You Were There Too

by Colleen Oakley

  It’s a platitude. One I’ve heard Vivian say before: when I told her I was engaged to Harrison, and even though he’d been asking me for months, she thought it was all happening too fast. But here’s the thing: I didn’t believe it. Not really. Or I did believe it, but I didn’t believe it applied to me. To Harrison. To us. I thought marriage was only hard for other people. People who clearly hadn’t chosen the right partner. And for the first time ever, I really consider: Am I one of those people?

  What was it Dr. Hobbes said? That Harrison and I are experiencing a mismatch. A lump forms in my throat.

  “Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you married someone else?” I ask Vivian now.

  “Yes,” she says, without hesitation. “Every time I see Armie Hammer in Us Weekly.”

  “Seriously, Viv.”

  “Seriously, Mia. That man is sex on a stick.”

  I sigh. “That’s not exactly helpful.”

  “I know,” she says. “But believe it or not, I don’t have all the answers.”

  I sigh again. “I don’t, either.”

  * * *

  The last thing Vivian said to me before we got off the phone was: Whatever you do, get out of the house! It won’t do any good to sit there by yourself, moping.

  And I know she’s right. I can’t spend yet another day swapping the couch out for the bed. I scrub my plate, grab my keys and my phone and leave.

  According to Google Maps, the drive to Altoona, Pennsylvania, is a little over four hours. At first, I try to enjoy it—the leaves of the trees lining I-76 have just begun their metamorphosis from green to yellows, oranges and reds. I try to pretend it’s a fun day trip, an exploration of the state, an adventure I’m embarking on to pass the time. But the closer I get, the more my stomach churns, the drier my throat becomes.

  Which is ridiculous. I’m going to an amusement park.

  But I can’t shake this overwhelming feeling that if it’s the amusement park, something momentous is going to happen. That Oliver’s going to be there. That everything is going to play out just like in our dreams. And I’m willingly driving toward it.

  The future already exists.

  I roll my eyes, ignore the chill that crawls up my skin and turn up the radio.

  When I finally turn left at the carved wooden placard that announces Lake Cedar Park and into the expansive tar parking lot, one thing is clear—it’s completely deserted. My heart slowly sinks like the late afternoon sun hanging above the top curve of a wooden roller coaster, a crop of trees. I maneuver the car across pavement, stopping in front of a tall chain-link fence with a heavy padlock securing the gate. A yellow metal sign declares: Under Construction. I stare at it, and then open my door, putting one foot on the ground before standing up. As if seeing it without the intrusion of the windshield glass will change the outcome.

  It doesn’t. Beyond the gate lies a smattering of things one would expect to find at an amusement park: I can see four side-by-side faded blue waterslides, ending in a dry splash pond; a spider-looking ride, the red bucket seats scattered in a circle attached to a center pod by metal poles; a concession stand, a piece of plywood tacked over the open-air window. The top of a Ferris wheel looms over it all in the background.

  But I don’t see the carousel.

  A light breeze blows a few strands of hair into my face, carrying with it the faraway sounds of metal clanging on metal. And I am suddenly possessed by self-determination. I did not drive all this way just to turn around and go home. I have to know if this is the park. Leaving my door open, I walk up to the gate, curling my fingers around the metal diamond holes in the fence. I pull on it, half hoping it will magically open despite the industrial lock, but it holds firm, offering only the tinny sound of rattling chain-link in response.

  My gaze travels to the top of the fence and I’m debating if I can scale it when a movement catches the corner of my eye. It’s a man—three hundred yards deep in the park, walking by a shuttered gaming booth, maybe balloon darts or water gun horse racing or knock down the milk bottles.

  “Hey,” I shout. “Heeeeeeeyyy!” I wave my arms.

  The man stops, looks up in my direction and then—yes!—starts walking over to me. A Day-Glo orange vest pulls tight at his expansive gut, while a tool belt holds his pants on his narrow hips. His full, sun-damaged face ends in a gray goatee.

  “You lost?” he asks, when he gets closer.

  “No,” I say. “I need to get in there.”

  “In here? It’s closed,” he says, as if that isn’t obvious.

  “For renovations?”

  “Demolition. We’re ripping everything out. Building an industrial office park.”

  “Oh. That’s terrible,” I say, thinking quickly. “I used to come here all the time as a kid.”

  He peers at me. “You from around here?”

  “No, not anymore. Came back for old times’ sake.”

  “Ah.”

  “So what happened?”

  He shrugs. “Attendance has been down for years. I really thought it would come back, though, you know, like record stores, farmers’ markets—people longing for a simpler time. But it’s too old-fashioned, I guess. That old Leap-the-Dips isn’t nearly as exciting for kids once they’ve been on the Superman or the Intimidator 305 or the Millennium Force.”

  A movie quote pops into my head and I mutter it: “‘Trips to Europe! That’s what the kids want.’”

  He peers at me, not following.

  “It’s from a movie,” I say. “Dirty Dancing.”

  His eyes light up. “Oh, my wife loves that one. ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner,’ am I right?”

  I see an opening. “So do you think I could sneak in, just for a minute? I’d love to see it one last time, especially the carousel.”

  “I can’t,” he says.

  “Oh, please? I drove four hours to get here. I’ll be super quick.”

  He hesitates. “I don’t have the keys.”

  “Well, how did you get in?”

  “Employee entrance on the other side.”

  I hold his gaze.

  He sighs. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you there.”

  Twelve minutes later, at the employee entrance, he hands me a white construction hat identical to his. “I’m Hank,” he says. “Anybody asks, you’re my niece.”

  I follow the man’s Day-Glo vest into the park, the clanging sounds of construction louder on this side, but we don’t see another soul, and it strikes me how eerily similar it is to my dream—the deserted amusement park. The tiny hairs on my neck stand at attention and my heart starts competing for notice above the noise. I get that feeling again—that I’m walking toward something, but I don’t know what it is, and it’s the not knowing that’s set my nerves on edge.

  We round a corner, and suddenly there it is. The carousel. With the red top and the striped poles and the dolphin and the giraffe and the horses. I stop in my tracks to take it all in. And I wait. For what, I’m not sure. Clarity of some sort? An overwhelming aha moment? A chill of recognition?

  But there’s nothing. It does uncannily resemble the carousel I painted, but that’s it. I don’t feel anything else. Not that I’m meant to be here or that I have any connection with this carousel in any way.

  “It’s for sale.”

  I start, having forgotten Hank was behind me.

  “What?”

  “The carousel. Most of this stuff is, actually. Except the roller coaster. I think they’re breaking it up and just selling pieces of it, like mementos or something. They’re hoping to relocate as much as they can. Be a shame to destroy it.”

  He’s off, talking about the old days again, and I wait patiently until I can cut in and thank him for his time, for letting me come in.

  “You want me to take a picture of you with it or something?”r />
  I consider this. “No, it’s fine. Seeing it was enough.” I pause and look to the right, at one of those high-in-the-air swing rides.

  “Did a Tilt-A-Whirl used to be here, in this area?”

  “Not that I can recall. Tilt-A-Whirl’s always been on the other side of the park.”

  “Huh. I thought it was right here.”

  “Memory’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  I thank Hank, hand him back his hat at the gate and drive home, feeling a little bit foolish and a little bit relieved, and not at all quite sure why.

  Chapter 25

  Raya answers her door Saturday afternoon in a glittery army green romper with long sleeves and pants, a deep V revealing the skin between her ample breasts all the way down to her navel. Her fire-engine-red hair hangs in loose coils over her shoulders and her eyes are ringed with black kohl.

  “Damn.” I glance down at the T-shirt I slept in and the sweatpants Harrison gave me. “I guess I’m underdressed.”

  “Mia! Why aren’t you dressed? We have to leave in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m not going,” I say, brushing past her and throwing myself facedown on her couch.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Mia, what’s the point of getting out of your house only to stay in mine?”

  I shrug.

  “Come on. We have to celebrate.”

  “Prisha won’t miss me.”

  “No—actually, we’re celebrating me,” she says shyly. Which is a feat in itself, because Raya doesn’t do anything shyly.

  “What about you?” I lift my head and peer at her.

  “I got a commission,” she says, her face beaming.

  “You did?”

  “From the Philadelphia airport.”

  I sit straight up now. “What? Since when?”

  “I entered my sketches ages ago and I knew I was a finalist last month, but I didn’t think for a second I was actually going to win. I just got the call this afternoon. They want four originals from my Fish Out of Water series.”

  “Oh my god. Those are my favorite.” They’re these huge, intricate metal sculptures of fish piloting various modes of transportation: a bicycle, an old-timey car, a hang glider. “Raya.” I stand up, tears in my eyes, and give her a hug. “Let’s go celebrate,” I say.

  “Yay!” She pauses and cocks her head at me. “But, um . . . could you shower first?”

  * * *

  The bare white walls in the banquet room at Wilson Hall have been draped with floor-to-ceiling gauzy white curtains lit from behind, creating an ethereal atmosphere. A girl in a white button-down carrying a tray of champagne flutes passes me and I grab two and hold one out to Raya. “Oh, I haven’t finished mine,” she says, so I keep both. I’ve already had two, and four seems like a nice round number. “Cheers,” I say, tapping my glass to hers.

  We’re standing in a circle, with a few faculty members and women from our graduating class, discussing the twenty-two million dollars the latest Jeff Koons just sold for at Christie’s.

  “It’s painted aluminum, but it looks exactly like Play-Doh. Incredible.”

  “Did you know it’s twelve feet tall? They had to widen the door and use a crane to get it in the auction house.”

  “Can you imagine if they dropped it? Wouldn’t want to be that guy, right?”

  “He got the idea from his toddler in the nineties—and I just love the simplicity of that, you know?”

  “Oh no, you drank the Koons Kool-Aid,” tuts a professor who taught art history and curatorial studies when I was in undergrad. “Is simplicity the hallmark of good art now?”

  “But it’s technically complex. It took him decades to complete. It’s an interesting dichotomy, don’t you think?”

  Normally, I would jump in with my own opinion—that the only thing interesting about Koons is how so many people worship him; call him the next Duchamp. When really, the power—and legacy—of Duchamp was his desire to challenge what art is and what it isn’t. Koons doesn’t challenge anything but people’s bank accounts.

  Instead, I down the second glass of champagne, put both on a passing tray and tug at the black lace bodysuit I now regret borrowing from Raya. It’s itchy and uncomfortable and I wish I could just take it off.

  As the professor’s response turns into a lecture about the celebrity of art, the confluence of capitalism and culture, I let my eyes skim over the crowd of mostly strangers, peppered with a few familiar faces—some women I knew well in school or am tangentially friends with on Facebook; others I recognize, but would be hard-pressed to come up with a first name for.

  And then my gaze is drawn to one guest in particular: a man with dark, floppy hair. I blink once. Twice. I stare at him, waiting for my brain to sort out all the differences between the man in front of me and the Oliver in my mind. But I can find only one: Instead of his usual T-shirt, he’s wearing a tailored suit jacket.

  With a jolt, all at once I realize it really is Oliver. He raises his eyebrows, his surprise mirroring mine. My heart thuds. What is he doing here?

  But I don’t have much time to ponder, because the emcee announces over a loudspeaker that dinner service will start in ten minutes and guests should please make their way to their tables, and the crowd beside me gently pushes forward. I allow myself to be swept up in the tide, floating toward him, realizing with sudden clarity that I couldn’t swim against it if I wanted to.

  * * *

  Right before I reach him, a blur of a human rushes between us, throwing herself into his arms. “Ollie!”

  He engulfs her tiny frame in a hug. “God, it’s good to see you,” he says, chin on her shoulder. But his eyes are on me. He steps back and refocuses on Prisha, while I stand frozen at the realization. He knows Prisha.

  “Well, if you weren’t flinging yourself off to every corner of the globe all the time, maybe I’d see you more often,” she says.

  “Me? OK, Miss World Traveler. How’s Izzy? Is she struggling with all your newfound fame?”

  “Ugh, you know Izzy,” she says. “We were in Prague. Prague! And she complained about everything. It was too cold. The castle wasn’t nearly as impressive in person. The tartare was too raw. Too raw! How can something that is not cooked, by design, be too raw?”

  He laughs. “She’s exactly the same, then?”

  “Exactly,” Prisha agrees. “God knows why I love her, but I do. She’s floating around here somewhere; make sure you say hi. I know she’d love to see you. And Naomi—did you bring her?”

  “Eh—that’s done,” he says, his eye catching mine.

  “Again?” Her voice is deadpan, teasing.

  “Yes. Thank you. Again.”

  That’s when Prisha notices me. “Mia!” she says, as I take in the familiar thick silk of her waist-length hair, the tiny gold hoop fitted through the septum of her nose like a bull. She toggles her gaze between me and Oliver. “Wait. How do you guys know each other?”

  “Oh, uh . . .” My cheeks redden as I try to determine how best to answer that.

  “It’s nothing scandalous, is it?” Prisha says, noting my reaction.

  “No! No, no.” I laugh a little too forcefully. Oliver eyes me with amusement, and I feel a flash of irritation that he’s letting me flail and not jumping in to save me. “We moved to Hope Springs. Me and Harrison. And then met Caroline, Oliver’s sister.” I wave my hand as if the rest is self-explanatory. “Yada, yada.”

  “And where is that hunk of man meat?” She looks around. “Did he come tonight?”

  “Ah, no—he had a family . . . thing.”

  “That’s too bad. You know,” she says, turning to Oliver, “I’m the reason Mia and Harrison are together.”

  He wrinkles his brow. “You are?”

&
nbsp; “How do you two know each other?” I interject. A trip down my marriage’s memory lane isn’t something I’m game for right now.

  “The record store,” Oliver says. “Prisha used to come in when I worked there. She had the worst taste in music.”

  “But he flirted outrageously with me anyway.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did, too! It’s my fault—I let him believe he might actually have a chance, so I could keep getting the employee discount.”

  “Anyway,” Oliver continues, “she was there the day we got a first edition of Springsteen’s Ghost of Tom Joad. She geeked out even more than I did. I was shocked she was a fan.” He smiles at her. “Turns out—lesbians, they’re just like us.”

  She punches him in the shoulder.

  And then Raya appears, shouting Prisha’s name and engulfing her in a bear hug. She jerks back suddenly. “Wait,” she says, glancing around. “Your bodyguards aren’t coming for me, are they?”

  Prisha rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” They keep talking, but I’m not listening. My gaze is locked on Oliver’s, breath shallow, mind swirling.

  “C’mon,” Raya says, grabbing my forearm, literally jerking me out of my trance. “It’s about to start.”

  She steers me away from Prisha and Oliver and I have no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  “Who was that?” Raya says as we get settled at a table on the other side of the room. As soon as I’m seated, I start searching for Oliver but can’t find him in the scrum of people still milling around.

  “Huh?”

  “The guy. The ridiculously attractive one. I didn’t even get an intro.”

  I look at her. “That was Oliver.”

  “What? Jesus. No wonder you dream about him.”

  My cell buzzes in the pocket of the ball gown skirt Raya paired with the bodysuit. I dig it out.

  Hallway? Two minutes. I scan the room again but don’t see him, and I wonder if he’s already out there.