Let me tell you a little something about love. It’s different every time. It’s nothing more than a chemical reaction, an arrow over an equation, but the elements change. The most fragile kind of love is that between a man and a woman. Chemistry, again: if you introduce a new element, you never know how stable the original bond is. You may wind up with a new union, with something left behind. I believe that you can fall in love many times with many different people. However I don’t think that you can fall in love the same way twice. One type of relationship may be steady. Another may be fire and brimstone. Who is to say if one of these is better than the other? The deciding factor is how it all fits together. Your love, I mean, and your life.
The problem is that when you’re old enough to really find a soulmate, you’re already carrying around all this extra baggage. Like where you grew up, and how much money you make, and whether you like the country or the city. And sometimes, most of the time, you fall really hard for someone who you just can’t squeeze into the limits of your life. The bottom line is: when your hearts sets its sight on someone, it doesn’t consult with your mind.
Most people don’t marry the loves of their lives. You marry for compatibility; for friendship. And Jane, there’s a lot to be said for that. It may not be a kind of relationship where you can read each other’s minds, but it’s comfortable, like a familiar warm spot on your favorite chair. That’s just another kind of love, one that doesn’t burn itself out, one that lasts in the real world.
You don’t know how lucky you are. There’s one person for each of us on this whole planet with whom we can really connect. And you found yours. I know how it feels too, you see, because I have had you.
I have always been your greatest fan, Jane. I can identify you in a room by the motion of the air around you. I knew it would be like this from the night that Daddy first crashed into my room. He flung open the door and saw you already sitting on the bed, holding a pillow up around my ears so that I wouldn’t have to listen to the sounds downstairs of Mama crying. He told you to get the hell out of my room. You were no more than eight, all bones, and you hurled yourself at his groin with the force of a tropical storm. Perhaps it was just the region you hit that triggered his reaction, but I don’t believe that. I can still see his head striking the sharp corner of the wooden bureau, and his eyes rolling back. You looked at him, whispered, Daddy ? “I didn’t do that,” you said, “you hear?” But even at four, I understood. “You’re the only one who could have,” I told you, and to this day that holds true.
You have untapped strength, Jane. It’s what got you through your childhood. It’s what kept Daddy from going after me. It’s what Oliver fell in love with, what Sam fell in love with, what I fell in love with. You came to me in Massachusetts, you said, because you couldn’t remember who you were anymore. Don’t you see? You’re everyone’s anchor. You are our center.
I want you to say it. Tell me what you are going to do.
Again.
You will not be sorry. I know; I have carried a memory of you wherever I have gone for thirty years now. That’s the way it had to be. You will see. No matter what. You will take him with you.
70 SAM
Until now, I didn’t know there was a down side to being able to read your mind. It’s written all over your face, you know. I don’t blame you. I should have known that you would go back to him. Back to California.
Later, when you are gone, it’s going to hit me. Hadley, and then you, leaving at the same time. I won’t blame you for what happened to him; I couldn’t. But I haven’t really grieved yet, not for him; not for you. In time, I’ll make peace with myself for Hadley’s death. With you, though, it will not be so simple.
It would be easy to say that when you leave I could just pretend this didn’t happen. Truth is, you weren’t here for all that long. I’ve always been sort of suspicious of immediate attraction, anyway, and I could just tell myself over and over that infatuation isn’t the same as love. But you and I both know that would be lying. You can tell yourself anything you want, but you can’t make what happened go away. It happened fast because we were making up for lost time.
When I picture you, it’s a collage I see, not one whole picture. There’s you sitting in the manure, doesn’t that seem like a year ago? And talking to Joley under the shade of a Gravenstein tree, the sun casting shadows on your back. I think I knew I loved you then, no matter how I acted. Maybe I always knew.
I keep thinking we were so stupid. If we hadn’t fought so hard when we first met, we would have had nearly twice as much time together. But then if we hadn’t fought so hard I wonder if I could have loved you so damn much.
It sounds funny to say it here, just like that, in the light of day. I love you. You hear it so often, you know, on soap operas and stupid sitcoms that sometimes the words are just sounds, they don’t mean anything. But God, I would shout it to the world day and night if it meant I could keep you with me. I’ve never tried to pack so much into one phrase in my whole life.
Is it different for you, because I am not the first man you’ve loved? I might as well say it, because it’s true. You went first to Oliver. So what I want to know is: does your heart feel like it’s being ripped out? Is it easier for you? Have you felt this way before?
I haven’t either. I can’t imagine ever feeling this way again. Not the pain, not now, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about us. When I was with you nothing mattered. I could have watched this whole orchard get wiped out by blight. I could have witnessed massacres, a war, Armageddon. It wouldn’t have made a difference.
I know that there will be other women, but they couldn’t compare. Maybe I’ll change, maybe love will change, but I think we were a once-ina-lifetime. You could never leave me; that’s why I am not more upset. You can’t possibly break these feelings. They stretch, and they last. You’re taking them with you back to Oliver, back to Rebecca. You will never be the same, because of me.
If I have to remember you, just for a second, it will be like this: you kneelingin front of me, at the windowsill, counting the stars. I don’t remember why we decided to do that, it’s an impossible, infinite task. Maybe because when we were together, we thought we had all the time in the world. You gave up at two hundred and six. That’s when you started to name them, after grandparents, great-grandparents, distant ancestors. Antique names like Bertha and Charity and Annabelle, Homer and Felix and Harding. You asked me for family names, and I told you. We mapped the sky with our heritage. Do you know what a star is? I asked you. It’s an explosion that happened billions and billions of years ago. The only reason we see it now, is because it’s taken that long for the light, the sight, to travel here into our line of vision. I pointed to the North Star, and said I wanted to name it after you. Jane, you said, too plain for such a bright one . I said you were wrong. It was the biggest explosion, obviously, and it has taken many years to reach us, but it will be here for many more.
I will think about you every day for the rest of my life. It had to be this way; I can’t see myself surfing on a beach any more than you can imagine raising sheep. We come from different backgrounds, and we happened to cross for a little bit of time. But what a time that was.
Don’t say it. This is not goodbye.
Look at me. Hold me. I can get across so much more that way. There are things we need to say that there aren’t words for, yet.
Oh I love you.
71 REBECCA July 3, 1990
I always pay attention to my parents’ fights. They’re incredible. It is hard to understand how so much anger could come from such indifference. When I picture my parents, I see them walking in concentric circles, in opposite directions. My mother’s circle is inside my father’s, for financial reasons. My father walks clockwise. My mother walks counterclockwise. Naturally they do not cross paths. From time to time they look up and see each other from the corners of their eyes. And it is this break in the line of vision that sparks an argument.
&n
bsp; They are fighting, today, over me. My fifteenth birthday. My father is planning to be out of the country on my birthday. Out of fourteen birthdays, he has been here for seven. So it is not like this is something new. But my mother seems to have lost control. She yells at him in the kitchen, things I choose to ignore. I walk away from them on purpose, and turn up the game shows on TV.
But it is when they get upstairs that things begin to get interesting. My parents’ bedroom is directly over the living room where I am watching TV. I can hear shouting. Then I hear very distinctly the thud of something being dropped. And something else. I jump up and throw my baseball cap down on the couch. I tiptoe up the stairs, hoping I can catch the tail end of this.
“I’ve had it,” my mother shouts. She has a big cardboard box, the kind my father keeps his research files in. She lifts it with all her strength-she’s not so big-and chucks it into the hall. I think she sees me on the staircase, so I duck. Then my father walks out into the hall. He takes the box my mother has thrown and rights it. He lifts it by its handles and sets it back inside the door.
For reasons I don’t understand, my mother is faster than my father. A wall of cartons builds up so quickly that I cannot see much of anything at all. They have blocked off the access to their bedroom. “Jane,” my father says. “That’s enough.”
I cannot see what my mother is doing. This makes me angry. So many days of the year I put up with them ignoring each other; the moments they connect, even fighting, are so rare. Anything, to watch them together. So I creep to the second floor of the house and shove the cartons a certain way. I push and rearrange them gently so that I don’t make too much noise but I create a peephole. I see my father standing in a pile of loose papers and graphs. He looks helpless. He moves his hands in front of him, as if he can still catch them falling.
Then he grabs my mother’s shoulders. I think maybe he is hurtingher. She struggles back and forth, and with a force I didn’t realizeshe had, she breaks away.
My mother lifts one of the cartons still out there and holds it over the banister. She rattles it like a maraca.
My father comes charging out of the bedroom. “Don’t,” he warns. Then the carton breaks. Slow-motion, I can see white bones in Ziploc bags, sharp strands of baleen, ribbons of charts and observation logs, all falling. Just like that, I stop breathing.
This is when, out of the blue, I remember the plane crash.
My father hit my mother once, when I was a baby. And she took me and flew to the East Coast. That’s how the story goes. My father insisted she bring me back, so she put me on a plane headed to San Diego. But the plane crashed. I tell it like this, matter-of-fact, because I do not remember it. I was, as I say, a baby. What I know of the crash I have learned from reading newspaper articles, many years later.
I don’t think about this crash much-it was a long time ago- but I believe that it has crossed my mind now for a reason. Maybe it is the thing that gets me to stand up and turn away. Maybe it is the reason I walk into my bedroom and pull out clothes and underwear, stuffing them into a small bag. Don’t get me wrong, I have no master plan. I keep my face turned away from my parents when I run out of my room and into the bathroom. I grab some dirty clothes of my mother’s from the hamper, and then I run down the stairs. My heart is pounding. All I want to do is get away. I hear my father say, “You bitch.”
When I was around twelve I thought about running away. I suppose all kids do at some point. I got as far as our backyard. I hid underneath the black vinyl cover of the barbeque, but it took my parents four and a half hours to find me. My father had to come home early from work. It was a big deal when my mother lifted up the vinyl cover. She hugged me and told me I had scared her half to death. What would I do without you? she said, over and over. What would I do without you?
Sneakers. I grab mine from the living room, my mother’s from the hall closet. They are what she calls her “weekend shoes.” So I am packed. Now what do I do?
When the plane crashed, I was brought to a hospital in Des Moines. I was in the pediatrics ward, of course, and all I can really remember is that the nurses wore smocks with smiley faces. And hair nets with Ernie and Bert on them. I didn’t know where my parents were, and all I really wanted was to see them. It took a while, but they came. They came in together, I remember. They were holding each other’s hands, and that made me so happy. The last time I had seen them my mother was crying, and my father was yelling very loud. It had been very scary, the crash. But it was what had to be done. It brought my parents together again.
Just as I am thinking about this, I hear the sting of a slap. It’s a sound you can recognize from any other, if you have heard it before. It brings tears to my eyes.
I slide the front door open on its hinges. I run to my mother’s car, parked at the edge of the driveway. She has a clunky old station wagon that has been around forever. I perch on the edge of the passenger seat. They say history repeats, don’t they?
My mother comes out of the house like a lost soul. She is looking-into the sky and she is wearing nothing but her underwear. As if it is a magnet, she is being drawn towards this car. I am sure she doesn’t see me. She holds some clothes in her left hand. When she gets into the car she slides them on the seat between us. She has red welts on her wrists from where he grabbed her. I don’t know where he hit her this time. I put my hand over hers; she jumps in her seat. “I have everything,” I say. My voice sounds too high and thin. My mother is looking at me as if she is trying to place the face. She whispers my name, and sinks back against the seat. So do I. I take a deep breath; wonder how long it will be before I see my father again.
72 JANE
The human body can withstand so much. I have read accounts of people who have survived extreme cold, brutality, bludgeoning, terrible burns. I have read the testimonies of these survivors. They all make it sound so simple, really, the ability to keep on living.
We all stand on the upper part of the driveway, where the gravel is a little thin. Sam has just carried Rebecca to the car. Oliver is standing a respectable distance away. Joley stands in front of me, holding my hands, trying to get me to look at him. Hadley is not here, and I cannot forgive myself.
It is a beautiful day by any other account. It’s cool and dry, with a see-through sky. All the apple trees have fruit. I don’t know where the birds have gone.
Joley smiles at me and tells me for the hundredth time to stop crying. He lifts my chin. “Well,” he says, “under any other circumstance, I’d say, ‘Come back soon.’”
My brother. “Call me,” I say. I don’t know how to tell him the things I really want to say. That I couldn’t have lived through this without him. That I want to thank him, in spite of the way this has turned out.
“Tomorrow,” Joley says, “go to the post office in Chevy Chase, Maryland. There are two. You want the one in the center of town.” He makes me laugh. “That’s better.” I don’t mean to, but just knowing Sam is in the foreground, my eyes dart over to his. Joley hugs me one last time. “This is my going-away present,” he whispers. He takes several steps towards Oliver. “Hey, I don’t think you’ve had a chance to see the greenhouse here, have you?” He claps his arm around Oliver’s shoulders, and pushes him, forcefully, down towards the barn. Oliver turns around once or twice, reluctant to leave us like this. But Joley isn’t about to let him off the hook.
So then it is just Sam and I. We move a few feet closer but we do not touch. That would be dangerous. “I’ve packed something for you,” he says, swallowing. “In the back seat.”
I nod. If I try to speak, it’s all going to come out wrong. How can he look at me? I have killed his best friend; I have broken all my promises. I am leaving. I can feel my throat swelling up at the bottom. Sam smiles at me; he tries. “I know we said we weren’t going to do this. I know it’s just going to make it worse. But I can’t help it.” And he leans forward, wraps his arms tight across my back, and kisses me.
You don’t know what it i
s like to touch him like that, our skin pressed together at the thighs, the shoulders, the cheeks.
Everywhere Sam is, I feel a shock. When he pushes me away, I am gasping. “Oh, no,” I say. He holds me at a distance, and that is supposed to be the end.
I have to stop shaking before I remember where I am. The little MG we bought in Montana is sitting next to the blue pickup truck. We are leaving it with Joley. Joley is leaning into the window of Oliver’s Town Car, speaking to Rebecca. I am not sure she is up to traveling. I would have liked to give her one more day. But Oliver feels she ought to be home. She ought to recuperate where she doesn’t have to think of Hadley every time she looks at something, and in this he is right.
Just then I am sure I will faint. I can’t feel my knees anymore and the sky begins to spin. Suddenly Oliver is beside me. “Are you all right?” he asks, as if I can answer that in one simple sentence. “Okay,” he says. “Then this is it.”
“This is it!” I say, repeating his words. I can’t seem to come up with any of my own. As I slide into the passenger seat, Joley gives Oliver directions back to Route 95. I unroll my window.
Oliver starts the car and puts it into gear. Sam moves so that he is standing across from my window, at just the distance where it is easy for us to look at each other. I do not let myself blink. I concentrate on his eyes. We are imprinting each other, etching an image so that when we meet again-ten months, ten years from now-we will have no choice but to remember. The car starts moving. I crane my neck, unwilling to break first.
I have to turn around in my seat, looking over Rebecca’s head through the lines of defogger tape, but I can still see him. I can see him all the way past the welcome sign for this orchard, past the mailbox.
Then I realize how it will be. Like metal pounded to a thin foil, spreading in distance but not compromising its strength. It has simply changed shape, changed form.
Songs of the Humpback Whale: A Novel in Five Voices Page 39