Lovely, Dark and Deep

by Amy McNamara

  I go back inside. The tulips look hopeful. I finish my juice—thank you, Mary—throw on clean, fresh-smelling running clothes and head out into the shimmering morning. I need to figure out what I’m doing. What I’m going to do.

  There are two messages on my cell when I get back. Both from my mother. Dad’s out of town. She thinks I’m alone. He must not have told her he asked Mary to stay. Just checking in, she says. Hope all is well—a desperate singsong—tell me all is well. I call back but dial right to voice mail, find my voice, leave a small hey Mom, call you later message.

  Then, before I can think about it another minute, I try Cal. It was never a problem for me before, calling guys. My hands shake when I dial.

  Voice mail. A letdown. I hang up. Just as well. My voice is kind of scratchy, unreliable. I toss the phone onto the couch. Time for a shower and loud music.

  the

  room

  takes

  shape

  HE DOESN’T CALL BACK. Time seems to have taken up with me again and the afternoon’s endless. Don’t know what to do with myself. So I go over there. Sudden bravery.

  No answer at the door. I tried out my voice again in the car on the way over. It sounds weird, like I have laryngitis, but it’s there. From the garage I try his cell one more time. Voice mail. I climb back into the Jeep to find wherever I’d shoved the paper with his security code on it. It’s on the floor between the seats. I let myself in. The house is silent.

  “Cal?” I call out in my crackly voice.

  No answer.

  Technically, I’m breaking and entering. Okay. Well, not breaking, but definitely entering. Uninvited. It’s starting to seem insane, coming here. Mary and her wild ideas. She’s worse than Meredith. I sit on the bench a minute, try to catch my breath. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. Ever.

  “Hello?” I say again.

  Nothing.

  From the bench I look around. The place is a mess. And it shows, unlike my dad’s where chaos is an everyday thing. Cal’s jacket is on the floor by the door, and I can see dirty dishes on the coffee table. In fact, there are dishes everywhere. Like he hasn’t washed anything in days.

  I hang my coat and his, slip out of my boots. He’s probably out with someone, I tell myself. But what if he isn’t? Alarming images begin to form. What if he’s here, sick? Needs help? My stomach’s tight. I walk through the house. Look for him.

  “Cal?”

  The workroom’s a mess too. Books all over the place, some open on the table, architectural drawings spread out. No Cal.

  I go back to his room. The door’s open a crack. I knock lightly. No answer. Give it a little push. Step in. I can’t look. My heart’s in my ears. I don’t think MS causes sudden death but I’m not really sure. Please don’t be dead, I say, a little prayer.

  I look. He’s there. Facedown on the bed. A pillow over his head. I’m frozen in place. Watch him so closely to see if he’s breathing it makes my eyes hurt. Then he moves slightly, shifts. My knees almost buckle. Of course he’s sleeping. What’s wrong with me? That’s what Mary said. He needs sleep. I back out of the room as quietly as I can, my socks silent on the wood floor. I pull the door closed and nearly run back to the living room. I’m so relieved I feel elated. It’s strange. I’m going to clean up. He’ll wake up to a neat house.

  Why is it so easy to clean someplace beautiful? The surfaces in the kitchen shine in seconds. The dishes are heavy and warm in my hands in the soapy water. They fit themselves into each other on the shelf with satisfying clunks. I can see why my mother loves order so much. It’s comforting. Even if it is a lie.

  The workroom isn’t as bad as it looks, either. I slip sticky notes on the open pages of every book and stack them near his computer. One set of drawings is titled “Structures on landscapes of fantastic seclusion.” Something for school. Or one of his intern projects. I’m careful with the drawings, neaten them into a pile.

  I step into my boots and hike out to empty the mailbox. It’s full. I bring the pile into the dining room table and separate it into stacks of magazines, bills, junk. There’s one personal letter, a small envelope from Spain, “S. Braun” in the corner. I try to remember what he said his girlfriend’s name was. Can’t. Maybe this is from her. I leave it on top.

  There’s nothing left to do. I stand in front of the huge windows. My snow angel’s filled with some fresh snow, but she’s still there. At least one of us is. And the drag marks from my bike. And a few of my footsteps. I turn away and survey his house. I should leave. I’ve made it nice in here again. Probably the best thing I have to offer him.

  I spot a collection of softball-size rocks on a side table. I pick a whitish-gray one and go to the couch. It’s heavy and fits my palm like it was made for me to hold.

  A normal person would go, satisfied with having helped. But normal’s so far behind me and it took a lot to get myself over here. I’ll wait a bit. See if he wakes up. I warm the rock with my hands. It’ll outlast me. Already has done. I pull a creamy cashmere throw off the arm of the couch and wrap up in it. Hold the rock and look at the water awhile.

  looking

  up

  “THE RABBIT CAME BACK . . .”

  A quiet voice near my head wakes me.

  I sit up, disoriented. It’s dark. Outside. In the house. My side’s sore from lying on something hard and my hand’s asleep. Cal’s next to me on the couch. He looks good. Bare feet, an old T-shirt, jeans. Those dark lashes, slate-blue eyes looking at me, a little smile in them.

  “Oh,” I say in my scratchy voice. Clear it. Try to come to. I run my fingers through my hair. His thigh is warm against mine. Crutches on the floor at our feet.

  “And she speaks,” he says cheerfully. “Things are definitely looking up.”

  “You’re awake,” I say, totally alert now myself. Embarrassed. Start to get up. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have let myself in, but I hadn’t heard from you—I tried to call a few times and I—”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me back down on the couch next to him.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I woke up and thought the house had been cleaned by magic elves. Then I saw you on the couch. I didn’t mean to startle you, but it’s nearly eight, and it kind of seemed like you might be asleep for the night.”

  I rub my hands over my face. “Aren’t all elves magic? By definition?”

  He laughs. A great sound.

  “Long run this afternoon,” I say, to explain the nap. Like it’s a regular thing to run yourself silly, go to someone’s house uninvited and nap on their couch. I’m nervous. I glance down at the crutches.

  “Are you better? Feeling better?”

  He leans back. He’s so close. We’re shoulder to shoulder. I’m light-headed. The air between us prickling with some current. My heart’s in my throat. He moves his hand over, slightly, so it brushes mine.

  I look at his fingers. They’re cared for, not dry and overlooked, lotion having revealed itself to be another neglected item on my checklist of daily maintenance.

  He leans his head closer, touches my cheek. My heart is going to stop.

  “I’d really like to kiss you,” he says. Looks at me.

  I couldn’t say no if I tried. I lean toward him. I have nothing left to lose.

  He runs his fingers across my lips. Puts a warm hand on either side of my face and pulls me closer. I close my eyes. His mouth is on mine.

  “You’re talking again,” he says, after a while.

  We’re entwined on the couch. My lips feel full and slightly bruised.

  “I am.” I wince a little, meet his eyes. “Sorry . . . about that.”

  “Don’t be,” he says. “You’ve got a lot going on. I thought I might not see you again.”

  I look down, ashamed. I wasn’t sure either.

  After I said yes to Around the World with Patrick, he followed me into the darkroom. Leaned me against the stop bath. Our first kiss.

  No more first kisses for him. It’s like
a huge stone in my center. Presses me down.

  “I don’t know what’s going on between us, but I’ve wanted to kiss you since I knocked you off your bike.”

  Cal. Talking to me. Here. Not there.

  “I—” I say, try to pull myself back to him.

  “But I’m sick, and you’re young.”

  “I’m not that young,” I say, sounding exactly that young.

  He puts his hand on my breast, over my heart.

  This is it. I know. This is where you’re supposed to lean into it. Live a little. I hope I can.

  “You just finished high school, and you’re going through your own thing—no pressure.”

  I lean against him.

  He lifts my hands to his mouth, kisses my palms, laughs. “I’m so glad something cured our mute.”

  I whack him on the arm.

  “Very funny.”

  “Seriously. You’re talking. That’s great. Mary said your dad was freaking out.”

  My dad.

  We look out the window a second.

  “Nice snow angel,” he says.

  I blush.

  “And your bike’s gone.”

  I have to change the subject.

  “So what happened . . . with Dr. Williams?”

  He clenches his fists and undoes them a few times.

  “My hands and feet feel weird, kind of like they fell asleep. And my balance is worse. Dr. Williams checked me in, put me on some drug for a few days.” He sighs. “It’s getting better.”

  “It is? It will? Get better?”

  The million-dollar question. The one polite people step around. Overlook.

  He pulls away from me slightly.

  “Not the way you mean. But it comes and goes, and it’s worse when it comes.”

  I look back out the window. It’s mostly a mirror now, reflecting the two of us, small on the couch, more terrible questions wedged between us, unasked and unanswered. But the moon’s out there, spilling light all over the place, a searchlight, still visible through the glass.

  Cal runs his hands through his hair, pushes it back. It falls forward again. He has the faraway look in his eyes you get when you’re reliving something. The look I’ve been stuck in since last May. Then he squints a little, turns to me again, pulls me back into focus.

  “Hey—just now—it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t have to, I mean, it doesn’t have to be weird. I get it, Wren. You have a lot going on.”

  I want him to stop looking at me like that, to stop leaning away. I take his hand and put it back on my heart, hold it there. He feels familiar to me. Right.

  “So you’d be done with school this year.”

  He looks at his hand. Pulls it away. Shakes his head.

  “No. The program’s five years. I was third year, design studio, pulling all-nighters. My feet started catching curbs, undershooting steps. Susanna’s the one who called it. Freaked herself out on the Internet. She knew about my mom. One morning I woke up sick, and she panicked. Called my dad.”

  “Susanna’s your girlfriend?”

  A small smile. “Was.”

  I run my fingertips over his eyebrows. He closes his eyes. I want to kiss away the dark look shadowing his face.

  He pulls away from me again. Looks out the window.

  “We were doing this rooftop build-out of a community center in the projects. A green space right in the middle of these faceless towers crammed with people who would probably all rather live anywhere else. We got a lot of notice for the work, an offer to do an exchange, work on a project in Barcelona.”

  “But you didn’t go.”

  He shakes his head. Bounces one knee. Stops.

  “I left Cornell. Once it was confirmed, I couldn’t deal. Susanna went to Barcelona alone. Michael came up”—he gestures toward the photo of him and his brother—“and we stayed in the city for the summer, went out, picked up girls, slept it off, did it again. I was an ass, angry and sick.”

  It’s weird to think about Cal running wild around the city, my city, all summer while I was in bed with my face to the wall. I don’t mention the letter on the table. He’ll find it when I’m not here.

  “Do you want something to drink?” he asks abruptly, leaning over to grab the crutches.

  “I’ll get it.” I jump up. “What do you want?”

  He doesn’t answer. I find seltzer in the fridge and bring two glasses. Sit and watch the little bubbles shiver to the surface and pop when they hit the air.

  “So,” he says, after a while, “in August, my dad came down, told me to stop freaking out and get my shit together. Said I wasn’t my mother. My brother had been talking to him on the phone and was, it turned out, afraid to go back to school and leave me alone.” He pulls his face into an embarrassed grimace. Takes a breath and goes on, “My dad called some friends, lined things up, the internship, and here I am. A year off, he says, someplace less stressful.” He looks at me with a sorry smile. “And you can see how well that’s working out.”

  I’m not sure if he means me. We’re quiet for a while.

  “Anyway, I have to figure it out, handle it myself. I was starting to feel a little better when I nearly ran you over.” Bitterness in his voice again.

  “It’s okay,” I say quietly. “Nothing happened.”

  “Everything happened.” He closes his eyes. “Dr. Williams had just told me not to drive on days when—if I’m not sure about my reflexes. I was so pissed, driving like a maniac.”

  Another long silence.

  “What if I’d hurt you?” He lets out a long breath. Looks at me.

  “You didn’t.”

  He pulls me on top of him and we sit, forehead-to-forehead, nose-to-nose, breathing each other in.

  a regular

  person

  EVEN THOUGH IT’S LATE, when I get home, I open my laptop. First time since I moved here.

  My sole remaining e-mail account’s maxed out. 800 messages. Apparently mostly from Emma. Patrick’s little sister’s name a daisy chain looping through my inbox. September, October, November—it looks like she sent the same message over and over until my account filled. My stomach flips.

  I close my laptop. I’ll read it. But not yet. Then I open it again, do exactly what Susanna did. Research. It isn’t pretty. I don’t understand everything I read, but it seems like there are different types of MS, and from what he told me, Cal’s is the best, if there is such a thing. His mom’s was definitely the worst.

  I go to bed late, try to forget what I read, and sleep badly. Finally around three, after watching the Patrick reel in my head and insomnia-dream mixing his face with Cal’s, I get up and take a pill. Dark comes like an anvil.

  Mary wakes me up the next day at noon.

  “You skipping the library today?” she asks, poking her head in the door.

  “Shit!” I sit up fast, head pounding. I’m sticky with fatigue. The pill had me down somewhere deep.

  “You’re talking!” she bounces on her toes a little.

  “With the sun behind your head like that,” I say, struggling to come to, “you look like one of those Mexican religious candles. Our Lady of Achingly Bright Light.”

  Mary laughs. Strikes a holy pose, the wide sleeves of the scarlet kimono-like shirt she’s wearing falling in a graceful, light-shot triangle.

  I flop back on the pillow and throw my arm over my eyes. Now I’ll have to call Lucy Shepherd and apologize.

  “Your phone’s chirping.”

  She tosses it to me. Her eyes dart to the pill bottle next to my bed.

  It’s like I’m coming up from the center of the earth. I sit up again. My phone. Missed calls. From Cal. From the library. One from my mom.

  “Will you call Lucy?” I plead. It’s totally inappropriate, but my mouth carries on, begging her, “At the library? Will you call and tell her I overslept, and I’m sorry?” I’m so lame, but I can’t stand the idea of calling her myself.

  “Sure,” she says slowly, eyeing me.

&
nbsp; We’re quiet a minute. Some requests cross the line.

  “Forget it,” I say, ashamed. “I’ll call.”

  She gives me a conspiratorial smile, like nothing weird has just passed between us. “You were out so late, I thought maybe you wouldn’t come home from Cal’s . . .” She raises an eyebrow.

  I throw a pillow at her.

  “Your dad called. Some supplies came in for him near the airport. He wants me to get them so they’re here when he comes back.” She picks up the Larkin next to the bed, fans the pages with her thumb. “He says to tell you his show opened well, and he might not stay the entire week. He’s inspired.” Her face brightens even more—it’s like watching the aperture blades on a lens twirl back to let in more light. “And he wants to get to work again!” She clasps her hands together and rocks happily on the balls of her feet. “It’s great for me, of course. Anyhow, I’m driving in to pick up his stuff. Will you come? It’s a long drive. We could hit some shops out there? Please?”

  It’s a normal request. But panic rises inside me anyway. My carefully constructed solitude is coming undone faster than I think I can handle. I swallow.

  “Let me check my phone,” I say. Hope she’ll leave. Not press me for a decision.

  She looks at the pills again. Back at me.

  “Rough night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “You know”—she waves a somewhat uncertain hand toward the little bottle—“when you first got here your dad made me go to the pharmacy and ask for sugar pills. He wanted me to switch them out.”

  I’m stunned. How could he ask her to do something like that? It’s coming to me that I’ve underestimated how closely my dad’s watching me. Like I’m a basket case. Which I am, I guess.

  She hesitates a second. “He thought you might take them all. Or something. But the sugar pills looked nothing like your prescription, so I didn’t do it.”

  My phone chirps again.

  “But I told him I had. He was so worried about you, he couldn’t get any work done.”