Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  “We don’t have to stay here, do we?” I whisper.

  “Oh, thank god,” says Sam, already grabbing her bag. Kirsten shrugs and we return to the car.

  I feel like we’re the girls in Troop Beverly Hills, fleeing nature for a luxury hotel. Every year in college, the three of us watched that movie while gorging on the Girl Scout cookies Kirsten ordered from her nieces. Only this is upstate New York, not Beverly Hills, plus it’s off-season. The only lodging we find within a thirty-mile radius is a doll-themed bed-and-breakfast with a single vacancy: the Barbie room, containing one king-sized bed.

  In the mildewed lobby, Sam pulls us into a huddle. “We could sleep in the car.”

  “Let’s just pretend it’s the American Girl room,” Kirsten says. She requests a key.

  “Oh joy,” Sam says under her breath.

  “You mean ‘Oh, Felicity!’” Kirsten says, looking thrilled. “Get it?”

  “Sam, you should name your daughter Felicity,” I say. “Then we’ll finally have the missing member of our American Girl crew.”

  Sam screws up her face. “I’d sooner name her Gloom. Or Woe.”

  “Or Dolores,” Kirsten says. “That’s ‘sadness’ in Spanish.”

  The innkeeper clears her throat. “Dinner is being served. It’s family style.” The aroma wafting from the kitchen can best be described as grease, and sitting around the table in the next room are eight deeply lined faces, all rimmed with wisps of gray-white hair, all straining to check out us newcomers. The only sounds are silverware against porcelain. It’s chilling.

  “Goody, I’m starving,” says Kirsten, right as Sam says, “We already ate.”

  “Maybe we’ll catch dessert,” I add, motioning my friends toward the stairs. The table’s gazes stick to us like glue.

  Entering our room, I take in the piles of Barbie dolls and related accessories. “Holy shit,” says Sam, “it’s a pedophile’s paradise.”

  “I think it’s, uh, nice,” Kirsten says unconvincingly.

  We change into our PJs and climb onto the one bed, where Sam hoards all the pillows to prop up her belly. Kirsten arranges a handful of Barbies into a line: Ballerina Barbie, Equestrian Barbie, Bridal Barbie, Rock Star Barbie. Sam and I watch in awe at our friend’s transformation into a glib fashion commentator as she trots each doll across the bedspread, detailing their outfits and personal styles.

  Sam grabs a doll, contorts its legs into a spread-eagle, and initiates a series of audible inhales and exhales. “‘Help me, help me, I’m in labor!’” She trots over a Ken doll. “‘It’s okay, bae, I’m here. I’ll be dad of the year to the little twerp. What, you want an epidural? No way, sweets—we’re going au naturel.’”

  “What is this, play therapy?” I ask. Kirsten tosses me Bridal Barbie, and I run my fingers across her dress, a big pouf of taffeta with a gauzy pink overlay. I cover her placid smile with the veil.

  “Sorry,” Sam says. “Tom’s had us on the circuit meeting doulas and midwives, even though I told him I’ll be giving birth at a state-of-the-art hospital in Manhattan with all the drugs on offer. He thinks I still might change my mind.”

  “What’s your take on eating the placenta?” Kirsten asks. “I hear it’s very nourishing.”

  “Gross,” Sam says. “I’m going Western medicine all the way. I’m trying to get my doctor to advance-prescribe me pills for the baby blues, just in case. And I’m fighting my insurance to cover a post-partum tummy tuck.”

  “Maybe you should launch a Kickstarter,” I suggest.

  “Project Eliminate Sam’s Belly Jiggle,” Kirsten says, laughing. She tries to grab hold of her own belly, but there’s nothing to grab.

  Sam chucks a Barbie at her. “Oh, don’t be jealous of how fat I’m getting.”

  Kirsten strokes the doll’s hair. “So, I have news. I’m moving ahead with adoption.”

  “Oh good,” I say. “I knew Caleb would come around.”

  “Well, he hasn’t yet, not quite. But whatever he decides, I’m going ahead with it.” She sounds confident, but her smile is brittle. “If need be, I can always get some fancy firm job, quadruple my salary, and hire an au pair.” Sam and I silently take in the weight of this. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Or, I will be.

  “Anyway,” she says, waving a hand to change the subject, “Molly, tell us about wedding planning. You sent around those bridesmaid dresses ages ago. Did you pick one yet?” But I’m distracted, imagining the lucky baby who’ll find his way to Kirsten from some faraway land. “Molly?”

  “Huh? Oh.” Kirsten’s confession gives me the courage to voice aloud what I’ve previously only admitted to myself in private, fleeting moments: “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Whatever you choose is fine with me. Any style or color or—”

  “Not about the dresses.”

  I keep my eyes on Bridal Barbie, worrying the lacy hem of her skirt and flexing her stupid arched feet that only allow her to stand upright while in high heels. Kirsten’s comfort is instantaneous: “That’s totally normal, Molly. The stress is overwhelming, and you and Gabe have so much going on. Before my wedding I was so freaked out, Caleb and I got into a screaming fight over corsages. Corsages!”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say, although from what I recall, Kirsten and Caleb were more in love than ever in the lead-up to their wedding. Also, it isn’t corsages that’s stressing me out. Plus, it’s only true that Gabe has so much going on; not me.

  “It’s just a case of nerves. And I’m here to help. Give me tasks, please!”

  “Thanks, Kirsten,” I say. “Are you guys tired? I’m wiped.”

  I catch my friends exchanging a look. Only after we turn out the lights do I realize that Sam didn’t chime in at all.

  • • •

  It’s the longest night in memory. Wheezing, whistling snores penetrate the inn’s walls, although apparently reaching only my ears; Sam and Kirsten are out cold, unresponsive to my Pssts. I’m freaked out by everything: the room’s unfamiliar shadows, the distant creak of a door, and the inn’s other guests whom I have a sudden suspicion are some kind of elderly coven. According to middle-of-the-night logic, the mass of dolls surrounding me seem like they might spring to life; tinny high-pitched giggles echo through my head like nightmares. My mind darts to Lana, off in another strange room, in some little town with a too-quaint name, experiencing whatever hell withdrawal is. I know I’m lucky to be here with my two best friends, even if they’re currently unconscious. I try to imagine the future, when both of them are mothers. When they’re busy with their babies, and Leo and Lana are working on repairing their marriage, and my mother is nestled in her love nest with John making waffles or not making waffles, and Gabe is at work on his next novel … where will I be and what will I be doing?

  My urge to escape is too powerful to resist. I wriggle free from the warmth of the blankets and my friends, grab the first jacket I see, and tiptoe out the door. I soar down the staircase and around the banister, then race toward the lobby. By the front door, I freeze, startled by what looks like a ghost. It takes me a solid minute to realize it’s just one of the other guests, in a nightgown, her silver hair streaming behind her like a tail. “Shthph STOP!” she hisses. It sends a shiver down my spine, even as I know she must be sleepwalking. I allow her a wide berth as I pass.

  It’s creepy-beautiful out in the moonlight, the air streaky with mist. I circle the inn a few times, relieved simply to be pumping my legs. I’m invigorated. I feel like my lungs can fit double their usual oxygen. When I shove my hands into front pocket of the borrowed jacket, my fingers touch metal: the keys to the rental car.

  I haven’t driven in months. It’s a rush to gun the gas and zip down the pavement at sixty, seventy, seventy-five miles per hour, to steer myself wherever I want to go. And yet, I also sense I’m being driven by something external. I remember something Gabe said months ago—it feels like a century ago—about the larger forces at work in our lives. Fate. Navigating the dark,
empty roads, I feel at once lost and guided, oriented and astray.

  Later I will wonder exactly when I realized where I was going, and how I knew how to get there, and if in fact I’d known all along that I would end up there. I park the car and step out into air fragrant with foliage, the moon on maximum wattage, the stars a billion winks. New York City seems like it’s on another planet.

  It’s 2:30 a.m., but Charlie appears at the door moments after I knock. He’s in only his boxers, his skin pale with sleep, prickling with goosebumps in the chill. My own skin is warm and buzzing. Charlie runs a hand through his mess of hair and then yawns with his whole body—arms reached, torso arched, muscles flexed. I feel as if my muscles have all melted. I have to remind myself to breathe.

  “Hey, it’s Molly,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Gee golly.”

  I follow him into a cabin as cozy and cluttered as the one from earlier today was dreary and bare. I survey his things like they’re precious artifacts: pressed leaves tacked to the wall, stack of geology books on the floor, liquor bottles and cans of peanuts on the counter. On the bed in a tangle is the knit red blanket that I recognize from all Charlie’s other beds in all our other encounters. I feel outside of time.

  Charlie doesn’t ask what I’m doing here, or how I’ve been. He doesn’t offer to take my jacket or invite me to take a seat. He just watches me, patient and seemingly uncurious about what will happen next. I, on the other hand, am so curious and so impatient that I think I might hyperventilate. I take off my sneakers and jacket, and have to stop myself from shedding everything else all at once. Charlie’s face spreads into a smile as he takes in my outfit: flannel pajamas and fleece socks. I couldn’t look less sexy if I tried. As if on cue, he says, “You’re stunning no matter what, aren’t you?”

  I feel like I’m on a balance beam, teetering back and forth, like I have an equal chance of staying upright and stumbling over, of falling toward Charlie and away from him. His fingers against my waist steady me, and music cues up in my head. It’s that sweet, slow song from all those years ago, when Charlie and I were teenagers waltzing around his room and then falling asleep in each other’s arms, our first night together. I realize I’m humming it, and then I’m moving, sliding and spinning around the small space of Charlie’s cabin. Whatever is happening with my arms and hips seems beyond my control, but this strange dance is all mine. I feel utterly myself, in all my versions—a child before I met Charlie, a teenager falling in love with my brother’s friend, an adult reunited with my first love, the person I was a few months ago down by the lake on that frozen night, and me right here and now, Charlie’s eyes tracking my every movement.

  Oddly, my thoughts go to Dahlia, alluring maddening spirit of contradictions. I conjure up her striptease, that party performance and seduction and private expression all at once. Then I feel as though I’m channeling her, like she’s alive in me, directing my movements, propelling me toward Charlie’s body and into his bed.

  Charlie takes me into his arms. It’s both familiar and new, welcome and terrifying. The kisses and caresses are little shocks of pleasure, immediate and arresting, even as they also contain memories, and memories of memories. I drop into my body, synapses on high alert, swimming in sensation. Our desire for each other is like quicksand, a thrilling, bottomless acceleration. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for months and finally I’m inhaling big, greedy gulps of oxygen. As Charlie moans my name, I flip myself over and press my face into his pillow, taking in his scent. His hands grip my hips, and his body is heavy against mine as he rocks me back and forth. He’s kissing the nubs at the back of my neck, and tugging at my hair, and there seems to be no separation between his touch and my sensation. It occurs to me that I could be anyone right now: me, or Dahlia, or who knows who. The thought sends me over my first peak of pleasure. And then I’m falling, deeper and deeper into this space that feels both inconceivable and inevitable, that’s at once uncharted and like home. I can’t imagine ever climbing my way out again, and what a delicious relief it is to realize I don’t even care.

  • • •

  The spell of stillness is broken by the breeze tickling leaves against the window and birds announcing the day. Then I feel Charlie’s wince against my chest. “This won’t end well,” he says, before erupting into a hacking cough.

  I sit up, defensive, but Charlie points to two birds hopping up on a branch outside. “They didn’t migrate this winter. Now they’re stealing each other’s nests and food and their morning song is off.”

  “So, it’s more like their mourning song, with a ‘u,’” I say. Charlie doesn’t react. Gabe is the one who appreciates wordplay—my throat constricts, and I force the thought from my head.

  “All the extra carbon in the atmosphere is mixing them up. They don’t recognize the world they’re living in. At the rate we’re messing with the environment, a few of these species will be gone within a decade.”

  “That’s sad,” I say, wondering, is this really what we’re talking about—birds? Also, is any of this real? Am I truly here?

  “It’s tragic is what it is,” Charlie says. “Anyway, I think there’s coffee.” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchenette, before yawning and dipping back into sleep. Like all of this is perfectly normal, my waking up beside him in bed, both of our clothes strewn about the floor.

  As Charlie snoozes, I listen to the birdsong. It sounds sweet to me. I wonder how he could hear these notes as somber. I’m hit with a wave of déjà vu—a memory of the yurt, waking up with Gabe, also nestled among trees, listening to the birds, lying under the same wide sky. A wave of shame rolls through me. Suddenly, Charlie’s body feels sweaty and hot at my side, his leg like dead weight on my hip. I wriggle out from under it, catching a whiff of his sour breath, and I feel disgusted—with him, with myself, with humanity in general, and again specifically with myself.

  The chilly air is a shock to my skin. I’m still shivering even after I pull on my flannel pajamas, lace up my sneakers, and zip up my jacket. I take one last look at Charlie, slumbering obliviously in his fetal curl. Hang onto this, I tell myself, against my better judgment. The screen door makes an ugly screech on my way out, but I swear I hear something else, too. Charlie’s voice: Goodbye, or, Don’t go, or, I love you. Or maybe just the rustling of the trees. I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

  But I don’t leave right away. Instead, I sit frozen behind the steering wheel, clutching the car keys. I watch the birds do their thing: flitting about, trilling and tweeting, pausing on a branch. To me they seem perfectly fine, happy even. But what do I know? Maybe they can sense they’re in peril, and they figure, might as well enjoy themselves while they can. The truth is, I can’t muster up much feeling for a bunch of birds. Really, I’m waiting, hyper-aware of the faded green rectangle in the corner of my eye, Charlie’s front door, an idle image. Half of me wishes Charlie would burst through it and beg me to stay; the other half dreads the same thing. Everything around me looks peaceful and calm. I probably appear the same way. But inside, I am roiling and turbulent, and I know I don’t belong here. I start the ignition and speed off.

  Chapter 26

  WITH NO CELL service, it takes me fifteen minutes of zigzagging to find a breakfast spot. Ravenous, I tear through two bagels before I’m back to the inn.

  I pause outside the Barbie room, take a deep breath, and crack the door. “Hey guys,” I say, aiming for breezy. “I was up early, so I ran out for bagels and coffee.”

  Kirsten hops out of bed. “Carbs and caffeine, hurrah!”

  “How early?” Sam asks. I feel her eyes on my neck, where I didn’t think to check if Charlie’s nibbling left evidence. “And why’d you go out in your pajamas?”

  I shrug. “You were both snoring like steam engines. I don’t know how your guys deal with you.”

  “I don’t know how yours deals with you,” Sam says, low enough that I can pretend not to hear.

  “Everythings for Sam and me, and sesame for you, Ki
rsten.” As we eat, I tell the story of my middle-of-the-night doll phobia; it’s entertaining in the light of day.

  • • •

  We ask the innkeeper to recommend a hike. “There’s a trail down the road,” she says, eyeing Sam’s stomach. “Mostly flat.”

  Sam is moodily silent, and I don’t have the energy to converse. Luckily, Kirsten can be counted on to keep up a chipper monologue about the plants, the bugs, the view. “I can totally imagine living in a place like this,” she says. “I’m starting to feel super-over the city.” I murmur a vague acknowledgment.

  Half a mile in, we spot two fellow inn guests ahead on the trail. The woman is stooped, taking tentative steps, as the man guides her with a hand on the small of her back.

  “How romantic,” Kirsten says. “Think of all they must’ve been through together.”

  “Sweet,” I say, but really I’m eyeing their decrepit figures and mulling over the cruelty of time. I flash on a disturbing thought: The older we get, the more terrible acts we have a chance to commit; maybe aging is just the piling up of so much guilt and shame until our insides can’t take it anymore, and then our bones start disintegrating and our skin starts wrinkling and sagging. I hold up my hands to examine them for age spots.

  “So, guys, what should we watch next for Netflix-and-Spill?” Kirsten asks.

  “I hear some people really like The Affair,” Sam says. “Or Big Little Lies.” She’s walking behind me, and her words feel like stabs in my back. I pick up my pace.