Barefoot: A Novel

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “It’s me,” Melanie said. And then, in case he stil didn’t get it, she said, “Melanie.”

  “Hi,” Peter said—and this was the syl able that squashed Melanie’s heart once and for al . He sounded uninspired, uninterested; he sounded caught. Melanie felt like his truant officer, his Sunday school teacher, his dentist.

  “I’m on Nantucket,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “For the whole summer.”

  “So the note said.”

  “Do you want me to come home?” she asked.

  “What kind of question is that?” Peter said.

  It was the only question that mattered. She had left because she wanted time to think, but as it turned out, al she could think about was Peter.

  She had wanted to get away, but now that she was away she wanted, more than anything, to be home. I’m pregnant, she thought. You have a child in this world and you don’t even know it. Keeping this from Peter was cruel, but was it any worse than what Peter was doing?

  No! He was at Frances’s apartment. They were fucking! Melanie felt sick. She was going to . . .

  “I have to hang up,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Melanie stared at the dead phone. She retched into the plastic-lined trash can at the side of her bed. Nothing came up. She was vomiting bad air, her own sadness, Peter’s rejection. Out in the living room, Brenda and Vicki were stil fighting. Something about a babysitter. Something about Brenda’s screenplay, a total sham, then something about their parents, that’s the way things always are with you! Then Melanie heard her name, or rather, what she heard was the absence of her name: a repeated “she,” a repeated “her.” It was Brenda in a stage whisper: You want her to take care of the kids and look what happened! I understand she has shit to deal with, but we all do. You’re sick! I refuse to spend the summer accommodating her! I just don’t get it! She’s one more person to take care of! Did you think of that before you invited her along? Did you?

  Melanie staggered to her feet and began tossing her belongings into her suitcase. She was going home. It had been an impulsive decision to come, and now she realized that it was a mistake.

  She tiptoed to the bathroom for her toothbrush. They were stil at it. It would be better for Brenda and Vicki to spend the summer alone, working through their issues. Melanie didn’t have a sister; she knew nothing about it, but it seemed like hard work.

  Everything fit into her suitcase except for her straw hat. It was mangled from when she’d stepped on it at the beach, and she was tempted to leave it behind. It was a present from Peter last spring on her birthday; it was wide-brimmed and old-fashioned, but she loved it. It was her gardening hat. She put it on, tying the satin ribbon under her chin, then zipped her suitcase and looked around the room. This room was witness to her startling decision. She would go home and confront Peter in person. She would tel him she wanted an abortion.

  She slipped into the living room. Brenda and Vicki were gone. Melanie heard them somewhere. Out back. One of them was in the outdoor shower. They were stil arguing. Before Melanie walked out the front door, she scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table: Call John Walsh!

  Strangely, John Walsh was the only person Melanie felt responsible to. She would cal Vicki later, once she was safely home and there was no chance of Vicki talking her into staying.

  Melanie extended the handle of her suitcase and tried to rol it down the shel -lined street. Shel s caught in the wheels, and the suitcase jerked to a stop. She decided it would be easier to carry the suitcase, though it was heavy and she bent to one side in a way that couldn’t have been good for the baby. Abortion, she thought. After al she’d been through. Seven times her hopes had been dashed at the sight of her own blood. Seven times she had failed; success had come unbidden, when she no longer wanted it.

  She made it to the rotary, where she found a cab waiting. Thank God! She climbed in and said, “Airport, please.”

  It was Sunday at five o’clock, and every plane back to New York was booked and overbooked. When it was Melanie’s turn in line, she pushed her ticket across the counter, her spirits temporarily buoyed by the business of getting home—until the woman working the US Airways desk pushed the ticket right back.

  “We have nothing tonight,” she said. “And nothing tomorrow until three o’clock. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m happy to pay the change fee,” Melanie said. “Or go standby, in case someone doesn’t show.”

  The woman held up a piece of paper crowded with names. “This is the waiting list. You’d be number one sixty-seven.”

  Melanie stuffed her ticket into her purse and dragged her suitcase to a bench. The predictable thing would be for her to cry. She was about to start down that hackneyed road when she noticed someone walking toward her. A kid in a fluorescent orange vest. The one who had offered her first aid when she fel down the stairs. She smiled at him. He came right over.

  “Hi,” he said. He grinned. “Did you have a nice trip?”

  “Very nice,” Melanie said.

  “That was a joke,” he said. “‘Trip,’ you know? Because you fel down.”

  Melanie felt her cheeks burning. “Right,” she said. “Wel , as it turned out, that wasn’t the stupidest thing I did this weekend.”

  The kid tugged at his vest and scuffed at the floor with his sneaker. “I didn’t mean you were stupid,” he said. “I was just trying to . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Melanie said. She touched her elbow. It was stil tender, and yet with al that had happened, she had forgotten about it. “I’m Melanie, by the way.”

  “Josh Flynn,” he said. He looked at her suitcase. “Are you leaving tonight? You just got here.”

  “I was supposed to stay longer,” Melanie said. “But I have to get home.”

  “That’s too bad,” Josh said. “Where do you live?”

  “Connecticut,” she said. “But, as it turns out, I can’t get a plane tonight. They’re al sold out. I was just gathering my wits before I grabbed a taxi back to the place I’m staying.”

  “You’re in ’Sconset, right?” Josh said. “I can take you home. I just finished my shift.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Melanie said. “I’l take a cab.”

  “It’s no problem for me to give you a ride,” Josh said. “I even know which house. I was there yesterday to drop off a briefcase.”

  “Right,” Melanie said. She eyed her luggage. She was so devoid of energy, she wasn’t sure if she could even get herself to the curb. “I hate to impose.”

  “It’s on my way home,” Josh said. He picked up her suitcase. “Please. I insist.”

  Melanie fol owed him out to the parking lot, where he threw her luggage in the back of his Jeep. The Jeep had an inch of sand on the floor, and the passenger side was strewn with CDs. Melanie slid into the seat, stacking the CDs in her lap. Dispatch, Offspring, Afroman. She had never even heard of these bands. She felt old enough to be his mother.

  “Sorry the car is such a mess,” Josh said. “I didn’t know I’d have female companionship.”

  Melanie blushed and straightened the edges of the CDs so that they made a perfect cube. Female companionship? She felt like a hooker. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her straw hat made her look like the Farmer in the Del ; it made her look like Minnie Pearl or some other character from Hee Haw. She took off the hat and set it in her lap as Josh buckled himself in, swiped at the dust on the dashboard, and turned down the radio. He stretched his arm over to Melanie’s seat as he craned his neck to check behind him before backing out. His hand was resting an inch or so above her head. She could smel him. He was very handsome— hot, someone younger would have said—but he was just a child. How old?

  she wondered.

  “Do you live here?” she asked.

  “Born and raised,” he said. “But I go to col ege. Middlebury, in Vermont.”

  “Good school,” Melanie said.

  “I’l be a
senior,” he said.

  So that made him around twenty-one, Melanie thought. Maybe twenty-two. Which was how old she’d been when she’d met Peter.

  They pul ed onto the major road. Josh’s window was unzipped and air rushed in as they sped toward ’Sconset. Melanie rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. There was something therapeutic about this ride. I feel okay, Melanie thought. Right this second I feel okay. How can that be?

  She turned to face the wind. Josh’s brown hair ruffled up like a rooster’s comb. In her lap, the brim of her hat flapped.

  “How do you like your job?” she asked.

  “I hate it,” he said.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Truly,” he said. “My father’s an air traffic control er. He sort of got me in there.”

  “Oh,” Melanie said.

  “I’m going to quit anyway,” Josh said. “Life’s too short.”

  “I agree. That is, basical y, my mantra. But wil your father be mad?”

  “He’l be mad,” Josh said. “But he can’t stop me.”

  “Al right, then,” Melanie said. The road stretched out before them; to the left, across the moors, was a lighthouse, and beyond that, the ocean. “It’s beautiful here.”

  Josh didn’t answer, and Melanie chastised herself for saying something so obvious. He probably heard it from tourists al the time: how lovely, how quaint, how pristine, how beautiful. She tried to think of something witty to say, something bright, something that would make him think she was

  . . . cool. She had never been cool in her entire life, and she certainly wasn’t cool tonight. But she wanted Josh to believe she was worthy of the ride.

  “I just found out I’m pregnant,” she said.

  He looked at her quizzical y. “Real y?”

  “Yeah.” She stared at her knees. She would never make it in the CIA. She had just shared the strictest secret with someone she barely knew. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tel anybody.”

  He seemed puzzled by this, and Melanie would have laughed if she didn’t feel like such a horse’s ass. Who would he possibly tel ?

  Stil , he humored her. “My lips are sealed, I promise,” he said. “You know yesterday, when you fel ? I thought your friend sounded pretty concerned. Overly concerned—about you, not her baby.”

  “She worries about me,” Melanie said.

  “Right,” he said. “But I wondered if there was something else going on. Something no one else knew about.”

  “Oh,” Melanie said. “Wel . . . yes.” She looked at him. “You have a good memory.”

  “The three of you were hard to forget,” he said.

  When the Jeep pul ed up in front of the cottage on Shel Street, Melanie’s spirits flagged. She didn’t want the ride to end; she didn’t want to have to face Vicki and Brenda like a child who had run away from home. Josh yanked the brake and hopped out of the Jeep to retrieve Melanie’s luggage.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Melanie said.

  “My pleasure.”

  Melanie reached for the suitcase, and their hands touched on the handle. We’re touching, she thought. One second, two, three. Did he notice?

  He didn’t move his hand. Slowly, Melanie raised her eyes and thought, If he’s staring at me, I won’t be able to bear it.

  He was looking at the cottage. Melanie let her breath go. She felt like a thirteen-year-old.

  “Wel ,” she said. “Thanks again.”

  “Right,” Josh said. “So, I’l see you, I guess. Good luck with everything.” He smiled at her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You, too.” She smiled back. She smiled until he climbed into his Jeep and drove off. Then she took a deep breath. The air smel ed like steak on a charcoal gril , and miraculously, she felt hungry.

  As she rol ed her suitcase down the flagstone walk, she met Blaine. His hair had been wetted and combed and he wore a fresh blue polo shirt.

  “Where were you?” he demanded. The inquisition starts, Melanie thought. But then Blaine’s face broke open into genuine curiosity and, if Melanie wasn’t mistaken, a little bit of conspiracy. “Were you lost?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I was lost.”

  That night, after dinner (cheeseburgers, Ore-Ida onion rings, iceberg salad), Josh drove to Didi’s apartment. She had cal ed during dinner and asked him to come over. He said no. When he sat back down to his father’s silence, Josh felt he had to explain. “That was Didi. She wants me to come over. I said no.”

  Tom Flynn cleared his throat. “Dennis told me he saw you giving a girl a ride home tonight.”

  “Huh?” Josh said, then he remembered Melanie. “Oh, right.” How to explain the “girl” Dennis was referring to was an airline passenger who was much older than Josh, and pregnant to boot? How to explain that he had driven her home in an attempt to catch another glimpse of Scowling Sister, who was another woman out of his league in every respect? “That was nothing.”

  Tom Flynn cut his iceberg salad, took a bite, wiped ranch dressing from his chin. Drank his beer. The phone rang again. Again, Josh rose to answer it. Melanie had told him she was pregnant, but she hadn’t seemed happy about it. In fact, she had seemed gloomy. But she was too old to have gotten knocked up. Josh hadn’t thought to check if she was wearing a wedding ring. He wasn’t doing a very good job observing or absorbing.

  “Hel o?”

  “Josh?”

  “What?” Josh said in an aggravated whisper.

  “I real y want you to come over. Real y. It’s important.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” he said.

  “Just wine,” Didi said. “Please? Come over. I have something to tel you.”

  She had something to tel him. This was how it always went, since the end of sophomore year in high school when they’d started dating. Didi took everyday truths and twisted them like a kid with taffy until they were soap-opera dramas. Her doctor told her she was anemic, her brother threatened her with a carving knife because she borrowed his favorite sweater and got makeup on it, her father’s friend Ed Grubb pinched her ass

  —al these became reasons why Didi needed consoling, protecting, and extra heaps of attention from Josh.

  “What is it, Didi?” he said.

  “Just come,” she said, and she hung up.

  Josh sat back down at the table. He stared at his onion rings, which had grown cold, limp, and soggy. “Sounds like I’d better go,” he said.

  At nine o’clock, when Josh pul ed into Didi’s driveway, the sun was just setting. Summer, he thought. Drag-ass summer.

  He could hear the music from fifty yards away: Led Zeppelin. This was not a promising sign. He approached the stairs down to Didi’s basement apartment in what might be considered a stealthy way and peered into the living room window, which was at ankle level. Didi was dancing on her coffee table wearing only a red negligee, waving around a glass of white wine so that it sloshed everywhere. During their senior year in high school, Josh’s friend Zach had referred to Didi as Most Likely to Become a Pole Dancer, and although at the time Josh had been obligated to punch Zach in the gut, watching her now, he had to agree. Didi had been a better-quality person when Josh was dating her, or so it had seemed. She was a cheerleader, she was on student council, she’d had lots of girlfriends with whom she was constantly conferring—by passed notes, in the bathroom, at sleepovers on the weekends. She had been fun—not as smart as Josh, maybe, not “academical y oriented,” not exactly the kind of girl Josh’s mother would have wanted for him in the long run, but perfect for high school.

  They had broken up the first time a few weeks before Josh left for col ege. Tom Flynn had been away, in Woburn, renewing his control er’s certification, and Didi had spent the night at Josh’s house. It started out as a very pleasant playing-house fantasy—they ordered pizza, drank Tom Flynn’s beer, and rented a movie. Then they brushed their teeth and climbed into bed together. In the middle of the night, Josh awoke to find Didi sitting on the flo
or by the side of the bed, reading through Josh’s journal with a flashlight. They broke up that night—not because Josh was pissed at her for invading his privacy (though he was) but because Didi had either hunted for or stumbled across the pages in the journals that were dedicated to her. In these pages, Josh wrote about how needy Didi was and how he wished she would “locate her center” and “operate from a place of security.” Didi took enormous offense at these statements. She threw the journal in Josh’s face and stormed out of his bedroom, slamming the door, only to return a few seconds later, claim her overnight bag, and then slam the door again.

  A little while later, Josh found her downstairs at the kitchen table, crying, with another of Tom Flynn’s beers open in front of her. He went to her and held her, marveling at how his writing about how needy she was had made her even needier. She was terrified to let him go away to col ege.

  You’ll forget all about me, she said, and he did not refute this, because Didi represented the things about high school that he wanted to leave behind.

  That their relationship had endured three years hence—at least in its sexual aspect—was beginning to discourage him. Dealing with Didi was like Josh’s job at the airport, it was like his living on the island at al —too safe, too predictable, too familiar. And yet he had never been able to shake her. She made herself available, and Josh could never quite turn her down.

  Josh knocked on the door. The music switched to Blue Öyster Cult. Didi had a drinking problem, Josh decided, in addition to a self-esteem problem. He knocked again. No response. He was about to escape when the door swung open. Didi grabbed Josh by the shirt col ar and dragged him inside.

  They started kissing on the couch. Didi’s mouth was hot and sloppy, she tasted like cheap wine, and Josh tried to ignore the feeling of yuck that crept over him. Lola, Didi’s vicious cat, was lurking around somewhere—Josh could smel her, and the sofa was covered with her orange fur. Josh closed his eyes and tried to lose himself. Sex, he thought. This is only about sex. He reached up inside Didi’s negligee. She had put on weight since high school, and whereas once her stomach had been smooth and taut, it was now fleshy, and her thighs were heavy and dimpled. Josh could not get excited; in fact, the longer they kissed, the more depressed he became. He tried to think of Scowling Sister, but the face that came to his mind was Melanie’s. Okay, weird. She had a pretty smile and a perfect ass, but real y, was he demented? She had told him she was pregnant!