Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  Maria pivoted and walked toward the stairs, and Sam blinked, her blood pounding in her ears. She barely heard Maria call over her shoulder, “You know how to let yourself out” as she ascended the stairs.

  She groped for a place to sit, finally managing to drop onto a barstool. She stared around the basement, unseeing, the past few minutes on replay in her head. She swallowed and realized her throat was dry. Forcing herself to focus, she scanned the offerings behind the bar, settling on a bottle of Scotch. She tripped over her stool, stumbling to the other side of the bar. Vaguely, she felt the rumble of the garage door open and close, signaling Maria’s departure. Alone in the house, she skipped the glass, wrapping her lips around the bottle and throwing her head back. The liquid seared her insides all the way to her stomach, and she came up coughing with watery eyes. At least now she could see straight. Funny, she’d always been told alcohol had the reverse effect. She laughed at that, since she couldn’t laugh at anything else.

  Finally alone that night, after having tucked Eva in, Sam poured herself a tumbler of Scotch. Why she was bothering with the glass in the privacy of her own home, when she had overlooked that courtesy at Maria’s house, was beyond her. Downing the first glass quickly, she poured another and reminded herself that quality Scotch was supposed to be savored.

  She wondered what Natalie was doing at that very moment. Sometimes wondering about Natalie brought up the familiar, well-loved ache of longing and loss; sometimes it inspired her to laugh at Natalie’s hypothetical antics; and sometimes it turned NC-17. Tonight, however, instead of fantasizing, Sam found herself reliving the night they had gone to the Mexican restaurant and Natalie told her she was getting an apartment with her new girlfriend.

  Despite Natalie’s insistence that Sam shouldn’t wait for her, Sam had been doing just that since that first day in the hallway of their dorm when she told Natalie she looked like Jodie Foster. There was so much love between them; how could they not end up together? But Maria’s words from earlier that day haunted her. Sam had, of course, settled for less of Natalie than she wanted. Now, she wondered if she had ruined her chance with Natalie by sleeping with her before getting her to make some kind of commitment.

  She downed the rest of the Scotch, savoring be damned, and carried the bottle to her room, slamming the door as loudly as she dared with Eva sleeping down the hall.

  Sam and Eva walked down Main Street together, Eva’s arm linked through her daughter’s. The day was unseasonably warm, the sun having finally broken through the blanket of gray clouds that had dominated the sky since November. Main Street, Sam had recently learned, had a quiet charm to it. They passed the dance academy where she had stumbled through ballet, tap, and jazz as an adolescent. The converted farmhouse where Sam’s father had run his clinic before leaving for DC now supported a small law office. A tiny candy store enticed them from their stroll, and they reemerged loaded with malt balls, turtles, and suckers. Eva, as was typical these days, said nothing, but her silence wasn’t as tormented as it had been before the aneurysm, nor was it as vacant as it had been in the first few months of recovery; she simply observed the goings-on around her with quiet interest.

  The changes in Eva still floored Sam. She no longer suffered crippling attacks of depression, and she had the emotional capacity to work every day. Previously, Eva either spent entire days in the studio during which she neither talked nor ate, or she couldn’t bring herself to even open the door linking the kitchen to her workspace. Now she spent a few hours each morning painting or drawing before she expended her small store of energy and needed to rest. She had achieved the moderation that had always eluded her. She remained detached, but in a different way. Her barriers weren’t imposed by chemical imbalance and emotional instability now, and she didn’t seem to be fearfully holding the world at a distance.

  And that was part of the tragedy of it all. The shift in Eva had opened new facets of her personality, even while it closed others. She continued to be limited in her ability to process the world, but trying to draw, to engage, to live no longer filled her with anxiety and despair.

  Sam wasn’t proud of the fact that she sometimes sympathized with this Eva more. She wished she could say her present compassion was born of age and maturity, but she feared it was simply a product of the pervasive bias against mental illness that she had internalized growing up in Vermont. The response to her mother’s situation by Stowe residents bore out the stereotype that US culture dealt much better with physical limitations than mental.

  She had never been interested in psychiatry before, finding the combination of medicine and psychology too close to home. The changes in her mother’s mind, however, fascinated her, and she sometimes imagined herself focusing not on cancer research but on brain science. She still had time to decide; UVM hadn’t even accepted her yet. Any day now, she told herself, which only made the waiting worse. Maria probably would have said that the last mile of a race was the hardest, but they hadn’t seen each other in a while.

  As they meandered down the salted sidewalk, Sam remembered the day Maria convinced her to reapply to M.D./Ph.D. programs. Her stomach churned, as it did every time she thought of Maria, who had opened her eyes to so much, who had quietly taken such good care of her, who professed to be in love with her.

  She vacillated between thinking Maria hadn’t really meant it and wondering what to do about it if she did. Shame burned Sam’s cheeks when she thought of how insensitive her behavior had been that day in Maria’s basement, when she tried to kiss her, which in turn sparked in Sam anger and resentment toward Natalie. It hadn’t been only her responsibility to respect the boundary of their friendship. Both she and Natalie should have known better than to give in that day almost two years ago when they fell into bed together.

  She had studiously avoided Maria for the past month while she sussed out what to do, what their relationship meant, what her feelings were. They had run into one another a couple of times in the produce section of the market, and once at the movie theater when Sam took Eva to see Coraline. Maria and Brandi were headed into Sunshine Cleaning. Pangs of regret distracted her during the entire movie as she imagined how close the two women in the other theater might be sitting, how their thighs might be touching, how they might be holding hands. If anyone had asked Sam what she thought of the pair, she would have answered that Brandi, with her bubblegum smile and her complete lack of depth, seemed a poor match for the complex, intelligent, beautiful entrepreneur.

  But no one asked.

  After passing a few more stores on Main Street, she and Eva stopped to exchange pleasantries with the principal of Stowe High School, who eagerly relived some of Sam’s prouder moments from senior year. His thorough memory, at least concerning the awards she had garnered during graduation season, impressed Sam, who had forgotten half of the certificates and trophies Eva probably had stashed in boxes in the attic.

  “It saddens me to say that no student from SHS has attended a college of the caliber of Yale since the brilliant Samantha Latham,” he said, and he proudly threw his arm around her shoulders. “You’re a once-in-a-lifetime student, Sam.”

  She generally found such encounters embarrassing, and, since she’d moved back, demoralizing. Something about the sunshine, perhaps, or the sincerity with which the compliment was bestowed, or the connection she felt to her mom these days, mitigated her ordinary agitation. “Thanks, Principal Capp. That means a lot. You know, I really appreciate the guidance you gave me when I was considering which colleges to apply to.”

  “It was an honor—and frankly, a blast—to help you.”

  He hugged her once more and gave Eva a gentle handshake, before turning into the hardware store.

  As they wended their way down the street, Sam’s steps felt lighter, and her posture grew taller. When Eva leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, Sam felt like she had finally made amends after a mistake she didn’t even know she’d made,
years ago, when all she wanted was to leave Stowe. “What was that for?”

  “For you,” Eva simply said, and they crossed the street.

  As they made their way down the block, the ever-present, nagging need to prove herself to herself, her parents, and this one-horse town, dissipated. Affection for the residents of Stowe—the salon artists, the poker ladies, the staff of Stowe Away—and general contentment oozed around inside her. She still intended to have a brilliant career as a medical researcher, to make an impact on the larger world, to use her talents to the best of her ability. But thoughts of her career lacked the urgency that formerly left her breathless, lacked the imperative she imposed on herself to be the best, the most impressive, somebody profoundly special. Instead, she swelled with a genuine enthusiasm for what tomorrow might bring, and a quiet awareness that there were many paths toward success. She grabbed Eva’s hand and, studying the fragile features of her mother’s face, marveled at the smooth lines and quiet concentration she found there. Her mother had been broken and pieced back together so many times she could have been painted by Picasso, but here she was, walking with determination. Special, Sam understood after nearly a year in Stowe, came in many packages.

  It was almost a year since Eva’s aneurysm. The doctors all said that a patient who had suffered brain damage would be at ninety per cent of their total recovery twelve months after the initial incident. At this point, Eva could walk and generally physically care for herself, although she would often forget to eat unless someone placed food in front of her. She remained physically weak, but would go on mile-long walks if properly encouraged and accompanied. She could read or play games, but only for brief periods of time before she tired. She painted and drew, but other art genres such as sculpture proved too taxing. Certain life skills such as paying bills or cleaning failed to occur to Eva as tasks requiring attention. She had retained her sweet nature and sharp tongue, both of which surfaced inconsistently but filled Sam with joy.

  The changes in Sam’s life no longer surprised her when she reflected back on them. Slowly, steadily, she had acclimated to life in Vermont.

  When she noticed a short, dark-haired man emerge from the barbershop half a block ahead of them and begin walking in the opposite direction, she took a deep breath and called out to him.

  “Pauly! Wait up!”

  When they were side by side and she had complimented him on his new haircut, she asked what she had been wondering for weeks. “How’s your sister?”

  SPRING 2009

  Sam couldn’t believe it. After all this time, Dolores was getting married. And to the mailman, to boot. The septuagenarian had been single all Sam’s life, and Sam had had no idea she was even serious about the short, stocky USPS employee with the kind hazel eyes. Evidently, his name was Edward and, according to Eva, it was time Sam stopped referring to him as “the mailman.”

  Stowe was atwitter with gossip and excitement which, despite herself, Sam found infectious. She and Eva got manicures (Eva selected red and Sam chose clear polish) and heard all about the flower arrangements. Their haircuts were accompanied by speculation about the honeymoon. During a trip to the grocery store, they learned that the choir, band, and orchestra directors from the high school were “banding together to play oldies during the reception.” The bagger at Shaw’s supermarket who contrived that pun was inordinately pleased with herself.

  Sam helped Dolores address the invitations, which gave her an insider’s knowledge of the guest list. She was surprised when she came across Jenny and Jamie’s names. “How do you know these two?”

  Dolores tsked at her and said, “You don’t know everything that goes on in this town, Samantha. Those lovely ladies are part of my knitting circle.”

  Although she hadn’t gone to poker night in a couple of months, Sam still had Jamie and Jenny’s number, and called them to help outfit Eva, since she didn’t trust herself to do it. They suggested a boutique called Millie’s, on Main Street, and Sam and Eva met them there on a Saturday morning.

  The garments suited Eva’s style—feminine and unique. Racks on the left side of the store tended toward casual, and the right side contained dresses and gowns. Tables with jewelry and accessories ran down the middle of the store, and shoe racks peeked out from the back. A young, gossipy-looking high schooler manning the register deigned to nod at them when they entered; she promptly returned to staring at her phone, her thumbs flying. The whole scene dripped of a sophistication Sam doubted she’d ever have, and she tried not to feel out of place.

  Her hand on her mother’s back, Sam led her to Jenny and Jamie, who were admiring handbags on a rack near the door. “Mom, this is Jenny and Jamie. You can call them the Js. They’re friends of Maria.”

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Eva. We’ve heard such wonderful things about you,” Jenny said.

  Eva turned to Sam. “You been talking ‘bout me?”

  Jamie laughed. “Not from Sam. She’s not much of a talker, really.”

  Jenny raised her eyebrows. “Well, she does have a penchant for non sequiturs and waxing philosophic on esoteric subjects.”

  Eva patted Sam’s arm. “Yes.”

  “Maria speaks very highly of you, Eva,” Jamie said. “I’d love to see some of your art some time.”

  Eva flushed with pleasure. “Anytime. After this, I’ll owe you.”

  “And Jenny keeps score,” Jamie said, winking.

  After a few passes through the dress section, Jenny selected a red A-line dress, a white halter dress, and a sleek gray sheath for Eva to try on. Sam joined her mother in the fitting room and helped zip her into the first dress. When Eva emerged, Jenny and Jamie both laughed.

  “Sorry, Eva, it should have occurred to me that you can’t wear that shade of red with your red hair,” Jenny said. “Try the white one, and we’ll put this back after you’ve taken it off.”

  Sam and Eva retreated back into the fitting room, removing the first dress and pulling on the second. This time, when they stepped out of the dressing room, both of the Js smiled.

  “White looks great with your complexion, Eva,” Jamie said.

  Eva nodded, but frowned. “Yes. But. Too much shoulder.”

  “I can see that,” Jenny said. “You should wear what you’re comfortable in. How about you try on the last one and then we’ll decide?”

  Sam guided her mom back into the fitting room. The gray sheath slid on Eva like a glove, and when Sam zipped it, a huge grin spread over Eva’s features. As soon as Sam opened the door, Eva twirled around slowly, with Sam’s assistance, for Jenny and Jamie to see.

  “I think we have a winner,” Jenny said.

  Jamie took her hand and twirled her again. “It looks like it was made for you. If you’re not careful, you’ll steal the show, Eva.”

  “Good,” Eva said, her eyes sparkling.

  “Go get changed, and then let’s pick out some shoes,” Jamie said.

  While the three of them were in the back of the store looking at sensible flats that Eva would feel confident walking in, and maybe even dancing in, Sam found some silver earrings and a bracelet for her mom. They reconvened at the register.

  While the clerk was ringing up their purchases, Jenny turned to Sam. “That takes care of your mom. What are you wearing?”

  “Yeah, about that…” She bit the inside of her cheek.

  Jamie placed a gentle hand on her back. “Would you like our help with that, too?”

  “Mom says I can’t attend a wedding wearing business casual. What are you two wearing?”

  “Cocktail dresses,” they said simultaneously.

  “But that doesn’t mean you have to, if dresses aren’t your thing,” Jenny said.

  “Well, I want to look really good, and I feel best in pants.”

  “Any particular reason you want to look good?” A knowing look passed between the Js. Sam shrugged
and willed her cheeks not to redden.

  “You’re not exactly butch, but you’re not femme either,” said Jenny. “What about a white pantsuit?”

  “Is that something one could even get in Stowe?”

  The cashier cut in. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said with no apology whatsoever in her voice. “We have some pantsuits that might do the trick.” She led them to two racks tucked away behind the dresses and gowns.

  They selected two in her size, one white and one cream, and also handed Sam a black camisole. Before she opened the door to the fitting room, Jenny ran up, a red camisole in her hand. “Might be fun,” she said. Eva accompanied her into the dressing room, more for solidarity than anything else.

  When she had buttoned the white suit over the black camisole, the jacket pulled a little in the shoulders and the pants were too baggy. She opened the door and stood before the Js, fidgeting. “This doesn’t work,” she said.

  “Sure doesn’t. Try the other one,” Jamie said.

  Eva made some futile but very sweet attempts to hang up the first suit while Sam tried on the second. The lining felt cool and smooth against her skin, and the cream color contrasted nicely with the red camisole underneath. Taking a page out of Eva’s book, Sam twirled in it, enjoying the way it moved with her.

  Opening the door, she interrupted the Js sharing a kiss. “You two need a minute?” she asked.

  Jenny whistled and Jamie swatted at her. “No roving eyes—you’re mine, remember?”

  “Does that mean it works?” she asked.