I'll Stay

by Karen Day

  Finally, when I heard the front door open two hours later, I rushed through the house and threw myself into Ben’s arms. He dropped his backpack and caught me. I kissed him hard on the lips and then lifted his big, brown-framed glasses and kissed his eyelids, too.

  “This is a nice surprise.” His white button-down, rumpled along the bottom, had three large yellow spots (mustard?) that fell in a perfect line down the front. His cheeks were stubbly from not shaving and his hair, still so short, was streaked with something blue. I touched it with my finger. Was it chalk?

  “I missed you,” I said.

  He grinned. “I missed you, too. How was it?”

  I picked up his backpack. “Come on. I’m making dinner.” He followed me into the kitchen and grinned when he saw the table. I handed him a bottle of Budweiser and then stirred the sauce simmering in a pan on the stove. He leaned against the counter, took a drink, and smacked his lips. “I’m psyched that you made dinner! I had cereal both nights because I worked so late.”

  “Well, my dinners haven’t been so great lately,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? I always love what you make.”

  See? He appreciated me. And he needed someone to take care of him. I bet I could even get the mustard stains out of his shirt although I’d have to ask someone how to do it. This was the kind of thing Elise might know. I felt a twist in my stomach when I saw her face in my mind. But now was not the time to miss her. Or anyone.

  “So, tell me about it.” Ben sat at the table.

  I wasn’t going to think about Christopher again—I planned to put that way, way behind me—and I wasn’t ready to talk about Lee or my mother, either. “It was good. But tell me why you worked all weekend.”

  “It’s been incredible.” Ben sat up, put his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “Last week this mid-level associate, Johansson, was fired. Patrick called him into his office and the next thing you know he’s escorted out of the building. Todd said he lied about work he was doing on Patrick’s class action lawsuit. Someone else said he just didn’t do the work. I think he probably lied and that’s why he got canned. You can’t do that. Lying ruins your credibility, forever. You know?”

  I leaned into the counter until the sharp edge caused a hot burst of pain in my hip. I winced but didn’t move and nodded slightly.

  “So, now they’re desperate,” he said. “And get this. Patrick asked me to fill in. This never happens to interns. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  “Wow.” I straightened. “What do you have to do?”

  “Can’t talk about the lawsuit, it’s confidential, but I can say that I’m becoming an expert on chemical wood preservation. Did you know that wood preservatives account for the single largest pesticide use in the United States? Take this nasty preservative, chromated copper arsenate. The arsenic in CCA is a known carcinogen. It damages the nervous system and a recent study linked it to birth defects. And yet it’s found in all this shit we use. Picnic tables, fences, decks, playground equipment.”

  He was talking so fast that his sentences ran into each other. I pointed to his empty beer bottle—did he want another?—but he shook his head.

  “You’d think, well, find another preservative that’s not toxic. But it’s not that simple. Billions of dollars are at stake. The whole thing is fascinating. Know what I kept thinking all weekend? That I’m going to love this. I’m going to love taking on new cases, researching, learning, arguing. God, the weekend flew by. And I brought home more reading to do tonight.”

  Just look at him, so passionate about his work. It was both comforting and familiar to see him so excited even if I couldn’t shake the sting I felt in my chest. Lying ruins your credibility. Yes, it did.

  I drained the pasta, mixed it with the sauce, and then carried everything over to the table. He smiled and squeezed my thigh and I thought that maybe tonight we’d go to bed early and I’d rub his back before we fooled around. Or maybe we’d sweep the dishes off the table and do it right here, right now, like in the movies.

  “So, you had a fun time?” he asked.

  “Well,” I said. “I’m happy to be back.”

  He lifted a forkful of pasta, shoved it into his mouth, and stared at me as he chewed. I had nowhere to go now. I had to talk. I started with Logan and Elise breaking up and how drunk and obnoxious my brother had been during dinner.

  “He yelled at my mom about Listen and said the restaurant looked like a funeral home, and he bit off my head when I asked about his flight. Then he had the nerve to tell everyone that Phoebe messed me up. Can you believe that?”

  I put my fork down, turned my head, and watched him.

  “What?” Ben asked. “What does a fictional character that your mom dreamed up twenty years ago have to do with you?”

  “I know, right?” I laughed even though I felt a rush of disappointment. But it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t understand. Over the years I’d told him about people comparing me to Phoebe, but I’d always done so in a flippant way and then laughed. Besides, how could he truly understand my mixed up feelings about this when I didn’t understand them?

  I told him about the wedding and the reception on the lake, Ducky’s makeover and Sarah’s hours in med school. And then I told him that Lee and I had gotten into a big fight. Just saying her name made my stomach seize.

  He stopped chewing, scrunched his forehead—in mock concern—and then grinned. “Does this mean your lesbian love affair is over?”

  Usually when he said things like this I punched him in the arm or teased him back. But I was in no mood to laugh. I sighed, suddenly exhausted, put my elbow on the table, and rested my chin on my palm. My hand smelled like the soap I’d used to scrub off the black-inked nine a.m.

  He cleared his throat. “Okay, what happened?”

  “On Saturday, Ducky, Sarah, Lee, and I were in our room,” I said. “It was the first time the four of us were alone together since Florida. So of course we started talking about what happened. I don’t know, Lee got mad and we had a fight.”

  “Wait a minute. Why did she get mad?”

  I dropped my hands into my lap and then squeezed the sides of my chair until my fingers ached. I shook my head. “It had to be about Florida. I got out and took forever to get back with help. But she said she wasn’t mad about that.”

  You fucking figure it out. I cringed and looked away.

  He nodded and shoved another forkful into his mouth. Still chewing, he said, “Look, you did nothing wrong. You escaped and went for help. It’s a shame what happened to Lee, but it’s not your fault that you got away and she didn’t.”

  I’d never told him the entire story of what happened that night nor was I telling him the full truth about the argument. The smell of this realization seemed to permeate the air like a pan of burned brownies.

  The phone rang. Lee! She was calling to apologize or tell me about her new roommates or to say that I didn’t need to figure out anything.

  Ben stood and walked toward the phone. Then he turned, after the second ring, and as he walked, said, “You called back Joel, right? About the writing center?”

  Joel. The writing center. I hadn’t called. What if he was on the phone now, calling to yell at me for messing up that woman’s paper? Ben would be angry. This would spoil our night.

  “You called, right?” Ben reached for the phone.

  “Yeah.” Something thick and heavy turned over in my stomach and I thought, one lie begets another lie that begets another lie that begets another. I was sliding into something very dark and murky and sticky, and I didn’t like it.

  Ben picked up the phone and then straightened and said, “Patrick! No, you’re not interrupting anything important.” He stretched the phone cord—it was so long that once I sat on the driveway while talking to Lee—and went into the dining room.

  I pushed away my uneaten plate of pasta and stared at the flame of the candle in the middle of the table. All the energy and giddiness I felt wh
en I first got home had suddenly crashed. I’d just lied to Ben. Tomorrow I had to face Joel with his bloodshot, beady eyes. On the plane, I’d slept instead of worked on my D. H. Lawrence paper. And Lee and I had a big fight.

  You fucking figure it out.

  Figure out what? What I wanted to do with my life? Why I didn’t take risks? Why I took care of my mother? Why I left Lee with three grown men? I thought about the vision I had of myself in Chicago, the drowned woman whose autopsy revealed nothing inside.

  It was a crime not to know who you are. What was it that Patricia told us during the lecture back in college and then again in Lee’s film? Life is. Life isn’t. It was something about how a life should be lived.

  That terrible night in Florida was the problem. Since then, nothing had been the same for Lee and me. Nothing! It was like a roadblock with no detour sign. The proverbial elephant that sat in the room, sucking the oxygen. I’d give anything, anything at all, to go back and undo what happened.

  “You’re not going to believe it!” Ben charged into the kitchen and then stopped and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh, no. What’s wrong?”

  I turned in my seat and cried, “Am I a good person?”

  “What?” He sat and scooted his chair until our knees were pressed into each other. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  “Am I a good person or am I mean?” I began to cry. “I just want to be a good person. I want to be as good as you.”

  “Clare! You’re the nicest person I know. You’re kind. You always ask people about themselves. Is this about your fight with Lee?”

  He was so earnest in his mustard-stained shirt and chalk-streaked hair, a spot of spaghetti sauce in the corner of his mouth and smudges on his glasses, and I realized, suddenly, with heartbreaking clarity, that there would always be a part of me that he’d never know.

  “What are we doing?” I blurted, terrified. “It’s like we’re playing house.”

  Ben scrunched his forehead and looked away, so serious that I wondered if he was thinking about some chemical wood preservation fact. But then he turned to me and said, “We’re trying things out, I guess. Right?”

  “But what does it mean?” I asked.

  Ben, flustered, sat back in his seat and took his hand through his hair. “Look, you’re the one who doesn’t want to ever talk about us. You keep saying, let’s just see how it goes. You’ve always been like that. Since college.”

  I sucked in a hot breath. Last night Lee had said, you keep everything so close to the vest. You can’t be open and vulnerable with me. Or anyone! But I was trying now to be more open, more vulnerable, wasn’t I?

  “I love you,” I said. “I know I do.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took my hands. They felt soft and warm. He grinned. “I love you, too. You’re a good person. And I’ve got some amazing news. That was Patrick. He said the partners are thrilled with my work and they’re going to offer me a job. They’re not going to wait until the end of summer.”

  A job here in Boston. “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “It’s a great firm and it’ll mean so much work. Late nights, weekends. But I can’t think of anything more interesting.” He squeezed my hands. “We should get an apartment together and think about, you know, getting married or something.”

  Was this a proposal? I felt a burst of panic in my chest but nodded.

  He squeezed my hands again. “This is what I’ve always wanted. An amazing job like this. And you! This is what I’ve been hoping for.”

  And I finally felt relieved because he was so happy and because this was what he always wanted and because just as I felt myself getting smaller and smaller, he pulled me into the safety of his arms.

  CHAPTER 17

  At the writing center on Tuesday, I had four students, each scheduled for half hour sessions. My first two appointments came on time and both wanted help writing personal essays for comp classes. The third wanted to talk over a sociology essay and the last needed me to proofread his resume. These tasks were fairly straightforward and I felt confident that I’d been reasonably helpful. Packing up, I heard Joel’s voice and felt a lump grow in my throat. This was it.

  He was on the phone but when he saw me standing in his doorway, he hung up and motioned me in. Leaning back in his chair, he began rubbing his chin. I tried not to look into his bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” I said. “I was out of town for the weekend.”

  He lifted his hand from his chin and waved, dismissing my apology. Then he frowned. “Tell me about the student you saw last week.”

  “I couldn’t seem to explain how to support her thesis,” I said. “I got flustered. It was my fault. I should have been more patient. I feel terrible that I didn’t help her.”

  He began rubbing his chin again. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, jammed with paper and books, reminded me of my mother’s office at home. I wasn’t a patient person anymore, I decided. I panicked. If I’d been able to take home the woman’s paper, where I could slowly and quietly work, where I had time and people weren’t staring at me and expecting so much, then maybe I’d have been able to save her. I mean help her. Little dots of sweat broke out across my upper lip.

  “I appreciate your willingness to take responsibility,” he said. “Students come here seeking help for a variety of reasons. They want a fresh set of eyes or a quick fix. Others have some kind of writing block or disability. In other words, it’s not always the tutor’s fault for not being able to help.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of this.

  “I suggest trying to keep your composure. You can also bring up this case at a writing center meeting. Others might have suggestions. Okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  I stumbled out of his office, down the stairs, and out onto the street. Then I leaned against the building and sighed loudly. The air was damp and heavy and the sun was hidden behind soupy gray clouds. I felt the heat rise up through the pavement and into my feet and the sweat gather under my arms and in the small of my back. And yet I felt cooler somehow, maybe because I was done with the writing center for today. And because I was relieved that Joel hadn’t yelled at me. I didn’t know why I always assumed I was wrong, but I was grateful for the confidence boost. I’d need it. I was on my way to a private tutoring session that Mr. Donahue, my dad’s best friend, had asked me to do, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I straightened and began to walk but stopped and turned when I heard my name. Lucy, her big black bag swinging on her shoulder, hurried toward me.

  “I thought that was you.” She stopped in front of me, her droopy eyes squinting and her yellow curls extra frizzy in the humidity. “I’m glad I ran into you. So, did you give my letter to your mom? What did she say?”

  It had only been five days since she gave me the letter. No normal person would expect a response this soon. “I was out of town for the weekend and haven’t seen her yet.”

  Lucy’s lips dipped into a frown. “There’s no urgency if I’m not threatening legal action. Am I right?”

  “She was out of town, too,” I said. “You know, people can read into things and believe that there’s something there when there isn’t and—”

  “This is my story.” Her voice was louder, more forceful. “My brother came home from Vietnam completely shattered and I tried to help him. I read to him. I took him on walks. That girl in the story? Phoebe? That was me!”

  I felt my nostrils flare and a pain shoot down my jaw from where I was clenching my teeth so tightly. No, I’m Phoebe!

  I took a deep breath. Thank God I didn’t say this out loud. I needed to get it together and not let her confuse and anger me. I needed to think about what to do.

  “It’s all in the letter,” she said. “You should read it. If you still have it.”

  “Of course I still have it. But my parents are traveling and I don’t know when I’ll see them again.
It might be weeks.”

  I forced myself to hold her glare. Then she nodded as her shoulders fell and her mouth curved again, this time into a pout, and she looked every bit like a wilted sunflower. I felt myself soften, embarrassed that I’d reacted so poorly to her comments about Phoebe. I should dismiss her as an opportunist who merely wanted something—like the others—from my mother. But there was such sadness about her. And when I thought of my mother’s hesitation the other night in Chicago and her reluctance to ever offer any background information on Listen, I felt uneasy.

  “Why didn’t you ask someone else’s opinion about your story?” I asked. “Why did you let my mother’s reaction stop you from writing?”

  “Your mom meant everything to me! And she liked me, too. I had entire passages of Paradise Lost memorized and she said I was the only student ever to do this. When I told her about how terrible my family was being to me, she said she’d help. No other teacher was that nice! I used to think how lucky I’d be to have an actual mother like her. You know, so smart but also warm and nice.”

  Were we talking about the same person? Just how close were they? Did they see each other outside of class and office hours? What did they do and talk about? I’d never heard anyone describe my mother this way. I felt anger building as I stood there, trying to make sense of it all.

  “And then she stole my story.” Lucy pushed her yellow hair out of her face and frowned. “So, you’ll give her the letter?”

  “Yes!”

  I started for the T, in the opposite direction, anger pulsing in my cheeks. I knew my mother better than anyone did. I didn’t care how much of Paradise Lost Lucy had memorized; my mother wouldn’t friend students nor did she steal this woman’s story. But I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Because if I knew my mother so well, why didn’t I know where the story of Listen came from?

  * * *

  Marta Volkov was a brown-haired, green-eyed fourth grader who lived with her dad, the superintendent of Mr. Donahue’s building, her mom, her sister, and about thirty other people. At least it seemed that way when I stood in the entrance to their cramped, windowless, basement apartment. The people, who seemed to be stuffed into every crevice of the room, were watching The Price Is Right on a small TV resting on cardboard boxes in the corner.