by Dana Cameron
“Thanks.” I didn’t really meet his gaze, just gave him a casual flip of the head and an unconvincing imitation smile as I turned back to the carousel on the table.
I could practically feel him hesitate behind me, and sighed with relief as he moved toward the door. I heard it shut and relaxed, just then noticing how my fingers were trembling as I tried to replace my slides in order.
Then I heard soft footsteps on the carpet behind me.
“Emma, can’t we talk?” He had a riveting voice, low, a little husky, very sure.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Sure. What do you want to talk about?” I kept my eyes on my work, carefully blowing a hair from the dark square of the image. Nice picture, artifacts from Fort Providence, very early seventeenth-century, the photographer did a good job on them…
“No, I mean, really talk. About…about what’s bothering you.”
I kept focusing on the slides, each tinny little click as they fit into the slots a small victory for me and my composure. “What’s bothering me.” I shook my head. “What do you want, Duncan?”
That was a mistake. “I want you to talk to me like I’m a person. We can’t go on this way forever, can we?”
I shrugged. “It’s worked okay so far.” Even as I spoke, I could feel my face growing hotter and hotter.
He shrugged. “We don’t run into each other all that often. The big conferences are so big we don’t meet. The little ones…I’m not usually at.”
Duncan never bothered with the regional meetings. Not a big enough audience for him.
“But I don’t want it to be like that,” he was saying. “I mean, doesn’t this feel bad to you?”
“It’s small potatoes compared to how I felt when you dumped me on my ass!” I hadn’t meant for it to come out like that—I hadn’t meant for it to come out at all.
He moved back, surprised by my anger. “That was a long time ago. Can’t we even talk to each other? Can’t we be civil?”
I sat back and looked at him closely for the first time: Yes, he had aged, but the lines in his face added character. He was tanned, but not the same way I remembered: this was more an expensive winter vacation tan than a fieldwork brown. He’d always been a little proud of his hair, and so he still hadn’t cut it short, though I noticed there was a skillful part that might just disguise a receding hairline. A little bit of grey in the beard, now carefully and closely trimmed. Gray eyes, still no need of glasses. Damn his eyes.
“Hmmm. I say hello, I nod, I keep out of your way. No firearms, no knives. Civility city.”
“Not my definition of civility, but I can see that it’s been an effort for you.”
There was the first sign of his temper. Good—why? Why does he care?
I took a deep breath, and the words came out like soda rushing from a shaken bottle. “Yeah, an effort. Why shouldn’t it be? We had a lot of plans and you changed your mind all of a sudden, and I was left looking like an idiot.”
There was the faintest flicker of satisfaction across Duncan’s face: I’d revealed a weakness. “And you’ve always hated looking like—”
My face went warm again and I tried to unclench my teeth. “You don’t have the right to psychoanalyze me, Duncan. You never said goodbye, you never had anything to say for yourself, so don’t start now. You don’t have the right.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Okay, I’m going about this the wrong way. I didn’t handle things well when we ended. Then it was, what…another two years before we saw each other? Not much had changed, I was still figuring things out. Then another five years, and then you were married, and I was married and we never sorted it all out, the way I should have when we broke up.”
“Let’s get the semantics right, shall we?” I jabbed a finger at him. “You split.”
“Fine, okay,” he said quickly. “I apologize for not being a better human being then, for not knowing better how to do things.”
I looked at him, disbelieving. If there were words I’d ever wanted to hear, it was these, but they were nearly twenty years too late.
“I’m serious, I mean it. But I’m glad I did it; it worked out better in the long run. I’m just sorry you’re still hurt.” Duncan shifted and sighed. “I miss you—!”
I threw the slide carousel down onto the table.
“Wait! I don’t mean it like that! Jesus, I forgot what your temper could be like!”
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t stick around then, isn’t it?” My temper’s only getting worse as I get older. He didn’t do anything to improve it. I never let myself go like this. I could barely contain myself and I hated it.
“Emma, it would have been a mistake! I thought it was then, and I was right! I knew I wasn’t ready—what kid is when he’s twenty-three?”
I took deep breaths, working to calm myself. “I knew. At least, I was pretty sure.” And I was a year younger than you, I added to myself.
He shrugged. “Maybe you were. Can’t you forgive me for not being ready? For being scared?”
It was my turn to shrug. “I don’t have a problem with people being scared. I have a problem when they don’t handle it well.”
“I apologized for that already.”
We both knew there was a big, nasty elephant still standing in the middle of the room. “And the other thing?” There were a lot of “other things,” and I was curious to see which one he’d pick.
“Yeah, and you know that lasted about ten minutes, same as my next half-dozen ‘relationships.’ It’s taken me a long time to sort out my act.”
I said, “I just want to keep the story straight. You were seeing her long before you walked out on me.” Christ, why couldn’t I keep from sounding so shrill? “If we’re going to discuss it. Civilly.” As soon as I said it, I realized that I didn’t want to discuss it, I was too tired and had too much else I’d rather do. Get a Brazilian wax, clean a septic tank, shove splinters under my nails…
“Okay.” He turned to the door, then paused. What would it take him to get all the way through that door and close it behind him? “My mother really appreciated the note that you sent. When Dad died.”
Damn it, that was low. And just when I had been working up a really good head of steam. “Your dad was a great guy,” I said simply. “And your mother…I really liked her a lot. It was the least I could do.”
“She misses you. A lot. She likes Cindy—my wife, now—but she really liked you. She wouldn’t mind hearing from you.”
I snorted. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
“It’s for Mom. That’s all.”
“I’ll see you, Duncan.”
He finally left. I waited, then picked up my slides, finished placing them back in order, and left the slide room. I ducked back into the doorway when I saw Jay was also heading for the elevators. Thank God; I was pretty sure he didn’t see me. I just didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone.
No such luck. “Emma! Get your ass in here!” Lissa called from the bar.
Much of our poker group had coalesced around Laurel’s table by this time; I was reminded of the old computer game, Life, when groups of cells formed, moved, broke off, reformed. I shook my head; I was way too tired.
“Now, Fielding!” Chris bellowed: He was deep into the beer and I went over to keep him from shouting again.
“I’m heading up to my room,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m beat!”
“What! It’s only Wednesday! You can’t crap out on us so soon!” he said. “Let me get you a drink.”
“I’m serious, man. I’ve had a rough night.”
“Why, what’s wrong, Emma?”
“Oh, I…I went for a walk and got the stuffing scared out of me. Noises outside spooked me. I ran all the way from the beach to my room. I was just checking my slides to try and calm down, but I’m going to go to sleep now.”
“Hey, Emma got scared by Sue’s ghost,” Lissa yelled, laughing hysterically.
“Emma need
s to lay off work, if she’s seeing ghosts,” Scott said. “C’mon, have another drink!”
“Tomorrow, I promise,” I said. “G’night everyone.”
After a few more protests, I escaped. Once I got up to my room, I glanced at the clock but went straight for the phone anyway.
A sleepy, grumpy voice answered. “Hello?”
I didn’t let it bother me. My younger sister, Charlotte—and while she might be Carrie to her few friends and veterinarian colleagues, she’d always be my kid sister Bucky to me—is always either sleepy or grumpy. “It’s me, Bucks.”
“Hey, Em.” I heard muffled voices, the television being muted in the background. “What’s up?”
“I can’t just call you to say hi?”
“Not when you’re at a conference. Not at this time of night. If you have the time for calling, it’s usually Brian.” There was a pause. “So how’s the weather in New Hampshire?”
Damn. She knew. “Cold. Started snowing like mad.”
“It’s already dumped more than a foot here. Duncan’s there, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“Seen him, have you?”
“Yep. Today at the tour I gave of the site.” I paused. “He just cornered me in the slide room.”
“Talk to him?”
“Some. Not much.” Not well, I added to myself.
“Good. He’s a shithead and I hope he burns in hell, the fat lump of pig vomit.”
“Bucky…” I don’t know why I felt compelled to defend Duncan, as I felt pretty much the same as my sister. I was just more able, or willing, to compartmentalize my feelings and leave them—I hoped—to fade over the years.
“He left you a letter, a note on your bureau, for when you came back from break and…poof! That was it.”
“It was a selfish thing to do,” I agreed carefully.
“Selfish? Selfish! You’re kidding me! Goddamned pretty boy, mama’s boy, son of a bitch, tail-chasing, monkey-humping, loser, suck-up—”
I let her go on for a while, knowing that it was pretty much useless to break in before she’d gotten some of the poison out of her system.
“Hey, kiddo—?”
“—and whatever happily lives in a diseased weasel’s lower intestine would cross the street rather than run into him!”
She drew a breath and I tried again. “Okay, Bucks? Feel better?”
“You know my opinion on the subject, Em. Why else would you bring it up, unless you wanted some sisterly support?”
“Ah…good question. I don’t know what I want.” I suddenly felt exhausted. Bed. I wanted bed.
“Well, I know what you need, and I have just the baseball bat for you to use. Aluminum, bought just for the purpose, kept safe and shiny all these years—”
“Bucky, lay off.”
“I’ve always hated him, Emma. I’m just glad you got out of it before it was too late.”
“He was the one who got out of it. I would have married him.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You would have come to your senses before anything drastic happened.”
“Bucky.” I took a deep breath, ashamed at how much effort it took to say the next words. “I loved him.”
“Like you love Brian?”
“God, no,” I said, without thinking. “I mean, no, of course not, now. But I was happy with him at the time, you know?”
“No, you weren’t. You two never stopped fighting. You were always arguing.”
“No…I mean, yes, we argued a lot.” I shook my head, trying to remember clearly. “We were young. Competitive, you know how it is.” Or maybe she didn’t; charges of laziness or performing at sub-ability levels had always been levied at my brilliant sister. Where any such comment would have driven me mad, she paid no attention and did exactly what she wanted. “We were undergraduates with a mission, ready to take the world by storm. You couldn’t not argue, not the way we were.”
“Right. Because you were both exactly the same, that’s all. That’s not love, that’s narcissism. Maybe even masturbation. You felt the same way about enough things that it seemed like you had a lot in common. And it was probably the sex, too. I never asked, but I assume it was at least acceptable—”
I looked away, even though there was no one to make eye contact with, and felt my face burn. I wished I could blank it all out, I hated knowing that other people knew how young and weak and stupid I’d been. I hated how it could still affect me, that it wouldn’t just go away.
“—and I am certain that was the extent of it. There, that help?”
I stared at the numbers on the phone for room service and the concierge. “Oh, sure, as much as having my nearest and dearest tell me what an idiot I am ever helps.”
“I was dumping on him, not you. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, okay, sure, right. So, how’re things with you?”
“Good. Busy.”
I heard a muffled voice in the background saying “Carrie? What is it?”
A suspicion struck me. “And Joel?”
“What about him?”
The wariness in my sister’s voice told the whole story. She’d gotten back together with a perfectly decent guy she’d been scared enough to ditch, and still didn’t have the guts to admit that I’d been right about him, and about her, and how good he was for her. It took a sister’s perspective, I suppose, to cut through the ego and get to the real story. I didn’t mind; it was good for her to be challenged once in a while.
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.” She paused then admitted it. “He’s right here.”
“Oh, jeez, if I’m interrupting something—”
“No. He lives here now.”
I lost interest in the hotel phone numbers. “He lives—what? What do you—?”
“He moved in. Two weeks ago.”
“And just when were you going to tell me?” I could barely keep the disbelief out of my voice.
“Don’t get all huffy with me! I’m telling you now. Why, did you plan on stalking him at his old address or something?”
“No, you know what I mean! Well, I’m glad. Congratulations.”
“Why? For what?”
“It’s nice, that’s why. Don’t act so suspicious. He’s a good guy.”
“It’s nice, okay. It’s also late. I want to get to sleep.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay, Em? Bye.”
She didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye. I hung up, thought about calling Brian at Kam’s, but I didn’t want to disturb them; it really was too late for anyone but a Fielding. All I wanted was my bed; I was grateful for the exhaustion and the cooler room. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. Luckily for me, I fell asleep almost immediately and I wasn’t subjected to an endless playback of my every personal interaction, past and present.
Chapter 4
THERE WAS A BLURRED BUZZING IN MY HEAD THAT wouldn’t go away. I began to realize that it wasn’t just a part of some vague dream and found myself being dragged from sleep by the alarm clock. It took me three or four tries to focus my eyes: the burning red numerals spelled out the horrible truth. It was six fifteen A.M., Thursday morning.
You’ve got to be kidding.
With a moan, I rolled over and burrowed under my pillow, but I didn’t turn off the alarm, and eventually the country music and static that was playing instead of the NPR station I thought I’d found last night wore its way insistently into my brain until I was convinced that I really wasn’t going to go back to sleep again. Why did I tell Brad that I would meet him so damn early? And in the gym? For God’s sake, Emma…
I threw the blanket back and, with a yelp, pulled it back over me again in a hurry. The room had gone from being subtropical to arctic frigidity overnight. I summoned up my courage, dove out of bed, grabbed my parka, and stood in front of the thermostat. It was now fifty degrees in my room. I’d set it for sixty-five. I fiddled with the controls but never heard a
ny indication that more heat was heading my way. I went to the bathroom and saw the coffee maker, but there were no coffee packets to be found.
I stared. No, God. You can’t be serious.
I looked in the closet by the iron, I pawed through the little bottles of conditioner that I never used, but there was no coffee in my room. Disgusted, I threw on my workout gear, made sure I had my room key, and went downstairs to the hospitality suite. Passing the mezzanine, I saw that there was no one in the lobby yet.
My heart leapt—the door to the hospitality suite was open. There was, however, nothing on the tables besides empty coffee urns.
I went to the lobby, where at least it was warmer than my room on the third floor.
There was no one at the front desk, and no one appeared when I rang the little bell. I cursed and headed behind the desk and past the offices for the fitness room.
There, at least, was heat, and so far seemed to be one of the only parts of the hotel that had actually been renovated. That was nice, but not nearly enough to make up for the ghastly hour and the debilitating coffee deficiency I was now forced to cope with.
After I did fifty jumping jacks, I began to work on my shadow boxing. It’s great for keeping yourself warm, and I always need the practice, since I am terribly self-conscious about pretending to hit and kick someone who isn’t there. It’s a whole lot easier when there’s actually someone to provide the target for you.
I felt better than I deserved, late night and emotional turmoil considered. For a while, I’d thought about letting my training with my instructor Nolan go—it took up an awful lot of time and just saying the words “martial arts” felt overdramatic—but was glad that I decided to stick it out. The workout I got with Krav Maga was great, and I realized that not only had my posture and energy improved, my attitude had changed for the better as well, and you couldn’t beat that with a stick. Plus, it was more fun than running. When I let too much time go between our sessions, I even miss how much I ache after. I didn’t know what missing pain indicated about one’s psyche, but so far, it was working for me. Go figure.