The Lemonade Year

by Amy Willoughby-Burle

  Ray said thanks but no thanks and wished her luck. He couldn’t stay away though. He had to be near. He tried to skulk along the edges of the gallery and not be seen. But I found him.

  “What do you think?” I asked, gesturing at the paintings.

  “I didn’t know she could do this.”

  “She’s good.”

  “It’s me, isn’t it?” he asked. “That one of the devil with the fire-breathing man for arms. I get it.”

  “You’re all she thinks about,” I said. “Still.”

  “I should grant her escape then.”

  “You want me to believe that you don’t need her just as much?” I asked.

  “It’s all too loud,” he said. “The fireworks, the tire squall, the freaking clack-clack of those braces.”

  “She’s upset that you’re not here,” I said.

  “Tell her I saw it,” Ray said. “Tell her I see everything. She’ll know what that means.”

  Sometimes Ray seems like a bear coming out of a cave, starving and squinting into the sun, wondering how long he’s been out and if there is anything left around him.

  19

  My last month of work has passed, and to take my mind off my first Monday without a job, I call Carol, my grade-school friend, to meet me for lunch in Oliver’s part of town. I aggravate myself by calling it that. Oliver’s this, Oliver’s that. Delineating sections of the world that belong to another place in my life, places from which I have voluntarily shut myself out.

  “You look terrible,” Carol says and opens her arms to envelop me.

  “That’s too generous,” I say, falling into the safety of her embrace.

  “Sounds like we need a very unhealthy appetizer. Carbs and cheese?”

  “You know me too well.”

  She signals the waiter, and in short time he brings us a plate of breads, oils, and cheeses.

  “How’s the book coming? What’s your next assignment?” Carol’s questions make me ashamed of how much I’ve kept her at a distance these last months.

  “Curtain call,” I say in a pathetic attempt to catch her up to speed. “The book is done, the house is closed, the unemployment line is in the offing.”

  “I see,” she says, not really needing much more of an explanation.

  Good friends are like that.

  I don’t mention Oliver. She knows all too well the way things unfolded with Jack, having heard about it enough times already. Maybe I feel silly and cliché. Maybe I just want something sacred.

  Carol breaks off rosemary focaccia and dips it in some avocado oil. She nibbles on her food, giving me time to continue.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “These past months have been a bit more than I’m used to.”

  “Ok,” she says, pushing away the bread and the menu—piecing my life together as best she can with the bits of information I’ve given her. “The house got bought out and you didn’t get bought with it?”

  “Bingo.” I slide the bread plate closer to me.

  “You thought you were in far enough with them to be safely shuttled to the next phase.”

  “I did,” I say, admitting my own arrogance. “Right now, it just seems like another piece of my life that I had wrong. And something else I have to figure out how to fix. It’s the least of my problems actually.”

  “I get the feeling there’s more to this than I know,” she says.

  There’s always more to it than anyone knows. I’m tired of compartmentalizing my life and having to keep track of who knows what and who doesn’t. It makes everything feel fake. I’m tired of being locked up in the Nina-box. It’s cramped and lonely in here.

  The waiter comes to check if we are ready to order. We look quickly at the menu and give him our decisions.

  “So, you need a job?” Carol asks, knowing when to change the subject.

  “You got one?”

  “I don’t think there’s much demand for photos of hospital cafeteria food,” she says. “You’re good, sweetie, but I don’t think anyone could make that stuff look appetizing.”

  I fiddle with my silverware and the last of the cheese and try not to breathe in too deeply. I’m afraid the intake of air will be followed by an outpouring of tears.

  “What about teaching?” she says. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do way back when?”

  “Back when we were in school,” I say. “And the world was ours.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” she says, looking fondly into the past.

  “I didn’t plan to have to reinvent myself at this age,” I say, moving the bread plate away as our entrees are set in front of us.

  “The whole concept of reinvention is unintentional,” she says, arranging her side of the table as well. “No one would need to reinvent anything if they could have seen the right way to do it in the first place.”

  “You get smarter every time I see you.”

  “I just know you well enough to know that you can start over and be happy.”

  “Why don’t I know that?”

  “Don’t you?” she asks in direct challenge.

  I look out the window and across the street, prepared to contemplate that notion for a while. But then, there he is.

  Oliver, two other young guys, and a girl take seats around an outdoor table at another restaurant across the narrow, downtown street.

  It shouldn’t surprise me to see him on the side of town he frequents. It shouldn’t, but it does. I instinctively slump in my chair. I doubt he could see me, even if he looked. The restaurant we’re in is shaded by an awning and masked with tinted windows.

  Carol clears her throat, drawing my attention back. “Lost you there for a second,” she says, peering down my line of sight. “Do you know those kids?”

  Kids.

  “What?” I stall. “No, I just thought I saw someone. Sorry.”

  I take a bite of walnut-crusted salmon and try to appear normal.

  “Someone you hoped didn’t see you?” she correctly questions, knowing me too well. Our friendship has often paused for periods of time while each of us carries on the lives we’ve grown into, but it has never disappeared.

  I ignore the question, so she continues to talk about other things, things I can’t focus on, because across the street I watch the girl nudge one of the guys out of the way and take a seat next to Oliver. Is this what he’s been hiding? My heart plummets, but then rebounds when Oliver doesn’t seem to pay notice to the girl’s continuing advances.

  Carol keeps talking about her schedule at the hospital or someone being in the hospital, I’m not sure. I try to look at her as she speaks, but I keep stealing glances out the window whenever she sips her drink or looks at a passerby.

  Through the glass, I watch Oliver like he’s in a silent play. With no textual cues, I focus on his actions. I study everything about him. Some things I’ve come to know already, like the way he tugs at his hair while listening to someone else talk. I notice new things, that I haven’t seen before, like the way he circles his finger around the top of his glass between sips.

  A waitress brings them a basket of chips, and while everyone grabs for a handful, Oliver excuses himself to a bench along the street. He pulls out his phone and places a call.

  My phone rings. I thrash around in my bag for the phone. The call screen lights up with a picture of Oliver laughing and biting into a lemon—a silly shot I’d taken weeks ago. I don’t answer.

  “Not who you were expecting?” Carol asks. I’m sure she noted how quickly I grabbed my phone.

  “No,” I say, gripping the thin silver case in my hand. “It was just, no one.”

  Our waiter brings more water and asks if we need anything. I watch Oliver give up on the call and pocket his phone without speaking. Just as he’s about to look up and straight into our restaurant, the girl comes over to him. I can
’t hear what she’s saying, but I image it’s some seductive attempt to lead him back to their group—to her. But instead he holds up a finger to indicate one minute, gets his phone back out, and places another call.

  Again, my phone rings.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t get it?” Carol asks.

  “I shouldn’t,” I say, and Carol lifts an eyebrow.

  I watch Oliver speak into his phone this time. He talks for a couple of minutes, and the anticipation kills me. I watch his face move through a series of expressions that end without resolution. His face is soft and sorrowful. He ends the call and rejoins his friends, his admirer already leaning into him. I press the buttons needed to retrieve my messages. His voice is just as soft and sorrowful as his face was.

  “Nina,” Oliver says in my ear. “I’ve been thinking about you. I don’t know why you won’t talk to me. I don’t know what went wrong. I just want you to know”—he pauses—“that I’m sorry it did. I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something.”

  My heart is racing, and I hold up one finger to Carol to indicate I’ll be off the phone in a moment. She waves at me as if to say not to worry. Oliver pauses, and I think the message is over, but then his voice comes across the line again.

  “You know what I hear all day? From the people at the nursing home? I hear what they’re stuck in. One lady is afraid her sister is going to call the police and report her for stealing the pink purse that their mother won at the fair. One lady spends all day packing for Denver. She’s not going to Denver.

  “All day, I hear the insanity in their heads, I hear ‘I’m sick, I’m hungry, find my purse, my dog is napping in the oven, I hate you, I love you, what time is it, when the road closes the button gate feels soft,’ and it’s all just a blaring neon sign saying don’t spend your life regretting that you didn’t do what you were meant to do. You have to do it while you still know who you are.”

  There’s another pause and then his voice softens.

  “I’m completely in love with you, Nina. Maybe I thought I wouldn’t fall in love with you. But I did. I really need to see you.”

  Again, there is a pause, but this time the message stops, and a voice tells me to press one to repeat the message or seven to delete it. I don’t want to do either of those things.

  I slip the phone back in my bag, apologize to Carol, and then attempt to be friendly and present through the rest of our meal. I’m sure I do a terrible job because I can barely keep my eyes off Oliver as he sits with his friends, eating and talking.

  After we pay our checks, Carol and I walk outside. All Oliver would need to do to see me is look up, but he’s listening to one of the other guys tell what must be a long and interesting story. I stall, fidget, and then give up.

  “You ready?” Carol asks.

  “I—” But there is no point in finishing the sentence, and we start to walk away.

  I begin to have a panic attack. Maybe not a real one in the true medical sense, but I feel like the air I just inhaled is being ripped back out of my lungs. When I try to breathe again, my air passages are on lockdown. Each step I take away from Oliver shoots fire up my calves, radiating a sense of desperate indecisiveness through my internal navigation system. I want to fling myself into the street for lack of anything better to do.

  “Darn,” I say with sudden planning. “I don’t think the waiter gave me back my debit card.”

  I stop on the sidewalk and pretend to search my purse. Carol seems to believe me and assumes the proper panic-by-association stance of a good friend.

  “You go on ahead,” I say to her. “I know you need to get to work. I’ll just run back and get the card.”

  “I can go with you,” she says, ever helpful.

  “No, no,” I say and hope it’s not obvious that I’m trying to rid myself of a witness. “I’m sure it’s there. I’ll call you later.”

  She hugs me good-bye, and I turn and walk slowly in the other direction. I catch a large group of people crossing the street and duck into their midst. I slip inside the boutique beside the restaurant where Oliver still sits outside with his friends. I stand too long pretending to look at a display of handmade jewelry, and the salesperson comes to ask if she can assist me.

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m just looking.”

  Out the window to see which way my sort-of-boyfriend goes so that I can follow him.

  Oliver begins to make what looks like good-byes before everyone else has finished, and the lone girl seems reluctant to let him go. He’s gracious in his rejection of her, and I remember with a pang the sincerity of his phone message. He drops his share of money on the table and makes his way through the outdoor crowd to the street. I wait for him to walk far enough away to have his back solidly to me and then I exit the shop.

  My blood seems to stop in my veins, my hands and feet are cold, and I’m nearly shivering with something like fear but more like hope. I’m no good at the spy thing, and I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed in short time. Oliver walks at a slow pace, the pace of someone in no hurry to reach nowhere in particular. He stops on occasion to look at something in a window. He says hello to someone as they pass, and I turn my head in fear that it’s a friend who might recognize me, might see me following, and shout out to Oliver that I’m right behind him. That doesn’t happen.

  We—as if we’re in on this together—stop at a local bookshop. It’s not the one where we first began whatever this is that we’re in. This one is well lit and lively. No cavernous twists and turns in which to hide. Oliver hesitates at the door before going in. I try to read something into that pause, but I don’t know what it means.

  I know if I go in after him there will be no good place to hide in the intimate interior of the bookstore. I hesitate for a moment myself, letting him move deeper inside the store before I follow. I can still see his back as I open the thick glass door. He is so close that one glance over his shoulder and my acting skills will be tested. He moves to the left toward the small café, and I go around to the right to duck behind the new releases. He goes to the counter, and I think he’s going to order a coffee, but then he changes his mind and comes back toward my hiding place. I hurry into the depths of the store, trying to remain unseen, and I lose track of him. It would be smart of me to slip out, but I don’t. I ease through the rows, peeking around corners, until I catch sight of him and stop short.

  He’s in the small Philosophy and Religion section. He’s standing very near the shelves, holding a large book not unlike the philosophy tomes I’ve seen at his house. I want to slip up to him and make a joke or something to break the ice. Doing a little light reading? But I stay put. I can see his face in profile, and I watch him turn the pages of the book. He looks surprisingly peaceful.

  We’re both startled when one of his friends from the restaurant comes around the corner and punches him lightly on the shoulder. Oliver closes the book like he’s been caught with something illicit.

  “Dude,” his friend says, “what was that about?”

  “What?” Oliver says, shaking his head.

  “I know you’re having troubles with that lady friend of yours, but you gotta snap out if it.”

  At the mention of me, I slink back just enough so that all I can see is the friend’s profile and Oliver’s feet as he shuffles his weight back and forth.

  “Sara throws herself at you, and you just get up and leave.”

  “Sorry, man,” Oliver answers, but his voice doesn’t indicate that he is.

  “At least you’re predictable, and I knew where to find you,” his friend huffs. “We’re all going over to Flannigan’s—you coming?”

  “I don’t think so, thanks.” Oliver’s voice sounds young and casual, but also serious and sad.

  “I don’t get it,” his friend says, lifting his hands in disbelief. “Sara is practically a sure thing, and instead I find you reading the Bible
or something. What section is this anyway?”

  I see his friend look around like he’s just discovered he’s lost.

  “Dude,” he continues. “If you’re not interested in her, I am.”

  “Go for it, man,” Oliver says from just out of sight.

  “Whatever,” his friend says and slaps him on the shoulder, bringing the conversation to a close. “I’ll see you around.”

  “See you,” Oliver says.

  His friend steps out of view and Oliver comes back into it. He opens the book he still has cradled in his hands and resumes reading, oblivious to me or anyone else around him. I watch him for a few minutes. He closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. He picks up another, much smaller book and tucks it under his arm without opening it. He goes up to the counter and pays for the book. I follow him toward the door, but hold back and let him leave me there.

  Once I exit, I hurry onto the sidewalk without much regard to being found out. The streets are busy, and I’m lost in the crowd of late-July tourists. I look this way and that, trying to spot him. He’s walking more briskly this time, and I duck and weave through the foot traffic to keep up with him. I don’t know how to judge where he’s going, but when he stops, I understand. We’re across the street from my old office building. He doesn’t know I don’t work there anymore.

  Twice, he steps forward to cross the street, but stops both times. He takes out his phone, and I know if he calls me he’ll be close enough to hear the ringtone that he assigned himself to my phone. I panic and dart back through the pedestrians, reaching for my phone as I run.

  It rings. I don’t answer. I hold the phone pressed between my hands and rest it against my lips like it’s Oliver himself. When the phone chirps at me, I listen to the message.

  “Nina.” Oliver’s voice is a strange mix of lightness and resignation. “I need to give you something. It can’t wait. I need to see you.”