I'll Stay

by Karen Day

  “But if we’re filming something that doesn’t have anything to do with us, why is it important to know yourself?” Rodney asked. “Shouldn’t we forget ourselves?”

  “Your unconscious runs everything you do, from what you decide to eat to how you pick your subject matter,” she said. “The sooner you understand what your story is, the better you’ll be at recognizing when it gets in the way of creating something authentic and true to your subject. Learn about yourself.”

  Usually when my mother talked about her writing process, she referred to research techniques like how to get the librarians at the Harvard library to thread the microfiche. I didn’t think I’d ever heard her utter the words unconscious or authentic. My mother, a New Critic as she often reminded people, thought conversations about the author were “indulgent and superfluous.”

  Lee raised her hand again. “What did you learn about yourself?”

  Rodney whirled around and glared, as if to say, how dare you be so personal? The two girls in front of us turned to look as well.

  Patricia folded her arms and nodded. “That’s fair, that’s okay. Well, I grew up in a small town in Kentucky, in a house with dirt floors and an outhouse in the back. My father drank himself to death and my mother suffered from severe depression. I got myself out of there, to college and eventually on to do my doctorate. Along the way I sought out mentors and mental health counselors.”

  The room was so quiet that from far behind me I heard someone softly burp.

  “I learned that I have a temper and am prone to depression. That I’m happiest when working. That I have trouble with authority figures. And that my interest in the African crisis is both a response to the devastation but also due to a need, based on my background, to help children in a way that I didn’t receive.”

  I’d never heard anyone talk like this. Wasn’t she embarrassed? Wasn’t she worried what people would think? I couldn’t imagine being this open. I couldn’t imagine my mother doing it, either.

  Later as we started back to the house, Lee was twitching, bouncing, turning to me—so excited, so animated—in a way I’d never seen from her before. “Can you believe her, growing up without a bathroom? What do you do in the winter? How could she afford college and graduate school? She’s not just a good filmmaker. She’s great. And she’s so nice!”

  “She’s so nice,” I echoed.

  “I couldn’t believe how much she talked about her life. I wonder if she sees her mom much and if she’s supportive of her filmmaking or not. And what do you think about what she said about the unexamined life is not worth living?”

  I flinched because I’d briefly examined my life during the film and didn’t like what I’d found. “It’s probably good advice.”

  “This whole night wasn’t what I expected. I thought we’d talk about the film. I didn’t think she’d talk about her life. Don’t you think that was interesting? She had lots of help, don’t you think? Scholarships. Loans. Maybe she had a benefactor, too.”

  Suddenly I had a thought that surprised me so much that I stopped walking. Lee stopped, too. We were under a streetlight on the path back to the house and the night was so cold that we could see our breaths.

  “You always talk about making a film about a great person who changed our world,” I said. “But maybe that’s too big. Maybe you should do a film about someone who has changed her life. Like Patricia. That’s equally important. Right?”

  Lee brought her hands to her face and sank until she sat cross-legged on the pavement. Had I said something wrong? I didn’t know what to do, so I squatted next to her. Her hands were still on her face, but tears rolled down her cheeks. I sucked in a breath. I’d never seen her cry before.

  She dropped her hands and started laughing while still crying. “I’m just so . . . It’s fantastic, your idea. It’s absolutely what I should do. It’s perfect! This is so helpful. I want to do this, make a film, so badly. I’m so, I don’t know, grateful. Because you think about me. You know me. You. Know. Me! People don’t really know me.”

  What had just happened? It was like a flood or a tornado had suddenly unleashed within her. I said, “But people know you. Your family. Your aunt.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve tried talking to my parents, but they have no idea who I really am. My aunt is great but she’s about fun and success and only gets, like, one side of me. You know all sides of me because you listen. You’re so good at that.”

  I was good at listening and that was a talent, wasn’t it? I suddenly felt proud and satisfied. Lee wiped her sleeve across her wet face. Which was the same sleeve of the same gray sweatshirt that she’d worn nearly every day this spring. As I watched the tears soak into the fabric, I thought that I loved her. And she loved me. With Lee, maybe for the first time in my life, I felt like I could be the person I was supposed to be. I imagined us years from now, living near each other and married to men who were best friends. We’d talk all day. Lee would make movies. And I would help people by listening to them. But what, exactly, did that mean?

  “I wish I was passionate and sure about what I wanted to do.” I felt a sudden panic and fear as the words rushed out of me. I’d never told anyone this before. I’d never allowed it. I felt petrified.

  Lee looked at me. “If you can find what you want, and believe in yourself, you’ll be great. Your main problem is that you doubt yourself too much. Before you even get started with anything.”

  This was true. Oh, God, she really knew me, too. But I bit my lip. Even with her, my best friend, I felt little needles of shame. I wanted to tell her more—about how I didn’t have tornadoes or floods within me—but revealing these things, actually, revealing anything, seemed so unnatural, almost excruciatingly difficult. How could she do it so easily with me?

  I sat next to her on the pavement and then we both started laughing. And crying, too. And laughing. It was crazy. I didn’t even know what was so funny or sad.

  Outside the kitchen window, I heard a car alarm and then a siren. I glanced at Lee, who was still nodding, phone pressed to her ear, as she listened to Patricia. Finally, Lee said, “Wow, this is incredible. So, you think it’s at least eight months?”

  “Eight months of what?” I whispered.

  “Yes, I know I’d have to quit. You’re right. I’ll think about it over the weekend and call you Monday. I’m really interested. Thank you for thinking of me.” Lee reached for a pen on the table and wrote a phone number on the back of a napkin. After she hung up, she pulled out a chair and fell into it.

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  Lee didn’t take her eyes off the napkin. “She wants me to go to Southeast Asia with her to shoot a documentary. For eight months.”

  “Eight months!”

  “Her assistant just told her that she’s pregnant and can’t go. So, she thought of me. She can’t pay much, hardly anything, but she’ll take care of airfare, lodging, food, and all expenses. What do you think?”

  “But what about your new apartment? And your job?”

  “I’d have to let go of everything. Quit my job. Put my stuff in storage.”

  “God, Lee. This is a huge decision.”

  “She’s going to Thailand and Cambodia to look at childhood malnutrition.” Lee’s voice sped up. “She got all sorts of grants and funding. Did you know that in the last couple of years Thailand has seen a reduction in the severity of malnutrition in children? Why is that? And why haven’t other countries in the region been able to do that? Patricia wants to look at that. Doesn’t that sound so interesting?”

  I lowered myself into the chair across from her, tears springing to my eyes. Because I’d miss her. And because she had the courage to do something that I’d never do. And mostly because I’d have no way to take care of her if she was halfway around the world. What if she had terrible roommates who took advantage of her? What if Patricia turned out to be a horrible boss who made her fetch coffee and make stupid squash court reservations? Oh, I was being ridiculous.
There were no squash courts where she was going.

  “Oh, Clare, you’re worried that it’s too dangerous?”

  I nodded. This was risky. A gamble. You don’t quit your life and go halfway around the world without getting paid adequately and with someone who wasn’t dependable.

  “I’m just shocked,” she said. “I can’t believe she called me after all of these years. I mean, I guess she hasn’t forgotten me, after all.”

  “You don’t have to decide right this minute.”

  Lee nodded again, scooted the saucer toward her, and lit the joint. She inhaled deeply and then turned slightly so the light from the window caught her eyes and made them flicker. Then she smiled. Something about this reminded me of when we went to her movie theater in college and the lights dimmed and she’d lean forward in her seat, excited for the first five minutes (the most important minutes of a movie!) even though she might have seen it a dozen times already.

  She took another drag on the joint and held it out to me. I shook my head. It was only ten on a Friday morning, and we had hours of plane and subway travel ahead. God knows what would happen to us if I got stoned and freaked out.

  Outside, a car horn honked.

  “That’s Jimmy. We better go.” She stubbed out the joint, put it in her pocket and picked up a box. When she hurried for the door, I followed.

  CHAPTER 13

  The restaurant in downtown Chicago was typical for my parents—dark paneled walls, white tablecloths, heavy silver, oversized menus handed to us in thick, leather-bound covers, and barely anyone—including the waitstaff—under the age of forty. We sat at a table in the middle of the room, two empty seats between my mother and me, and looked at our menus. I was starving and a little frazzled—the L train from the airport had taken so long—but not nearly as frazzled as my mother.

  The airline had lost her luggage and had no idea if it would arrive before morning when she had to give her talk. She wasn’t happy with the new outfit she’d bought today. The hotel had run out of umbrellas and it was pouring outside. The concierge at the hotel had no idea who she was. Neither had the maître d’. And now Logan and Elise were going to be late. She told us this in one breath when Lee and I met her and Dad in the lobby. And then we were seated at our table.

  Lee sat across from me, hugging her arms to her chest as she looked around the room. I was fairly certain that she’d never been in a place so staid and expensive. When she looked at the ceiling I looked, too, half expecting to see a dark cloud. Even though my dad had whispered to me that my mother had figured out a revision plan, that she was just fine, I wasn’t so sure.

  My mother’s makeup was perfect and her short hair styled and hiding the gray. But she sat forward in her chair, her right elbow on the table and her fingers massaging her forehead. The muscles around her mouth sagged in a kind of perpetual pout. I had no idea where she was, but didn’t think she was here.

  Was she thinking about Janice’s letter? Was she worried about tomorrow’s talk? Dad, who was a marketing professor before managing my mother, came up with the Book Talk concept when Listen was published. He’d contact a bookstore or library and offer an intimate talk with my mother with one stipulation: participants had to purchase the novel. It was a “win-win,” as my dad liked to say, for everyone.

  “Did you see the lilies in the lobby?” I leaned across the empty seats toward her. Lilies were my mother’s favorite flower. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “So fragrant, too!” my dad said. My mother sighed.

  “Don’t worry about your outfit tomorrow. You always look great.” I watched her, waiting for a smile, a sparkle in her eye, anything to tell me that she was feeling better. God, sometimes it took everything I tried to make her happy.

  I glanced at Lee, who was staring at me, eyebrows raised as if to ask, what’s going on? She’d been with my parents a dozen times over the years and had mostly seen the charming side of my mother’s personality. But I’d told her about my mother’s moods. I’d told her a thousand times.

  “Shouldn’t we have waited to be seated?” I saw the waiters near the bar, watching us. “What if Logan and Elise don’t get here for another hour?”

  “We have every right to sit here and wait,” my mother said.

  People came into the coffeehouse all the time to sit and wait. We were a destination, a hangout. But this was an expensive restaurant, on the first floor of my parents’ expensive hotel, and it made money by turning over tables. I felt so entitled, sitting here and waiting. I turned to my dad, who was reading the wine list.

  “They have a Chateau Montelena,” he said.

  “Is that expensive?” I asked.

  He nodded. Good. The restaurant was less likely to be angry with us if we sat here and waited with an expensive bottle of wine.

  “Of course, we could get a Chablis,” he said.

  “Just order the Chateau Montelena!” my mother said a bit too loudly, her thin lips pinched in a straight, flat line. I cringed and looked around but no one was paying attention to us.

  My dad signaled for a waiter. He wore his favorite blue blazer and a white button-down. His hair—he hadn’t had time to get it cut—was at least combed back off his face. The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes were deeper and more pronounced than normal, and I imagined he’d been up late last night with my mother. But he smiled as he turned to Lee and said, in his most energetic, earnest voice, “How fortunate that we get to see you, too! How is New York? How is ABC?”

  Lee glanced at me. All afternoon during the cab ride, the wait at the airport, the flight, and on the L, we talked about Patricia’s offer. One minute Lee was going, the next she wasn’t. The difficulties of the logistics had settled in. For example, as I said to her, how would she reestablish herself in New York when she came back? Would ABC give her a reference if she quit her job so soon after starting?

  “Everything’s going pretty well,” Lee said. “Thanks for having me tonight.”

  “Of course, our pleasure! You’re seeing college friends this weekend. My goodness, you’ll have a good time. Nothing like college friends.”

  I saw Lee’s head drop slightly and her eyes flutter and I felt a pinch in my stomach. If we’d gone back for a football game or one of the many get-togethers, maybe this weekend wouldn’t seem so loaded.

  “It’s supposed to rain all morning tomorrow,” my mother said.

  “People will still show up for your talk,” my dad said. “They always do.”

  “What’s your talk about?” Lee asked.

  My mother looked at Lee over the top of her reading glasses, perched on the end of her nose. “Minimalism and what the success of Listen, Before You Go was like. It’s the only thing people ever want to hear about.”

  “It’s a great book,” Lee said.

  “Yes, well, it may very well be my only great book.”

  “You’ve published two well-received novels,” Dad said. “There’ll be more.”

  “Saigon was not well received,” she said.

  I pointed to the menu. “Look, they have chicken marbella. Isn’t that what you had last year when you spoke in London? That you liked so much?”

  My mother sat up as she scanned the menu. “Yes, you’re right; well, look at that, I didn’t see it at first. Anders, remember that dinner?”

  “Yes, wonderful meal,” Dad said.

  She smiled, finally, and settled back in her chair. It was easy to distract her. I should have thought of this yesterday when she was on the couch and talking about ending it. Was she really okay?

  I glanced at my watch as the waiter poured the Chateau Montelena. Logan and Elise should be here soon. That I was looking forward to seeing her more than my brother was no surprise. Elise was wonderful. One night last summer, during a visit to the Vineyard, she and I sat on a stone wall overlooking the field that stretched down to the ocean and talked for hours. She was an academic but she didn’t act like one. She liked to talk about feelings. How does it feel to be
three years out of college? How does it feel to have a famous mother? She and Lee were the only people who’d ever asked me this question.

  I looked up from my menu as a couple about my parents’ ages walked past the table and sat at the bar off to our left. The woman wore a white linen dress, the man was in a suit and tie, and the tops of their heads and shoulders were wet from the rain. The woman took a cocktail napkin and dabbed the back of her neck. When she caught me looking, she smiled and shrugged. I smiled, too, and looked away. At least she had a sense of humor about it.

  I glanced at my watch again. Ducky had rented a suite at the hotel in Evanston where we were all staying. A party room, she’d called it. Everyone should be arriving there soon.

  “I’ve never had luck with rain,” my mother said. “People stay home.”

  “Your fans love you,” I said. “They’ll come out.”

  My dad winked at me. “Clare’s right. My goodness, we have ninety-seven people signed up for this talk. Ninety-seven!”

  “Think about the positive stuff,” I said.

  My mother nodded and glanced around. Book Talks and speaking engagements helped pay the bills. It was a coordinated effort orchestrated by my dad. Plane tickets supplied by the publisher. Additional books sold and signed. An article about my mother guaranteed in the hosting city’s newspaper. But I wondered if my mother also liked to do them because they kept her in the spotlight.

  “The last time I spoke here was three years ago,” she said. “I remember because a gentleman asked if I was going to write a sequel to Listen, Before You Go.”

  “I thought everyone asked you that.” I glanced at the bar where the man and woman were laughing with the bartender.

  “Not the way he asked. Remember, Anders, what he said?”

  Dad looked up from the wine he was swirling in his glass. “Yes, he said, ‘I want to know what happens to the little girl after her brother blows out his brains on the garage wall.’”

  My mother winced. “I’d never heard it asked quite like that.”