The night we met.
“Dios Mia,” he murmured when our lips finally broke apart, both of us out of breath, his nose still millimeters from mine.
I cocked an eyebrow, not willing to risk breaking the spell by moving any other part of my body. I only took high school Spanish, but I knew enough to know that the phrase Oh my god in Spanish was masculine: Dios Mío. I wondered if I’d misheard him, even as I said: “I thought it was Mío.”
“What?” he asked, his lips curling up, as they grazed mine once again. And that was when I knew I’d heard him right. And that he was teasing me.
“You said Mia,” I whispered against his mouth. “It’s supposed to be Mío.”
“And here you said you didn’t know any Spanish,” he said. And then his fingers were in my hair and his mouth was on mine and I didn’t give a whit that water was bulleting in a direct line off the awning and right onto my shoulder, down into my purse, ruining everything I owned.
Now, with his words in my ear and the muscles of his back flexing beneath my palms, a wave of love and contentment floods through me, and whatever guilt I was feeling from my ridiculous dream melts away almost as easily as the night.
Almost
.
Chapter 2
“Finley has lice,” my sister, Vivian, says.
“Gross.” I pull a face, and shift my cell between my ear and shoulder so I can scrape the last of the yogurt out of its container with my spoon.
“You have no idea. I had to leave work early to get her from school, pay a ridiculous amount of money for this special comb and lice-repellent shampoo, and then when we got home, the nanny left because she doesn’t do bugs. That’s what she said, verbatim. I don’t do bugs. And now it feels like these things are crawling all over me and I basically want to burn everything in my house.”
“GRIFFIN!” she yells and I pull the phone a few inches from my ear. I stare out the big picture window over the kitchen sink and eye the branches of the droopy tomato plants climbing out of the jungle of a garden as if they’re trying to escape. Vivian is still yelling. “TOILET PAPER IS NOT FOR EATING.” Finally, her voice returns to its normal volume. “So, how are you? Have you finished unpacking yet?”
In a weak moment last week, I made the mistake of confessing to Vivian that maybe I’d been feeling a little aimless, that I wasn’t sure the move had been the right thing for me, and of course she went full therapist on me, talking about adjustment periods and life stages and how I needed to finish unpacking—that it was a symbolic step of accepting where I am or some bullshit like that. Vivian’s a psychologist at a private high school in Maryland, and sometimes she has trouble turning it off.
I consider how to respond, but before I can say anything, I feel a twinge in my stomach. I gasp, pressing a hand gently to it, but then it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“Mia? You OK?”
“Yeah—it’s nothing.” I try to remind myself of the other thing Vivian told me last week—that I’m going to be sensitive to every little ache and pain because of what I’ve been through and I can’t stress about it because pregnancy is full of aches and pains.
You Were There Too Page 2