Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  “Clearly she is a type,” Sam corrected. “You deserve better.”

  Natalie must have caught the edge in Sam’s voice, because she looked away. She sat on the log with her legs in front of her, poking at the water with a stick.

  Sam cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Well, tell me where to find this Piper girl. Gotta get her a new toaster, you know.”

  “Toaster?” Natalie asked, blankly.

  “Clearly you need more information about your new lifestyle. Sources on such things abound, my dear, and I know how much you love research. How about we go back to campus, you take off that ridiculous park ranger attire, and we watch Bound or something?”

  “Bound? Is that about S and M? Because I’m so not into that.”

  Sam laughed, and led her not-so-straight-after-all friend back to the car. Throwing her arm around Natalie, she informed her, “First off, there’s a lot you need to learn about U-Hauls.”

  Genetics and Molecular Biology class ended with a collective groan as the professor piled on the problem sets.

  “Guess I know what I’ll be doing this weekend,” Claire mumbled as they traipsed around the buildings of Science Hill after class. “And Dustin’s back for the weekend. I promised him I’d shirk homework so we could go hiking together or something, but I don’t think that’s possible now.”

  “How’s he liking San Francisco?”

  “He likes the city, and the general ethos of SF’s Museum of Modern Art, but the guy he’s interning for is a bit of a jerk.”

  “That’s a shame. What’s he going to do when the internship ends?”

  “No clue. But I think I know what I’m doing this summer.” Claire tried to pretend she wasn’t as excited as a puppy, but she was always pretty transparent. It was cute, really, and Sam could totally see why Natalie and Claire got along so well.

  “Do tell.” Sam bumped her shoulder against Claire’s.

  “I’m working here, in Professor McMaster’s lab!” She kind of skipped as she said it, which took a bit of the sting out of not being the only undergraduate working on Science Hill this summer. She heard Eva’s voice in her head reminding her not to get on the bandwagon of competition and stress, and she smiled, happy for her friend.

  “That’s great! Most of the grad students are pretty cliquey, so you and I can hang out and stuff. Campus is totally different in the summer.”

  “I bet. But I’m glad I’ll be here with you.” She put her hand on Sam’s arm and squeezed.

  “I don’t suppose Natalie’s said anything about her summer plans.” Sam tried to make the question sound light, but guessed she was as transparent as Claire.

  “Course not. She’s got some new girlfriend, and the sun and moon revolve around her, and Natalie doesn’t have time to, I don’t know, plan her future or whatever.”

  “Predictable,” Sam said.

  “Honestly, Sam, when she started dating women I really thought things would change for you two.”

  The statement hit her like a ton of bricks, and she almost stopped short. It was hard to tell if it hurt or was, on some level at least, a relief that someone would speak so honestly about things with Natalie.

  “Sorry, do you not want to talk about it? I mean, of course you don’t. You never talk about it. But just know, Sam, that I see all of this, and I’m here if you change your mind. About talking.”

  Sam stopped walking, and when Claire followed suit and peered at her, Sam looked up at the sky. Fluffy white clouds moved slowly around a sea of blue, lightness that contrasted sharply with the weight in her chest. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at Claire. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  Claire nodded and resumed walking. “Well, we’re going to have an awesome summer. We’ll learn a ton and do some great research, and we’ll find ways to have fun, too.”

  Sam wished she could agree with all of it. The sidewalk forked, and their dorm rooms were in opposite directions; they stood there awkwardly for a minute. “You wanna come over?” Claire asked.

  It was tempting, since she genuinely enjoyed chatting with Claire, and her room was stocked with an impressive assortment of movies. Maybe Natalie wouldn’t be home. Or, if she was there, maybe her latest hookup wouldn’t be.

  Or maybe there’d be a sock on the door and noises coming from Natalie’s bedroom. “Nah. Thanks though. See you in class,” she said, and they parted ways.

  It certainly would have been more convenient if Sam had made friends with someone who didn’t live with Natalie. At least this summer she’d be free to hang out with Claire any time, anywhere, without Natalie-related awkwardness.

  JUNIOR YEAR:

  FALL 2005

  When Eva encouraged Sam to bring Natalie home for Thanksgiving that year, Sam agreed, despite her misgivings. Any hope Natalie’s revelation about kissing girls might have sparked in Sam the previous year had long since faded as Natalie continued to play the field, only now, representatives from both teams joined her list of conquests. True to form, Natalie had recently switched majors again, this time from comparative literature to philosophy, and Sam wondered if she would ever change—only to laugh and remind herself that the problem wasn’t that Natalie wouldn’t change, but that she was constantly in flux, never settled, never focused. Sam supposed she was guilty of changing majors too, since she had entered the Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry B.S./M.S. program, but somehow, that felt very, very different, like a zeroing-in rather than a ping-ponging around.

  Periodically over the previous few months, frustration had gotten the better of her, and she distanced herself from those beautiful legs, those lips that pouted perfectly, those eyes that read Sam’s heart too easily. When Eva said Thanksgiving seemed the perfect time for her to meet the mysterious Natalie, it had been a few weeks since Sam had talked to her. But Eva had a point: the holidays were meant to remind you who mattered in your life, and Natalie was, after all, her best friend.

  Walking home from the lab the Monday before Thanksgiving, she called a number she’d been screening for days. Natalie picked up on the second ring, sounding breathless. “It’s you!”

  And just like that, Sam’s reservations melted. How did Natalie have the ability to soften her with just two words?

  “It’s you, too!” she said, laughing. “Evidently I’ve been a bad daughter because I haven’t brought you home to meet my mother. Are you going to California for Thanksgiving?”

  “No, I didn’t book my ticket early enough, and fares got too expensive. I don’t really have any plans.”

  “Well, Eva says you do now. I’m a little less forceful than my mother, so I’ll just say: if you want to come up to Stowe with me, I’m leaving Wednesday around noon.”

  It wasn’t the most inviting of invitations. Before she could amend it, Natalie spoke softly: “It’s clear your mom wants me to go, but do you?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” she said, hoping she managed to mask her hesitation.

  Whether she picked up on Sam’s tone or not, Natalie seemed to take her words at face value. “Well, then, I’ll meet you at your dorm room at noon on Wednesday. How many days will we be in Vermont?”

  “Let’s come back Saturday afternoon, so we have a day to regroup before classes.”

  When Natalie arrived at her room on Wednesday, there was a backpack over one shoulder and a pie in her hand. “I hope you two like apple,” she said a little shyly.

  They sang show tunes for most of the drive, until they got into a debate about the commercialization of Broadway, and Sam switched CDs. When “Lux Aeterna” piped through the car, Natalie squealed in delight. “I love the Kronos Quartet. Did you know that they were really hesitant to call themselves a quartet since their instrumentation isn’t always two violins, a viola, and a cello?”

  Sam smiled. “Of course I know that. Who doesn’t know that? It’s such common knowledge that I bel
ieve even kindergartners know about the nomenclature of the Kronos Quartet—you goof.”

  Eva greeted Natalie warmly, insisting on a hug rather than a handshake. Natalie slotted into their kitchen routine seamlessly, having announced that she excelled at making mashed potatoes but hoped for everyone’s sake that they didn’t put her in charge of the stuffing. There were significantly fewer leftovers this year with Natalie inhaling three platefuls of food.

  “Eva, Sam tells me you paint,” Natalie said as they were drying the last of the dishes. “I wondered if you’d show me some of your work.”

  “Well, isn’t that sweet of you,” Eva said, throwing Sam a pointed look. “Not everyone asks to see what I’ve been working on. Most of it is in the garage.”

  “Well, it’s not really a garage anymore,” Sam said, putting the last of the leftovers in the fridge and drying her hands. “My dad converted it to an artist studio a long time ago.”

  “Semantics. Would you like to come out and see?” Eva asked.

  Natalie smiled as if she’d known Eva for years. “Lead the way.”

  With a glass of wine in her hand, Sam hung back in the doorway between the garage and kitchen, silently observing.

  Eva walked Natalie around worktables dedicated to quilting, woodwork, ceramics, and jewelry until they arrived at her paint station. Extracting canvas after canvas from the vertical storage slats build into the base of the table, she showed them to Natalie one at a time.

  “Lately I’ve been focused on landscapes,” she said. “This is the park in downtown Stowe, right after the first snow last winter.”

  “Eva, this is really good. You captured the fall sunshine perfectly with your use of shadow on the statue.”

  Eva looked at her, surprised. “I hadn’t even paid attention to it. I was primarily interested in the way the snow reflects the light.”

  “That’s evident, too. Here—” Natalie pointed to something Sam couldn’t see “—the crystals of snow almost look like pointillism.”

  “Very observant. When I started this piece, it was all going to be pointillism. But then I changed my mind. That’s the problem with my art generally—I can never commit to a single style.”

  Natalie laughed and glanced down at her clothes. Her current schoolmarm look included a cream-colored peasant top, a flowing floor-length skirt, and boots reminiscent of Scarlet O’Hara. “I have that same problem!” She winked at Sam, who willed her legs not to go weak.

  “Tell me about this one,” Natalie said, pointing to a new piece.

  “I started it when Sam left for college. I wanted to try my hand at something more abstract, but I couldn’t bring myself to just throw paint cans against a canvas.”

  “And you didn’t want to paint the whole canvas blue and call it Untitled no. 57?’”

  Eva laughed. “I think that’s been done.”

  “Well, I don’t know as much about abstract art, but I like your bold brush strokes and use of color.”

  “I’m not sure what there is to know about abstract art—you either feel it or you don’t,” Eva said, and Natalie nodded in agreement.

  As they moved on to another canvas, Sam marveled at the happy companionship the two artists shared. In Stowe, as at Yale, Natalie inevitably fit into her life so effortlessly, as if it had always been. Why couldn’t Natalie see it? She glanced at Sam, and in the soft smile they shared, Sam suddenly realized that Natalie did, in fact, see it. So why was Sam convinced that something was missing? Why couldn’t she just be happy with what they had?

  SENIOR YEAR:

  FALL 2006

  “Hey Mom, whatcha working on?”

  Standing in the doorway between the garage and the kitchen, Sam studied her mom. She’d been home for two weeks now, at the conclusion of yet another summer spent researching with Professor West, but somehow, she felt as far away from her mother as she would have if she hadn’t come home. She’d been spending most of her time in Jack’s old office downstairs, researching M.D./Ph.D. programs and thinking about her applications. She would return to school tomorrow for senior year, back to the lab to begin writing up the data from her summer experiments, and she’d barely spent any time with her mom. Watching Eva work on a new quilt, Sam admitted to herself that even though she likely wouldn’t be home again until Thanksgiving, the gulf widening between her and her mother had more to do with emotional distance than geographical.

  When Sam weaved between the tables covered with half-completed projects, Eva looked up from her sewing machine, a seam ripper between her teeth, her readers balanced precariously on the tip of her nose. She looked like a librarian peering over her glasses, with her brow slightly furrowed at the interruption. Depositing the seam ripper onto the tabletop of her workspace, she swiveled in her chair so she was facing her daughter. “Come here. What do you think so far?” She swept her hand over the quilt she’d been working on. The squares held images of birds native to Vermont, some perched on tree branches, others on feeders or even outstretched forearms.

  “It’s nice,” Sam said, standing beside her mother. “How did you pick the order?” There was no discernable pattern, but the arrangement of colors and shapes was visually pleasing.

  She so seldom engaged in her work that Eva’s eyebrows rose in surprise and Sam instantly felt guilty. “Oh, I just eyeball it. I lay the squares out before I begin sewing, and move things here and there until I get an overall composition I like. Art definitely imitates life in the trial-and-error department.” After a slight pause, she cocked her head. “You never ask about my art.”

  Sam hung her head a little. “I’m sorry about that. I should. Just because art isn’t my thing…well, you always ask about my classes. I want you to know I’m interested in your work, too.”

  Eva removed her glasses and gazed thoughtfully at Sam. “I believe you. So, sit. Let’s talk.” Leaning over, she dragged over a stool from another workbench and patted the seat.

  “Who’s the quilt for?”

  “Dolores. She gets cold easily, and the last time I visited her, she sat at her dining room table huddled under a ratty old blanket that, well, let’s just say that even with your packrat tendencies, you would have still thrown out.”

  “Does she like birds or something?”

  “I’ve never asked, but I think she and her husband used to go bird watching back when he was alive. She’s got birdhouses and feeders all around her backyard. So, I’m assuming.”

  “You’re very sweet, Mom.”

  “Well, Dolores and I, we take care of each other, you know.”

  “I know,” Sam said, not quite able to meet her mother’s eyes.

  Eva slid a finger under Sam’s chin and raised her head gently. “Samantha, I didn’t say that for you to feel bad about not being here. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

  Sam nodded, wondering where she’d be in a year, and what impact Eva would have on that decision.

  “Besides,” Eva continued, “it’s not like I’m at Yale to take care of you. You’ve got your own people there, like I have Dolores.” Eva paused, and Sam picked nonexistent lint off of her jeans, thinking absently about one of “her people” in particular.

  “Speaking of, how’s Natalie?”

  It was one of those times that Sam wished she had anything approximating a poker face. “Uh, Natalie’s fine. Probably. I don’t really know.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Why do you ask?

  “Oh please, dear, do you think I’m as blind as Dolores is getting? Look, I think she’s a lovely girl, but she’s quite the lost soul. Not that you asked my advice, but I wouldn’t waste time waiting around for her to wake up and smell the scientist.”

  Sam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m not sure I can talk about this with you. Or, anyone.”

  “I mean it, Samantha. I think very highly of her, and I appreciate that she takes care
of you, in her own way.” She leaned forward, covering her daughter’s hands with her own. “But that doesn’t mean she’s the only pretty girl who will ever capture your heart. The next one might actually know what to do with it, and how to return the gift.”

  Sam swallowed, willing the moisture in her eyes not to escape her lashes and wend its way down her cheek.

  If she noticed the turmoil rolling through Sam, Eva pressed on anyway. “By all means, bring her home for Thanksgiving again if you are up for that. But darling, keep your eyes open for what else is out there.” She placed each of her hands on the sides of Sam’s face and leaned close to her. “Heartbreaks are lessons, my darling. Love comes in all forms, you know. She loves you, but if it’s not enough for you, if it comes to that, you might need to have the strength to walk away.”

  Having lost the battle against a disobedient tear, Sam nodded. Unbidden, the words, “I just don’t know why she doesn’t love me the way I love her,” burst out of her, and she almost covered her mouth with her hands. When Eva rose and wrapped her arms around her, Sam buried her face against her mother’s blouse. A familiar headache slowly made its way to the back of her eyes; it always arrived with a bout of crying, scrambling her thoughts like this. “I love her so much, Mom. It hurts to love her like this.” All she could do against the sea of emotions that now overwhelmed her was gasp and weep and cling to the soft gingham her mother wore.

  “I know honey. I know.” Eva stroked her hair, her back, her cheeks. “I’m glad you finally said it out loud.”

  “I know she loves me. She’s my best friend. So why—” She hiccupped.

  “Best not to apply logic to matters of the heart, my darling,” Eva said gently. Hours might have passed, or mere minutes, while Sam sat wrapped in Eva’s love, which proved a powerful antidote to the desperate feelings of being unloved by Natalie. Fleeting images passed through her mind—images of Natalie laughing in the sunlight, of her bent over a piano concentrating, of imagined scenarios in which Natalie leaned closer, closer, closer to her until their lips finally met. It was a movie that played in Sam’s mind way too often, and she managed to shut it off by concentrating on Eva’s quiet but persistent repetition of love and support. Finally, spent and weak, her shoulders stopped heaving, although she couldn’t shake the heaviness from her throat, her chest, her eyes. When she finally pulled away and looked at her mother, she felt a little steadier. “Mom, did you by any chance get the license plate of the Mack truck that just ran me over?”