by Deb Caletti
“Listen,” Finn said. “You’re going to believe what you’re going to believe. But I could want you and need you and it wouldn’t look like that. It could never look like that, no matter what you did. What you’re saying? It’s about his emptiness, not your fullness. You see?”
He wrapped me in his arms. My nose was pressed against his chest, the nylon of his jacket. I breathed in his smell.
“It’s not dangerous to be fully yourself,” Finn said. “Not with me.”
Sylvie’s Jeep was parked at our house when I got back. The lights were low. My father had lit candles, and they were sitting on the couch together in flickering yellow light. He seemed fine right then, that was for sure. They both just looked up as if I came home every day while they were on that couch sitting close enough for secrets. Two wineglasses were on the table with only tiny red pools left in the bottoms.
“Clara. You’re back.”
“I was at Finn’s.” I tossed my keys on the table. I didn’t mean to do it so hard—they slid across the hard surface and dropped off the other side.
“You remember Sylvie.” It was a stupid thing to say and he realized it. “That was idiotic,” he said.
“Hello, Clara,” Sylvie said.
“Roger’s home alone?” I said. It came out like an accusation. I’m sure Roger didn’t need a babysitter.
“I always thought they should do a remake of that movie with dogs,” my father said. “Home Alone ? The dogs getting the better of the bad guys? Slipping on kibble sprinkled out on the floor? Wearing the dog bowls on both feet? It’d make more money than all my books combined.”
“And, of course, that hilarious scene where the robbers both step in—” I added.
“Fall in it,” my father interrupted.
“Better,” I said.
Sylvie smiled down at her hands. I felt sort of triumphant, displaying our usual banter. Still, there was something phony about it. Showing off. Especially since we hadn’t exactly been close over the last while, his mood always among us, some big fat unspoken thing, some big fat guest sitting between us in his shorts and undershirt, ugly and distracting.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
I brushed my teeth and got into the cool sheets. I was so tired. My confession had exhausted me the way the longest swim does, but now I couldn’t swim anymore. I was too tired to think about my father, my mother in a hospital or not in a hospital, or even about Dad and Sylvie sitting out on that couch right then doing who knew what. I was being pulled into the watery depths of sleep.
I was drifting, and so it could have been one of those half-dream moments where you are part here in this world and part in the unconscious one, but I don’t think so. I swear to God, I heard that song. That song. Our song. “The Way She Moves” by Slow Change. Your eyes are on her, on her, on her . . .
I got out of bed. Was I losing my mind? He’d found my new number so fast . . . Where was the sound coming from? I opened my door to listen for the television, the one tucked in an armoire in the living room. It had only rarely been turned on since we arrived. But in the hallway I could only hear the murmur of voices, Dad’s and Sylvie’s, her soft laughter. I shut the door again.
I could still hear it. I was awake, and I could. I opened my window. I swear that music was coming from the dunes somewhere far off, but it drifted and spun with the wind and I couldn’t tell what were night sounds and what weren’t.
I realized then that I hadn’t played Christian’s message. I felt the sudden need to. I picked up my purse on the floor and found the phone. The voice of the message lady sounded as awake and efficient as a fluorescent light in that dark room. You have, pause, one message.
My heart started to thump. I felt a twist of sick fear. There was his voice. That voice, the accent both rich and icy, now. I can’t believe you would think you had to run from me, he said. You had to leave town? You know I would never hurt you. You know that’s the last thing I would want.
Christian knew where I was.
I slammed the phone closed. It was stupid, but I put it in the closet, behind the boxes marked Winter Clothes. I shoved one of our mystery host’s corduroy jackets on top of it and closed the door. I could still feel it there, like it was someone breathing.
I couldn’t hear the music anymore. It could have been Christian somewhere near, listening to it in his car. The song would bring us back together in his mind, our eyes locked, his skin against my skin. He was probably parked on that beach road, the windows rolled down. But I would never know for sure.
Chapter 19
“I’m sorry I startled you,” Sylvie said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Sylvie had called my name and I had jumped, sending two pens rolling down the counter. I was on edge. I felt Christian nearby, like people say they feel the souls of their loved ones hovering just after they’ve died.
“You are tired,” she said.
“I didn’t sleep much last night.” Neither did she, but I didn’t mention that little fact. “I have a lot on my mind.”
That morning I had tried to call Shakti. No answer and no answer again. It wasn’t possible, was it, that she told Christian where I was? I was sure she wouldn’t. Sure. But she was the only one who knew where I was, right? Captain Branson wasn’t exactly going to slip this fact to Christian. But maybe, too, I was making myself crazy. He could know I left town but not know which town. Someone else could have been playing that song. My own head could have been.
I didn’t know what was real or not, what happened or hadn’t, what might still happen or never happen.
I once went with my father to a reading Stephen King was giving. Afterward there was a small, private party. He was probably the most famous writer I’d ever met with my dad. A few people were standing with him. A woman holding a drink asked, What do you think would be the scariest thing? He’d probably been asked it a million times. Someone else in the group answered: Your child being murdered. But he shook his head.
No. Going into your child’s room to find him gone.
Sylvie walked to the windows, folded her arms, and looked out. She reminded me of my father. He stood like that, too. I could see why they liked each other, actually. They were both a deep tumble of thoughts and feelings. Passionate, though I cringed at the word. “I know you do not like me all that much,” she said.
I looked down. Her words shocked me. Too often we play these little hidden games, motivations not quite buried under our tones and gestures, the truth spoken only behind someone’s back. But there Sylvie was, holding the truth right out before me.
“Maybe it’s all just a little much right now. It feels sudden, you and him.”
“It is sudden only for you,” she said. She turned to look at me again. Her words weren’t angry, only the flat statement of fact. “He has been grieving for a long time. I have been grieving. We are both perhaps ready to stop.”
“Did you lose someone too?” I asked. I thought of the man in the picture. The basket of lemons and the orange house.
“A baby,” she said.
Her words startled me. So much so that Sylvie looked like a different person to me all at once. “I’m sorry, Sylvie,” I said.
“I was with a man, and I was going to have his child, and he did not want that. I don’t tell people this story. I don’t tell the whole of it. I went away. To have the child myself. I wanted to save it, and so I ran very far, to a small, small town, San Gemini. He would not find me. I would save it from him, from his not wanting, you see? I would do it on my own. But I was too far away. The baby started to come, too early. A neighbor came. There was no hospital near. I never could see it in my mind, you understand? I could not see things going wrong like that.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again.
“We try to hold a storm in our own fist but we are not that strong.”
I nodded. I knew about that.
“I am beginning to think there are two kinds of people,” she said.
I wai
ted.
“Those who forgive themselves too easily but will not forgive others.”
“And?” I asked.
“Those that forgive others too easily but will not forgive themselves.”
* * *
We had a lot of visitors that day. An entire bus of senior citizens. I toured them around the grounds and afterward got my picture taken out front with all of them. Then a Winnebago arrived, a big old leaning camper with a license plate that read CAPTAIN ED. A bearded man got out, a camera around his neck, and he toured the museum just as a family with two small children arrived. The kids chased each other on the front lawn and yelled and touched things in the gift shop as Roger ran upstairs to get away. The mother kept shouting, Inside voices! Inside voices! as I pictured Roger hiding under the bed with his paws over his ears.
It was finally time to leave, and I wanted to say good-bye to Sylvie. She had reached out to me and I would have reached back, but I couldn’t find her. She had taken the boat out, I realized, though I could not see her anywhere on the water. I thought about leaving a note, but all options seemed stupid. Thanks for telling me about your dead baby . . . I locked up, headed out.
I called Shakti again from the car. No answer. Why wasn’t she answering? There could have been a million reasons that had nothing to do with Christian and me. You can have a crisis in your life, something huge on your mind, and you can forget it’s not the first thing on everyone else’s. People are out shopping. They are buying shoes and getting manicures and going to Taco Time while your life is falling apart.
I drove down to the docks and parked. I knew Finn would still be out on the afternoon sail that day, so I decided to grab a sandwich at the Portside Café. I was almost to the restaurant when I noticed my father’s bike chained up to the lamppost just outside. I was surprised to see it there—he didn’t usually go anywhere during writing hours. Still, it was a good surprise. He’d be glad to see me, I thought. I’d go in and he’d be sitting at a table, reading, maybe. He’d give me half of his French dip, or we’d order another one. I needed to tell him about Christian. We could talk about what Sylvie had told me, too. Or maybe we could finally talk about what had come between us over the last weeks.
I pushed open the door. Past the newspaper racks and potted plants I saw the open floor of the café, which was a sensory jumble of tables and booths, loud talking, and the clanking of silverware against plates, the smell of beef and frying onions. I looked around. I saw Jack’s girlfriend sitting at a table with two other girls, laughing, and a guy I recognized who kept his boat at the dock—Jim, John, something. And, then, yes, there he was, my father. Annabelle Aurora sat across from him. A stack of books were on the table, as if he’d just been to the library.
I started toward them and then stopped. It looked like they were arguing. Annabelle was leaning forward, her flat hand on the table as if she were making a point. He was leaning back in the booth the way he did when he was pissed. Their voices separated out from the crowd. You don’t know . . . his. You can’t keep . . . hers. Someone else laughed loud, and the voices were gone and then back. It’s her story, too, Bobby. Annabelle’s voice was firm. She would have had command of her class when she’d been a professor.
I backed up toward the plants and the newspaper stands. The hostess asked if I needed a table, and all I could do was shake my head and keep moving backward, out of there. Because I could see that my father had stopped looking angry and now looked destroyed. His face fell, and he looked years older, sitting there. All of that ego swagger that was weirdly one of his best qualities seemed drained from him. His face was pale and defeated. It was that word, story, I guessed. He seemed done in by it, and Annabelle’s hand went up to his cheek kindly, and something in the gesture bothered me enough that I got out of there.*
I felt shaky. I wanted to be far away from them. I had heard Annabelle’s words through the clatter of dishes and voices, and I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t know what was happening for my father and me. But I wished we could go back three weeks or three months or two years and start again.**
The shift—I could almost feel it like a real thing under my feet. We’d crossed over into some territory where hidden things had grown too large to stay hidden. So, all right, it was true. There was some big thing about my father and about my mother. It’s her story, too—Annabelle was talking about me. There was something she didn’t understand, though. I didn’t want to know what he had kept from me. See, I wasn’t, never have been, still am not, the type of person who’d want to be told they had three months to live. I didn’t like the evening news. Those PBS programs about global warming. Stories about a girl getting her throat slit by her boyfriend on the banks of Greenlake.
I crossed the street, away from that restaurant. I called Shakti again. No answer.
I was hungry, and so I ordered a cheeseburger and some fries from Cleo and sat at one of the picnic tables, keeping Gulliver company. That creepy feeling that Christian was nearby—I couldn’t shake it. I knew how stupid it was—he could know I left town and not know the thousands, thousands, of places I might be. Still, I kept looking behind me. Checking out the periphery of where I was. I’m sure all of the stuff with Dad wasn’t helping any, the ghost of my mother floating around nearby, whatever. But I felt uneasy. It was that nervous energy, that awareness that feels like a shiver about to happen. Still, I’d had that sense a hundred times before, and Christian had not been there. I’d be driving and looking in my rearview mirror; I’d be in the hallway at school. But his car was not behind mine after all, and he was not waiting at my locker.
Finn and Jack and all of their passengers finally arrived. A little while later Finn strolled down the dock, his hands shoved down into his cargo shorts, his grin wide, his cap over his crazy hair. Happiness rushed in where the nerves had been. Something good, a good person, love, can be a great big bulldozer to bad things. It can shove aside a bad moment, or bad years.
I liked it so much, the way he always smelled like outside. His hair was warm from sun.
“Mmm,” I said. “You.”
“You,” he said.
“Oh, God, don’t kiss me; I just ate a cheeseburger.”
“I love cheeseburgers,” he said.
He sat down next to me on the bench. I passed him my basket of fries. He looped one into his mouth. Gulliver ignored the food. Actually he was looking off into the distance as if we were boring him.
“I missed you all day,” Finn said. “I missed you before I even got out of bed.”
“Me too,” I said. “It was the longest morning.”
“How was the snake today?” He chose another fry, fed it to me.
“Sylvie?” It didn’t seem right to talk about our conversation. What Sylvie had told me—it was too private to speak out loud while slurping Diet Coke out of a paper cup. “She was fine. Rotten kids touching everything, though.”
“Ah, man. You get those on the boat all the time. Parents drinking their wine on the sunset sail, oblivious to the kid messing around. Sure, I’ll steer a seventy-foot boat, watch for tankers, idiot speedboats, work the sails, and babysit your little monster so he doesn’t drown. Nooo problem. You hear anymore from psycho boyfriend?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Did you tell your dad?”
“No chance yet.”
“I saw him today. He was riding his bike. He waved, I waved. My mom really liked you, by the way.”
“I really liked her. Your whole family . . .”
He grabbed my hands. Looked at me seriously. “You ever think about staying on here after the summer? You graduated. You wouldn’t have to go back.”
“I never really thought about that as an option. School, you know? I’ve got to sort out the whole college thing.”
“While you sorted out the whole college thing . . .”
He was rubbing my fingers with his; our hands were clasped. There was this sweet, sweet space between us and in it sat all this hope, and
I stepped into that space and kissed him and he kissed back, and it was so great and that’s why it was such a shame that I had been wrong about the uneasy feeling being gone. It was like Christian was there, watching me kiss someone else. I remembered a time when it was Christian and I sitting at a waterfront—in Seattle, at a table at Ivar’s, eating fish and chips and hot chowder on a cold day, watching the ships and the ferries crossing the sound. You could see your breath. I had my hands in Christian’s pockets. Christian had wrapped his scarf around both of us, pulling us together.
I checked across the street. He would be there, his arms folded in fury. Or worse, his face in his hands.
“Look at this stupid bird,” Finn said. “All these french fries sitting here, and he’s just watching Cleo read her book.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for an invitation. He’s got better manners, maybe, than the rest of them.”
“Or else he just doesn’t like the crunchy ones on the bottom, either,” Finn said. He started lining up the leftover fries, the narrow dry ones we’d rejected. I smiled. Finn was making a heart out of them. He was talking to Gulliver, telling him how lucky he was. Not every seagull had his food formed into art. It was because he was a particularly intelligent and devoted bird. He shouldn’t have to lower himself by going through garbage.
The heart was finished. “Back to work,” Finn said. “Crazy amount of tourists today.”
“I know. Want to do something tonight?”
He put his arms around my waist, pulled me close. “I hate it, but I can’t. I got sunsets all week. Some corporate private charter tonight. But you can come on the one tomorrow night. Casual. Stupid Captain Bishop Inn summer tour. They do it once a month.”