by Amy McNamara
My dad whirls to face me, says, “She’s up. I’ll call you later.” He squints at his phone a second, ends the call, and shoves it in his pocket.
“Sweetheart, you were pretty cold.”
He starts to cry. That’s the worst. Seeing your dad cry.
I notice an IV taped to the back of my hand. Panic a little. Look at the nurse. I want to yank it out. What are they giving me? My other hand hovers near it, nervously. She steps forward, places a calm palm on my forehead. Looks into my eyes.
“Don’t worry about that, honey. It’s just warm saline. You needed a little extra help last night. We’ll take it out soon.”
She pats my arm and looks at me with such kindness, I start to cry.
“I’ll let you two talk.”
Dad sits heavily on the chair near my bed.
“Wren, what happened?”
Grabs us both tissues from a box above my head, blows his nose into one, sounding like an enormous trumpet. Used to startle me when I was small.
“What were you doing out there like that?”
I stop crying. I’ll never be able to explain myself. He’s looking at me like I’m not who he thought I was. It’s the worst.
“Cal said he found you running on the highway. It was the middle of the night.”
Last night seems like a lifetime ago. Blurry. I felt really bad. I remember that much. Wanted to crawl out of my own skin.
He sags, “You’re quiet again.”
“No,” I find my voice. “Dad, I’m not. I’m sorry. I’ll talk. I don’t know what to say, though.” I take a breath. “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about stuff. The package from Patrick’s sister. There were photos . . .” I start to cry again. “I thought a run would make me feel better.”
“I should have been there.” He pats my hand, a little shaky, squeezes it. Looks so sad.
“And it did. Make me feel better.” My nose is running. “It made me feel great, clear about everything, like I’m going to be okay, but then I’d gone so far from the house. I don’t know, I was kind of lost. I found the highway and was heading home when Cal and his girlfriend came along.”
My stomach twists. Susanna. The way she looked at me like I was a wild thing from the woods. A child. A messed-up, sloppy kid.
“I’m sorry, Wren,” he says, wiping the new tears from my face with his thumb. “This is my fault. I didn’t know you were feeling so bad. I wasn’t thinking, spending the night at Zara’s. I should have known you might come back in rough shape from your visit with that shrink.”
I pull apart the pulpy tissue in my hand.
“Cal called us when you ran away from him on the road. He called Nick at the studio and went chasing into the woods after you.”
He shakes his head like he’s living it again.
“Nick stayed at the house, in case you came back. Zara and I met up with Cal and searched for you. It was his idea to check by the water. He said you liked to look at it when you were feeling bad.”
Cal knew that about me. It gives me a little shiver thinking about it. About being important to someone. Him.
“We went down the rocks from the house and headed south until we saw you. You looked ready to take off again.” His eyes fill and his face is pink. “I got my hands on you and pulled you up. Zara and I carried you back to the house.” He looks at me. “Nick had an ambulance waiting. And it was a good thing he did—you were pretty cold, kiddo.”
He exhales, ragged.
“I’m so sorry, Dad.” It’s all I can say. I am. I am the sorriest person there could be. I don’t know why I can’t get it together and be normal. Stop hurting everyone else. “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.”
“It’s okay.” He kisses my forehead. “I know. We’ll figure it out.”
He reaches for the tissues and blows his nose again. Loud. I raise an eyebrow at him. He laughs, pulls me to him for a rib-crushing hug.
“Now, it’s only fair,” he says, letting me breathe again, “if it’s okay with you—Cal’s been waiting out there all night.” He cocks his head toward the door. “Can I let him in?”
He’s here. My stomach rises and falls like a diving bird.
I nod.
Better get it over with. Cut him loose. He’s had enough. Doesn’t need to go down on my sinking ship.
My dad leaves and lets Cal in. Tall and beautiful. Purple shadows around his eyes. Like he’s been up all night. I sit up a little more and scoot over on the bed. He sits next to me. Pulls me into his arms.
Heaven.
Makes it harder. I have to get this over with. Open my mouth and tell him I’m sorry I’m a disaster. My throat closes. Keep it short and sweet. I swallow. Hard.
He presses his face against my neck and takes a huge breath, like he’s going to breathe me in.
“I thought you were going to die,” he says, finally. “There are animals in the woods, Wren. Wildcats. Wolves. It’s winter. What were you thinking? This isn’t the city, you know, there’s nature.”
His arm is so tight around my shoulders it hurts—his heart pounding against me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Your lips were blue. Your whole face. When your dad and Zara brought you out of the woods—by the time we got back to the house—”
I have to know where we stand. Now. So I can let go.
“Where’s Susanna?”
He looks at me like it’s a bizarre question. Left field. Shakes his head. “At the house, maybe, I think, I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her.”
At the house. His house. She’s staying with him.
“She’s here—back from Spain?”
He relaxes a little against my pillow. Looks at me. We’re side by side. He’s holding me like he’s going to warm my whole body with his.
“You and Nick . . .” he says, slowly, like he’s weighing the words.
Here we go.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I want you to be happy; I don’t want to hold you back.” Looks at the ceiling.
Susanna’s here. He’s going to move back into his life. I close my eyes.
“There’s no me and Nick,” I say. “I tried to tell you that, but if you want a way out—”
“A way out.”
Bitter laugh.
“How can you not get it?” He makes me look at him. “You’re the one of the most intense, real people I’ve ever met. I feel good when I’m with you.”
I start to cry. Relief or something. I can almost let myself hear what he just said to me. Feel it. Almost.
“Nick was nothing, he followed me that morning,” I say. “I didn’t ask him to.”
“Your face—you looked so guilty when Miriam was talking to you,” he says.
“I’m not interested in Nick. He’s annoying. Too cheerful.”
Cal laughs.
“I sent him every signal I could that I didn’t want him along, but he didn’t get the message. I had to stop and yell at him before he let me run in peace.”
I twist the edge of the blanket in my hand. Remember Nick’s face last night, didn’t look cheerful then. He looked scared. I freaked out a lot of people. I close my eyes.
“I should have told you.”
“You can’t protect me,” he says. “You have to let me deal with my crap my way. Yeah, it makes me jealous thinking about you and some other guy running. But if you hide stuff—” He shakes his head. “Trust me, my imagination’s worse than the truth.”
“I’m a failure of a person.”
“Shut up.” He laughs, knocking his shoulder against me gently. “Everyone is.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a mess. Because you don’t need more trouble. Michael warned me not to screw it up. And I did anyway.”
His body tenses. “Michael did what?” he asks, his voice sharp.
“Forget it,” I say. I don’t want to make him mad at his brother.
“No, tell me.”
I shake my head.
“Wren. Tell me.” He looks down at me, eyes dark.
“At breakfast. After Swap Night. He took me aside. Told me not to mess you up.”
“He had no right to say that. To say anything to you.”
“He’s right, though.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is.”
“I hurt everyone around me. I’ll hurt you.”
“Maybe you will. We’ll probably hurt each other. That’s how it goes. For everyone. But people need to stop treating me like I’m going to break.”
I look at the ceiling. So this is it. Life. Love. We spend all this time reaching for each other and mostly we end up hurting each other until it’s over.
“Stop that,” he says, reading my mind. “Get that look off your face.” He kisses me.
“Susanna?”
“What about her? She wrote few weeks ago. Asked to see me when she was back in the States.” He looks at me. Kisses the tip of my nose. “We were together almost two years.”
“What does that mean?” I knot and unknot my fingers on top of the blankets. They feel like sandpaper, all pale and splotchy from the cold air.
“It means it’s over.” He turns my face to his. “But we ended on such a bad note. Before. I thought we should say good-bye.”
“Is that what she wants?”
“I don’t know what she wants, exactly. I’ll talk to her about it after I get some sleep.”
He rubs his face. We lie there a minute. He’s so warm.
“I wish you’d called me.”
“Back at you, Rabbit,” he says. “Two stubborn people.”
“Maybe you should try to fix it with Susanna. She looks very normal.”
Cal laughs. “Old life,” he says. “New normal. And I didn’t call because I didn’t want to pressure you. I thought maybe if you were happy with someone else—you have enough going on without another complication.”
“You’re not a complication.” I lean into him. “You’re the only air I can stand to breathe.”
Cal reaches up and pulls the little blue curtain hanging between us and the door, then he scoots down farther on the bed, pulling me to him, close, tight, solid.
no
agenda
CAL WANTS TO STAY until they release me, but Dad insists on driving him home. They both look dead on their feet.
Once they leave, Dr. Williams comes in. Introduces himself. Pulls up a chair and crosses one long leg over the other. Wide-wale cords, worn chukkas, total New Englander.
“Wren, were you trying to hurt yourself last night?”
Straight shooter, too.
I shake my head. No. I don’t know.
“I was freaking out. I thought if I got out for a run, my head would clear. And then I got cold and things kind of fell apart.”
“Do you panic a lot?” He looks at me the same kind way the nurse did. Disarming. I could weep.
“No? I don’t know,” I say, my voice a little unreliable, “I guess. Maybe. Sometimes I freak out. I have to do something to make it stop. Running usually helps.”
He nods, asks me if I take anything, nods again. I tell him about the other prescriptions from Dr. Lang. The ones I threw away. It’s easy to talk to Dr. Williams. Doesn’t seem like he’s thinking anything more than he’s telling me. Like he has no agenda.
He pats me on the arm. “My dear, people go through things. Feel anxious, afraid. Some more than others. Antidepressants help sometimes. I’ll give you one if you change your mind.”
Just like that. No big deal. No ponderous scrutiny. He reaches my chart from a hook on the wall and makes a little note in it. The shortest entry in my East Coast paper trail.
“I want to check in again in a week. Your fingers and toes were pretty white when you first got here, but they pinked up nicely. Keep them warm, rub them, stimulate the circulation. You might notice a slight burning feeling, sensitivity to hot and cold water, but that should pass.”
He stands, smiles at me. “You were one lucky kid last night,” he says. Lays his hand on my forearm again. Gentle pat. Cue waterworks. He looks at me kind of ruefully. “You’d started removing your clothing. People can do that with hypothermia. Think they’re hot. It’s a fatal mistake. I’m glad we got you in here when we did.”
I can’t talk. I nod. Wipe my eyes on the blanket again. He leans and reaches a fresh tissue for me. Walks to the door of the room.
“Where’s your dad?”
“He took Cal home. He’ll be back.”
“I’ll try to catch him when he gets here, but if I don’t see him, you can tell him we’ll let you leave if you promise to go home, eat an enormous bowl of hot soup, take a long bath, then get into bed. Rest will do you wonders. Wren, you’re going to be fine.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure if he means from nearly freezing to death or fine in general. Either way I hope he’s right.
“And no more midnight runs, all right?” Laughs a little, crinkly around the eyes. Like it wasn’t so awful, what I did, like it might even be a little easy to laugh at.
“No more night runs,” I promise.
your
color’s
back
DAD AND ZARA come back with fresh clothes and take me home. They squeeze me between them in the front of the truck, wrapped in a quilt Zara brought, like I’m going to freeze on the way back or something. I feel really stupid, but I guess I owe it to them.
When we open the door, the house is flooded with sun flashing off the water. I stop a second, look around. I was so close to not seeing this again.
Emma’s package is gone. Someone’s cleaned. My bed’s back in its normal spot. Clothes off my floor, washed and folded. And Zara’s put quilts everywhere. Like the heat’s gone out and we might all have to huddle together to survive. I take the longest, hottest bath on record and change into fresh sweats, a tank top, and a sweater. Then my robe. Truth is, I’m still cold. And tired.
The two of them sit on the couch like they’re not watching my every move. Zara reads. Dad puts on some music, pretends he’s reading the paper, but really just stares out the windows. Finally Zara goes into the kitchen and starts knocking around. Brings me a mug of chamomile tea. It’s weird. Dad and I don’t hang around the house together, and certainly never before with Zara, but it’s clear they’re not going into the studio today. It’s intense, all this togetherness. Finally, I tell them I’m going to lie down. Assure them I’m fine. Don’t need anything.
I have the nicest dream that I’m sleeping in Cal’s arms. It wakes me up with a smile. I can’t remember the last time I woke up that way. He smelled so great, felt real. And then it is real. I open my eyes, and he’s there, pressed against me, asleep, holding me tight. In the dusk-lit room I feel something that might be the most piercing happiness I’ve ever felt. I relax into his arms and shut my eyes again.
The next time I wake up, it’s early evening. Cal’s awake, still pressed against me in the narrow bed, propped on his elbow, watching me. Smiles when I open my eyes. Plants a soft kiss on my forehead.
“You’re still here.” I flush with pleasure. The aching chill’s gone.
“Couldn’t keep me away,” he says.
“My dad?”
He moves his head in the direction of the living room. “Out there. Having dinner, I think.”
“When did you get here?”
“I didn’t want to bother them by calling, but I couldn’t stand waiting, so around three I got in the car and came over. Figured he’d tell me to leave if he didn’t want me around. They were asleep on the couch together. I woke them up. I had to see you. At home. Pink.”
“I’m not pink,” I say, laughing a little.
“Well you’re sure as hell not the white-gray you were last night,” he says, with a pained look.
“Your color’s back, too.”
I’m a smart-ass. I can’t stand the look on his face, so I try to make light of t
hings, pat his cheek.
Makes him mad. He catches my wrist.
“Wren, you don’t get it. It’s not funny. When you took off like that”—he shakes his head—“I didn’t know what to do. What you were going to do. And then I found your jacket on the bush—”
He looks so grim, I wish I could disappear.
“I had you there. With me, and then you were gone. I wasn’t sure where—how we were going to find you—”
He drops back on the pillow and looks up at the ceiling. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out again.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he says.
“I won’t.” I make a tent of the blankets and climb on top of him.
“I’m.” I kiss him on the top lip. “Sorry. I’m.” Kiss him on the bottom lip. “Sorry. I’m.” I kiss him on both lips. “A freak. And I didn’t mean to scare everyone.”
He pulls me down tight to him, and we lie like that awhile, our hearts pounding against each other.
We’re hungry when we finally come out of my room. Dad and Zara are ready to call it a night. Dinner’s on the table, a chowder Zara made, and a dome of Dad’s sourdough. Rock-hard crust, soft inside, bread like it’s the only food you need. The house smells terrific. Like people live in it and are happy.
We kiss them both good night. Dad holds on to me a minute, then passes me over to Zara, who brushes a little hair from my eyes, then hugs me herself. No one says anything, thank God, about how this almost wasn’t.
Cal fills the bowls and I bring them to the table.
“So, did Susanna go back?” I ask once we’re seated, eating. I mean to sound casual. But don’t pull it off. Can’t look at him. I tear off a piece of bread to dredge in the chowder.
“Not yet,” he says, tasting his.
My stomach drops, cold.
“So she’s still here, now? In town?”
He nods. Takes the chunk of bread out of my hand, spreads some butter on it, hands it back to me.
“At your house?”
I set the bread down. He picks it up and sticks it back into my hand.
“Eat,” he says, looking at me sideways. “She’s still here because I was out all night and asleep most of today. By the time we had a chance to talk, it was too late for her to get on a charter, so she’s leaving in the morning.”