Eden

by Andrea Kleine

  Luce opened her eyes and looked up. Her hands slipped up her legs, over her knees, and disappeared into pockets.

  “We’re alike, you and I, Hope,” she said. “I see a lot of myself in you. But you’re stronger than me. Maybe that’s another part of what I couldn’t handle. A part of what you said was right. Not so much that I didn’t want to be around you. But I didn’t want to be around evidence of my own weakness.”

  Luce slid off the rock until her toes touched the ground, then hopped the rest of the way down. I scrambled forward, but realized it was too difficult to get down that way from my position. I crawled over to the footholds and awkwardly climbed down. We started to walk back a different way.

  Luce drove her hands into the pockets of her vest. She looked at the ground. The ground that she owned. Maybe it gave her solace. Maybe it comforted her. Maybe it confirmed her. It must feel good to own land. It must give you a foundation. I had lived in rented apartments all of my adult life, most of them as someone’s roommate, lover, or illegal subtenant. The only time I had my name on a lease was when Noreen and I lived together.

  “I couldn’t have survived what happened to you,” Luce said without looking up. “Maybe only you could. You were the only one who was strong enough. I don’t think Eden was.”

  I stopped walking and watched Luce keep moving through the woods. Her boots trudged through dead leaves and twigs. Her pace was interrupted when she had to step over a log. My breath made small clouds that obscured my view of her before they quickly vanished.

  In a few moments I caught up with her. A path materialized and we followed it to a clearing. In the middle was a sandy canvas tent, the kind you see in movies when people go on safari in Africa. Inside, it was empty except for a round cushion, a roll of white paper, a pot of black ink, and a paintbrush resting in a tin coffee can. It was barely big enough for two people. Luce explained that this was her meditation space. “There are monks in Asia who practice drawing the perfect circle, which is, of course, impossible. But you try. I do one a day,” Luce said. “Then I burn it. It’s a practice in detachment. To not get used to things. And to not hold on to things. To let things go.”

  Down at the house, Luce pulled off her boots and stepped back into her clogs. She started washing vegetables in the sink and asked if I was staying over. I was planning on it, but I lied and said I was staying with some friends who lived forty minutes away. “I went to college with them,” I said. “They just had a baby.” Luce continued scrubbing carrots with a brush. I had no friends forty minutes away. I sort of knew someone in Asheville, but I hadn’t spoken to her in years. I didn’t want to stay over at Luce’s and wake up with Luce still here. I felt I was disturbing her and that I had disturbed her ever since I was fourteen. She had an ongoing meditation that I had interrupted at the age I began menstruating. I wondered if it was my femaleness that disturbed Luce. Not that I was that traditionally feminine, or traditionally gender-conforming; I sometimes forgot about my female body. Whatever it was, to her I was the person who represented pain and discomfort and underlined all of her limitations and weaknesses. I reminded her that she never had children. That for whatever reason, whether she wanted to or not, she was psychically incapable of it.

  I asked Luce if she had any idea where I could find Eden. If she kept in touch with her. “I see Suriya now and then,” she said. “Eden I haven’t seen since you were kids. I think your mother gave me an address for her when she was living on a farm. I sent a few cards, boxes, but never heard anything. Suriya doesn’t know where she is?” I shook my head.

  “Good luck,” Luce said.

  13

  When Eden and I woke up it was still dark out. I didn’t remember going to sleep. I vaguely remembered someone giving us a blanket in the back seat of The Camper. But we weren’t in The Camper, we were in a truck. The back of a truck. Someone gave us a blanket in the back of the truck because it was cold or in case it was cold. I remembered thinking that it smelled gross or it was dirty. I remembered I tried to say thanks and put it under my butt because I was uncomfortable and there was nothing to sit on and my butt had gotten cold. Someone pulled it out from under my butt and put it over my head.

  I didn’t know where we were. For a second I thought we were camping. Maybe it was one of those times when you are very sleepy and you can’t really remember what had happened late at night or at the end of the TV movie and you were half dreaming and it was all mixed up. I had gone to my first high school party not too long before and had gotten pretty drunk. My friend Dena’s mom was out of town, so Dena had a party. It was only going to be a few of her friends, but then everyone found out about it and everyone came over. I was drinking rum and Coke because it was one of the few drinks I had heard of. That, and gin and tonic. Wine and beer were boring and I didn’t like the taste. I drank rum and Cokes until I couldn’t taste the rum in it anymore. I started kissing a guy named Jonah, who had never shown any interest in me before. I also kissed three other guys. Maybe more. I kissed a guy named Kyle, who tasted like the sour-cream-and-onion potato chips he was still chewing in his mouth. Somehow I wound up with Jonah in another room. He turned out the lights and we lay down on the floor behind a couch so that if someone walked in the room they wouldn’t see us. That must have been his strategy, because I don’t remember it being mine. He rolled on top of me, writhing through his clothes. Then he moved off to one side and tried to slide his hand down the front of my pants. I was wearing a belt of my mother’s that was too big for me. I had wrapped the excess tongue around itself so it wouldn’t flop all over the place. Jonah couldn’t figure it out. I pulled at it and freed it. Then someone walked in and turned on the lights and Jonah sat up like nothing was going on. I fixed my belt. Then I sat up and the guy who had walked in on us said something. Or whistled. Or made some joke. Maybe I had kissed him, too. I didn’t like Jonah in that way. He thought he was smarter than he was. He boasted that he knew what his IQ was and that it was 144, which, according to him, was borderline genius. At some point Layla picked up my hand and led me away from Jonah. The two of us sat in the backyard in plastic lounge chairs, the kind that look like they are made out of giant rubber bands and leave marks on the backs of your thighs in summer. I don’t remember what we talked about, but Layla kept holding my hand and it felt good. She got up and brought me a big glass of water and I didn’t know I was so thirsty. She dragged her chair right next to mine, the way some people try to make a double bed by putting two twin beds together but there is always a crack. It was kind of awkward because the armrests of our chairs clacked against each other and it felt like they were in the way of us sitting together. Layla tried to make them fit, sliding one armrest in front of the other, but it didn’t really work and she gave up and crawled into my chair instead and kicked her chair away with her foot. We had to hug in order to fit. Layla was shorter than me and she put her head on my chest and I could feel her breath on my skin and she slipped her leg between my legs and I reached my top leg over her so we were very close and tangled up. Some guy came out at some point and said, “A couple of lesbians out here,” and Layla said, “Shut the fuck up,” but she didn’t move and the guy didn’t say anything and Layla said, “Fuck off,” to make sure he would go. We heard the screen door to the kitchen slam so we knew he was gone. And I don’t know how it happened but Layla and I started kissing and she slipped her knee up and pressed it against my crotch and everything felt good. Like it wasn’t a dare. Like I wasn’t trying to prove anything.

  At some point Layla got up and said she had to go to the bathroom and never came back. Most of the people had left. I fell asleep outside in the lounge chair. When I woke up it was really early. Someone had thrown a beach towel over me and it was damp from dew.

  Later in the morning a bunch of us made scrambled eggs and we rolled some hash into a cigarette and smoked it. Layla had brought the hash. She and her boyfriend had slept in Dena’s mom’s bed. Layla said, “Don’t worry, we didn’t mess up the sheets
.” Her boyfriend was older. He was old enough to be in college but he wasn’t in college and no one knew what he did or where he came from. I had forgotten Layla had this weird boyfriend. I had forgotten that she had taken free condoms from the guidance counselor’s office. I guessed our kissing didn’t mean anything to her. But kissing all those guys didn’t mean anything to me. I wondered if it was the same thing.

  Now I was in the woods somewhere. And it slowly came back to me that I wasn’t sleeping outside at a party. We weren’t camping with my dad. My dad hadn’t come to pick us up. He sent a friend of his that I didn’t know but Eden did. I was cold and I would’ve taken a gross blanket now. Or a damp beach towel that had been left out all night. And thankfully someone helped me up and I felt like a little kid who had fallen asleep on the car ride home and it always felt good to be lifted out of the car by your dad when you were half asleep and carried inside and carefully put to bed. Carry me, I always wished as a little kid. I felt a little like I was drunk.

  I would’ve preferred being in a tent if we were camping, which we were not. We weren’t camping. But we were outside. I curled up over my knees and wrapped my arms around them and tried to rest my head. My nose was cold. But I wasn’t supposed to be in this position. I was supposed to sit up. Someone sat me up and leaned me back against a tree. And someone moved one of my arms around the tree. I think that’s when I knew for sure it was a tree. I tried to bend my elbow and reclaim my arm but someone straightened it out again. I wiggled my shoulder to slip my arm out of my jacket sleeve but someone wound a piece of rope around my wrist, keeping me inside. That’s when I tried to stand up. I pressed my free hand into my knees and straightened my legs. I was wobbly and the tree helped me stand. I circled around to my tied-up hand and hazily pawed at it. I mumbled, “Stop it.” I shoved whoever it was aside. I said, “Let me do it,” because I was good at undoing knots. I was good at detangling necklaces. I was good at combing out ratted, snarly hair without causing pain. I could do it. Someone pushed me and I took a few steps backwards and bumped into the tree. Maybe I was drunk, but I don’t remember drinking. Maybe I was too drunk. I should go. Someone should give me a ride home. Someone who hadn’t been drinking like that girl Cathy who was a Mormon. The farthest she went was drinking coffee. And I saw her try to take a drag off a cigarette once but she just coughed and said, “Oh my word, no,” and waved it away. Or there was that guy Shiva who didn’t drink most of the time either. He would only drink when his parents were in India over Christmas so there could be no way they would ever know. I needed one of those people. I didn’t know either of them very well. I would have to get their phone number from someone. I felt better about calling Cathy. Maybe because she was a girl.

  I looked around. It was dark. There were trees. I didn’t see any houses or lights. The moon was the only light. Where was Eden? “Eden?” I called out. I think I said it. My mouth felt like at the dentist’s. Pasty. Cotton. My cheeks felt funny. I had to think. I had to think to think. “Eden,” I said. I know I said it out loud. I spiraled around to my tied-up hand. “Don’t do that,” I said. I started to pull at the rope to loosen it and work my hand out. Someone punched me. In the face. I had never been punched before.

  14

  I drove The Camper back to my dad’s because I was out of ideas. The only idea I had left was to look through boxes of childhood stuff and see if I recognized any of Eden’s friends in old photos. Maybe I could call Marshall and see if he remembered them too. Have Zara find their contact info for me by hacking into some database. All shots in the dark that had only minuscule chances of turning anything up. I imagined my dad giving me a pat on the back, telling me I did my due diligence, and probably somewhat relieved that if he couldn’t find Eden, I couldn’t find her either.

  There were no cars parked at my father’s house. I thought it was better this way. It’s easier if I’m already here. If I pop in on him and Beth having dinner, it’s intrusive. Or they’ll worry something is wrong. Why am I saying “they”? Who knows how long Beth will stick around? My father drives all women away. That’s cruel of me, I know. My father has a big heart and perhaps a greater-than-average capacity for romantic love that I obviously did not inherit. Maybe he just has bad luck or makes bad decisions or loves too many people. Why does love have to be limited to the duality of just two people? I picked up that line as a kid. Some friend of my dad’s said it during a dinner party. Of course, they probably came up with it to rationalize their infidelities, or to rationalize that fidelity was an unnatural institution. My friend Jamie briefly dated a shrink who said everyone always says gay men are promiscuous, but all his straight clients ever talk about are their affairs. I actually think my dad is pretty traditional. I think he would’ve preferred to work it out with Luce. He would’ve worked it out with my mom, but she wanted to split up. I don’t think my dad has ever broken up with anyone. They all leave him. Including Eden. I’m the only one who stayed.

  I opened the refrigerator. It felt like a habit. I’m at one of my parents’ houses. I’m coming home from school or somewhere. I just got off the bus. I open the refrigerator. I have carte blanche to eat anything that doesn’t look like it’s part of a planned meal. Or anything except one of Beth’s expensive kombucha sodas. I rested my elbow on the door and peered in.

  I shut the door.

  Something clicked and whirred. My father always kept the ringer on his landline turned off so it didn’t disturb him while he was writing. I thought this was ridiculous given the fact that he couldn’t possibly be getting that many calls. I picked up the cordless receiver and said “Hello?” but the person had already hung up on the answering machine’s outgoing message. I replaced the receiver and pressed STOP. The machine ignored me and automatically began to play messages.

  “Shit,” I said to myself. There was another hang-up first. I didn’t know if the machine erased the messages after playing them or not, it was so ancient. I looked around for a pen and paper. A recorded ad with a friendly female voice teased that they might have won a Caribbean vacation. Then there was someone calling for Beth from a doctor’s office. He started to leave a message and then Beth picked up, but the machine kept recording.

  “Oh, hi there,” Beth said. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I just walked in the door.”

  “Is now a good time?”

  “This is fine. It’s great. Just give me one minute while I find the . . . how to turn the machine off.” Beth must have pressed the wrong button because the machine started blaring a beep that would not end. I pressed STOP again, and then STOP and REWIND together. The machine wound itself all the way back to the beginning of the tape and began playing everything it held.

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  I pressed buttons as a woman from a credit card company mispronounced my dad’s name and left a toll-free number for him to call back. The machine kept on going. It must need to play itself out in order to stop. The next caller didn’t speak right away. There was dead air before a voice came on.

  “Hey, Dad. And Beth, I guess. It’s Eden . . . Anyone there? Screening your calls? . . . Hello? Maybe . . .”

  “Yeah, hi.” My dad had picked up. “Hang on a sec.” There was fumbling and clicking and then the tape cut out.

  The machine beeped again.

  “Hey, guys, it’s Brian. Just wondering if you could give me the name and number of your go-to plumber guy again. I know you gave it to me before, but for the life of me I can’t find it. Okay, talk to you soon.”

  The machine babbled on. Hang-ups. Telemarketers. Vacation offers. Insignificances. Beth’s doctor and the eardrum-piercing beep again. All of it coming out of this little box. I stared at it. I was afraid of it. I had been looking for Eden this whole time, but this whole time she had been inside this answering machine, this little outdated plastic box attached to this outdated cordless phone. Someone had shrunk her and she lived inside the answering machine and she could only communicate with the outside world by making the phone ring. Th
e answering machine stood undisturbed in its special spot, the top shelf of a low bookcase that wasn’t quite level with the windowsill. A modest little plastic house in a neighborhood of books and kitchen appliances. No one seemed at home. It was the middle of the day. On a weekday. Everyone was out or at work. If I knocked on the door, who would answer?

  The machine rewound itself back into position. It clicked and silenced itself and the flashing light went dark.

  I reached over and rested my finger on the PLAY button. I pressed it timidly, softly, feeling its miniature springs begin to engage. It resisted beneath my finger, demanding more pressure if I really wanted the machine to get up out of its chair and do its job. If I really wanted to hear it. “What do you want?” it asked me. “Do you want to hear the whole thing again? Do you need confirmation? Didn’t you believe me the first time?”

  I pressed the button and held it down. The anonymous lady singsonged the toll-free number.

  “Hey, Dad. And Beth, I guess. It’s Eden . . . Anyone there? Screening your calls? . . . Hello? Maybe . . .”

  “Yeah, hi. Hang on a sec.” Fumble. Click. Beep. And the guy wanting the plumber’s number. I fast-forwarded through the other messages since the machine previously ignored my rewind commands. It hit the end of its recordings. Rewind back to the beginning. These are the things a machine could do. The flashing light went dark. The machine was motionless and ready. A trap set, waiting to be sprung. I didn’t dare move.

  A car turned into the driveway, picking up speed. It knew the way. It knew how to punch the gas on the incline up to the house. Then it sees the hulk of The Camper occupying its preferred parking spot close to the deck. It slows down. Pauses. Assesses the situation. Slowly turns and begrudgingly takes the other parking spot, even though it doesn’t like that spot very much. Shuts engine. Opens door. Puts feet on ground. Shuts car door. Walks to house.