by Amy McNamara
Now I regret not taking at least a quick glance in a mirror. There’s a splotch of paint or something on the thigh of my jeans. I pick at it with my fingernail. It’s not going anywhere. My sneakers are ragged and my socks don’t match.
Cal drives us fast along the curving road to town. I try not to notice how the trees whip past my window. Tell myself the car is solid around me, it’s got a good grip on the road. Cal looks comfortable driving, casual, in control. Not at all like someone who needs a ride. I close my eyes. I’m not sure, but I think he slows down a bit.
We pull into a lot behind a weathered, whitewashed cottage. A place called Stone’s Harbor. A small deck wraps around the front, facing the water. Looks like it’s probably a nice place to sit in the summer. We walk into the warmth of the restaurant and the not-so-subtle stares of other diners. It rattles me. A celebrity can walk down the street in New York and people will pretend not to notice. These people could use a lesson in the illusion of privacy. A dark wood bar dotted with little white candles runs the length of the room.
“Nice to see you again, Cal.” A woman greets us. She looks like she’s around his age. Happy to see him. Maybe a little flirty.
“Sarah.” Cal acknowledges her. “Snow doesn’t seem to be keeping people away.” He nods to the semifull dining room.
“Nope,” she says with a smile and a quick glance at me. “People need to eat and we have good food.” She gestures toward a table in the corner just past the edge of the window. “Want to sit near the window, or over there, in a quieter spot?”
Cal looks at me, and I eye the corner. If they’re going to stare, at least I can have a wall behind me. I wonder for a second how long it would take me to jog home from here. Deep breath.
“Corner’s great,” he says.
He puts a warm hand at the small of my back and guides me through the narrow alley of tables.
The server follows us, another woman who knows Cal and wants to chit-chat. He’s polite with her but keeps his answers short. She gets the hint and slips off to get us water.
The menu’s full of local, seasonal food. I would have been impressed a few months ago. Now I have a hard time figuring out what to get. I can read the words, but somehow they don’t translate into food I can imagine eating. Cal orders winter diver scallops. I give up and choose a salad. Beets and greens, at least that’s what I think it is, the description on the menu reads like an article.
“A salad for a rabbit,” Cal says, when she leaves.
It takes me a second to register what he’s said.
“Did you just call me a rabbit?”
He smiles a half smile that makes me feel light-headed.
“I did. It fits. You’re skittish and always running quietly through the woods. Also, you seem like the littlest thing might scare you to death.”
“Very funny.”
A rabbit. My face flushes.
He fiddles with his fork, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. Smiles at me. I feel like hiding under the table. The silence is heavy between us. For me. He seems happy enough.
“Did you grow up around here?” I ask. I’ll say anything to get him to stop looking at me like that. Like he knows me well or something.
He laughs. Apparently I’m funny.
“I mean, did you go to high school up here?” I try again, wishing myself away.
He laughs again, “High school . . .”
Runs a hand through his hair. Another smile.
It dawns on me. “You told me already, didn’t you?”
Terrific. I’m repeating myself. I probably remind him of his grandparents.
“No, seriously, it’s okay. Auden. They shipped us off, my brother and me.”
I nod. I knew people who went to Auden. From the city. Small world. Too small.
“And you?” he asks.
I unfold my napkin and put it on my lap. Pay extra attention to it. Like spreading it out is interesting or difficult. My heart’s lurching around in my chest like a weepy drunk.
“Nellie Bly. In the city.”
He nods. Smiles again. “Oh, you went to Bly,” he teases. “We used to look for Bly parties when we came back on break. It was generally held that people at Bly were less . . . uptight.”
Our parties. We were good at those. Pile into Patrick’s or Meredith’s car, roll down the windows, open the roof, and sing at the top of our lungs while we wove through traffic out to Meredith’s parents’ beach house. They were never around. Meredith and her brother are, as she puts it, “raised by committee.” Nannies, tutors, lessons. An unspoken contract that Meredith and Jay never broke: They’re good kids. Until my disaster, anyway. No, Meredith made the grades, and we partied on the beach. She and I ran the house on those weekends like it was ours, like we were so mature, in control. I would give anything to feel free, sure like that again, pulling up, throwing our bags in the house. The salt smell, the wet air, racing Patrick on hard-packed sand, getting thrown into the water regardless of the season, hanging out with people I’d known most of my life.
But I was ready to move on. Focal Point gave me a taste of everything else, the messy glory of the world that Bly hid from us. After a few days at my internship, I couldn’t wait to be done with high school. I was so close, so ready to fly into my awesome future.
So close.
The food comes blessedly fast.
“Anything else I can get for you?”
Our server’s chipper. All her sentences end up, like she’s asking a happy question. She looks at Cal like she’d trade places with me in a heartbeat. I should let her. Get up and leave.
“We’re good, thanks,” Cal says. Then he smiles at her.
She acts like it’s an invitation. Leans against the back of an empty chair next to our table.
“So, what brought you back? Last I heard you were in Ithaca?”
She looks at Cal like he’s going to say the most fascinating thing ever. And she’s spent some time in front of the mirror.
I press my palms onto the tops of my thighs and force a smile in her direction. Like I’m civilized and can stand this inane conversation. But I might scream at her if she doesn’t go away soon.
“Weren’t you at Cornell?”
It’s my turn to watch Cal blush. He takes a minute to answer.
“Change of plans. I’m taking a . . . break.” His tone changes, he’s less friendly. “Came back in August. I have an internship at a design firm.” Looks at her with cool eyes.
She deflates.
“Well, everyone’s happy when you and your brother come around.” Nods to me. “Enjoy your meal.”
“So,” I say, after she’s out of earshot, “you came in August? That’s just before I did.”
A thousand emotions whip across his face. He leans away from the table a bit.
“Yeah,” he starts. He stops a second and looks me right in the eyes. “I—things changed in my life pretty fast last year. Everything—”
I wait for him to say more.
He doesn’t.
“Is that when you got sick?” I ask, after I push my food around a bit. I have to force the words out. My stomach’s tight with fear. I don’t want to know more terrible stuff.
“When I found out,” he says, after a minute. “I’d kind of known awhile, I guess, I just didn’t want to deal with it.”
I work on eating beets. Infinitely easier than saying anything.
“My mother had MS too.” He says it fast.
His dead mother.
I keep eating, but my throat’s so tight I can hardly swallow. I force myself to look at him.
He stares at me a second, chin up slightly, like he’s daring me to look away. Runs a hand through his hair. He wins. I drop my eyes to his plate where the scallops steam, buttery, untouched.
“Then I got really sick, and everything went to hell. I broke up with Susanna—my girlfriend—left school, and came up here. My dad arranged this internship while I figure it out—change directions.”
&
nbsp; He looks around the restaurant like it’s the last place he wants to be.
I feel for him all of a sudden. I don’t want him to have that look on his face. Sad. Angry.
“So, you’re not the only one who left a life behind,” he says quietly.
I look at my food. Not sure if I can eat anything else.
“I know that look.” He laughs, bitter.
I raise my eyebrows at him, try to pull myself together.
“What look?” I ask in a voice that sounds as bright and false as it feels.
His face falls.
“Susanna had it, the face people make when you talk about being sick.”
“It’s just . . .”
I don’t know what to say. I won’t lie.
“Your mother died of it?”
Never could beat around the bush.
“Sort of.” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to know about it. Any of it. The sudden heaviness of knowing what it means to die. Seeing Patrick there in the car, next to me, but not there at all.
I’m trapped. Eyes open, Cal. Closed, Patrick. I don’t want to know another person who might die.
“My mom got sick after my little brother was born. When I was in second grade, my dad moved her to a nursing home. She died when I was nine—pneumonia. It was a huge relief, which made it worse. For everyone. For my father.”
This needs to stop. I can’t hear any more. No more ugly words, terrible details. I know my face has a look on it now. I don’t try to hide it. Can’t. I hate the world. All the fragile people in it. Every one of us. I was so sheltered. I see that now I’ve been expelled. Released into the real world. The true one.
“MS isn’t the same for everybody,” he says. Looks at me. Almost a challenge. Then away.
I trace a figure eight with my finger in the condensation on my glass. Over and over. I want to get out of here. I feel like I’m being hazed. Life’s hazing me. Seeing what I can take. How much. I’m an idiot for coming out. This was a giant mistake. If I didn’t think it would be the meanest thing ever, I’d bolt. Run home.
Long silence.
He clears his throat.
“Mine’s different. Comes and goes. I feel bad, they put me on drugs, and it gets better, sort of, mostly. I don’t know. It’s weird.”
He shakes his head like he can clear the air that way. “God, this got so depressing. Sorry.” Tries to sound casual again. Forks a scallop.
I push food around on my plate. Can’t think of a thing to say. This is an endless dinner. I can’t look at him.
“I wanted to see you. Get you out of the woods and into some light.” He waves a hand toward the dim little candle between us.
I could throw up. I pick up my fork and force myself to eat, instead. The food sticks in my throat. I close my eyes a second. Try to figure out how this is my life. It’s like last May I stepped on the wrong stone and slipped into this rotten otherworld. A place where the stakes are higher than you ever knew they could be and people deal with these kinds of things. Accidents. Illness. Death. Loss. Weights I can scarcely carry. I bite the inside of my cheek to toughen up.
“My turn,” he says, “for questions.”
I make myself look up at him again. He’s trying to shake off the gloom that’s settled on the table between us. I force a small smile. His hair won’t stay out of his eyes. I like that. The way it falls forward.
“So, are you an artist, too?”
I shrug, nod, shrug again. “I used to make pictures, photographs.”
Then he hits me with it.
“You know, you don’t have to let what happened to you end your life,” he says. Casual. It’s a tactic my mother would use. Keep it light. Turn the tables. Go for the gut.
The night’s over. Either he takes me home now, or I’ll go on my own.
“That’s not even a question.” I’m furious.
The anger in my voice surprises him. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but I go on. “I don’t need you to play shrink. I’ve got my mother for that.”
“Wren . . .”
“Save it. All the tired condolences. If I hear another person say it is what it is—”
I’m sarcastic. Caustic. I get angry when I’m scared.
“I—” he tries again.
I cut him off.
“Believe me, I’ve heard it all since May.”
I’m overreacting, I can feel it, but I can’t stop.
“Does it work for you? The bullshit talk about how it’s all okay? How you need to get over yourself and move on? Because it’s not. It’s not okay at all. You of all people should know that.”
I’m not fit to be in public. For a second the room does a dizzying spin.
Then it’s over. Something falls inside me. Sinks down deep. I look at my lap. A terrible leaden loneliness. Try to breathe under the weight of it.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says once he thinks I’m done.
I am. Done.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He reaches across the table to touch my wrist.
I pull away. The restaurant’s too quiet. I look around to see if I was as loud as I felt. A few people are looking at us.
“I would like to go now,” I whisper. I can’t look at him. If he won’t take me, I’ll run home.
“Come on, don’t take it like that. I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”
I shake my head.
“This was a mistake. For me, I mean. To come out. It’s not you.”
I need to go. I have to get out of here. This town is too small.
He looks at me, really sad for a second.
“Please.” I beg. I can hardly make my voice work. I really don’t want to walk out on him, but I will if he doesn’t get us out of here.
He sees it on my face. Signals the server. After quick reassurances that the food was great, he leaves money on the table, and we’re out.
I’m so relieved. Even to be in the car. The frigid silence after my door clunks shut. I lean back into my seat. Keep my eyes on the windshield. I’ll never be able to look at him again.
“I’m sorry . . .” I say when he gets in.
He lifts a hand. “No, it was me. Really. I was stupid. You were pretty clear about things.”
He drives the car fast along the snowy roads. We cut a silent path through the muffled landscape. Trees whip by in a dark staccato. The sky is deep and teeming.
We come to our road in no time.
“Here’s fine,” I say, starting to get out while we’re still pulling into the driveway.
“I’ll take you to your door,” he says, surprised.
I shake my head. “Here’s fine.”
I can’t explain it, that I have to get out of his car, now, before I start screaming. There’s no air in here. There is something seriously wrong with me. I can’t figure anything out. I’m too out of control. My heart does something when I’m near him. And it’s messing everything up. He’s too close. Familiar or something. I’m not getting tangled up in anything again. With anyone. Not like this. Especially not because my parents planned it.
He barely stops the car before I’m out.
“Thanks for dinner,” I call out over my shoulder as I walk down the rest of our curved drive, away from him, as fast as I can in the snow, as quickly as I can get out of sight.
nothing
to
say
LIGHTS ON in the studio. Dad laughing inside. I throw open the door. It’s heavy, but I shove it so hard it bangs back against the wall. He’s with a small group of assistants and Mary. I startle them all.
“You asked him to hire me!” I say, trying, and failing, to control my volume. I lose it. Shout at the top of my lungs across the cavernous studio into his surprised face. “You. Asked. Him. To. Hire. Me!”
He crosses the room with a little backward wave of his hand toward his people. They scatter. Zara sticks around a few more min
utes, putting away tools. She shoots me a sympathetic glance.
“Wren,” he says. “What happened?”
He eyes me anxiously like maybe I’ve been hurt by Cal or something. Instead of by him. His humiliating betrayal.
“You set the whole thing up,” I say. “You lied to me.” I’m shaking with fury and something else.
I feel like I could take a tire iron and clear through this space. Smash all the work. Work. What a joke. It’s so pointless. This group of earnest people in here day after day working on stuff, and for what? Small flames against a huge dark. Where’s the meaning in that? If we’re the ones who make it?
“I came here,” my voice shakes, “I came here because you never judged me. Never. Those times I visited you, growing up, were like free time for me. I was happy here. Felt great about myself.” I’m blind with tears. Snot. “Because you always liked me just as I was. You never asked me to be anything else.” I feel impossibly sad.
He tries to put his arms around me. I shrug him off. He steps back and takes me by the elbow, pulls me over to his little sitting area. Pushes me down into a chair. Waits it out.
“Dad,” I say, when I can speak again, “I feel like I have to get out of here. Go somewhere else. I can’t do this. I thought your place was somewhere I could just be awhile.”
“Why?” His voice is soft. “Wren, why do you think it’s going to be better anywhere else? Different?”
Zara passes by us on her way out. Hands my dad a bottle of scotch and a shot glass. Sets a mug of herbal tea in front of me. Touches me lightly on the shoulder when she leaves. Dad pours himself a shot. Pushes my mug toward me. I shake my head, but he lifts it. “Drink. Something warm.”
I take the scalding, honeyed tea down my throat. It burns through me like a tentacled thing, then steals my energy, and I sink back into the chair.
“I’m sorry you’re so upset.”
He’s rubbing one of his permanently stained hands over the worn arm of his chair.
“I don’t want you to leave. It was underhanded, I see that now, for me to set that up. I just wanted to you have someone. Someone your age. Someone to talk to.”