Goodbye from Nowhere

by Sara Zarr

  Every familiar path and fencepost and tree and branch and twig, all lost.

  Nadia. His friends. His parents as he’d known them. The farm. The person he was.

  Gone.

  Emily would still be there, he assured himself. Emily wouldn’t change.

  He headed toward the swing set. Maybe she’d be there, waiting.

  She wasn’t, but his mother was.

  Kyle watched her from a distance before she noticed him. There was something lonely about it. Her on a swing, holding on to the chains and pushing off with her toes every few seconds. She didn’t seem like a mom.

  Then she saw him there, and he was stuck. He had to keep walking toward her. As he did, she wiped her face.

  “Hey there,” she said when he got to her.

  “Hey.” He sat on the swing next to her.

  “Your drive with Dad go all right?” she asked.

  “We got here.”

  “So did we.”

  He pushed his feet into the dirt and got as big a push off as he could, then tried pumping his legs like he had when he was a kid, but now his legs were too long and kept hitting the ground.

  “It’s sad, isn’t it,” she said. “About the farm.”

  “I thought you never super loved it here.”

  She shrugged and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a tissue. “Oh, you know. It’s hard for me with all the Bakers together. I know I don’t fit in as well as Dale, or Jenny. But it’s not like I can see my own family. What’s left of them.”

  Her parents were dead. She had a sister she hadn’t talked to as long as Kyle had been alive, and he’d heard some other extended family existed, but they’d never been a part of their lives and he didn’t know the story there. He wondered what that was like—not being a part of your own family, then also not totally being a part of your in-law family.

  He fought against his sympathy. If family life was already so hard, why would you screw it up and make it even harder?

  “Your dad is already saying I should go home. He’d rather tell everyone than have to share a room with me.”

  “What happened to united front? One last great summer for everyone? Anyway, you were sharing at our house. Ever since Taylor got back.”

  She smiled and sniffled. “No, we weren’t. We’d stay up until we were sure you two weren’t coming back out of your rooms, and then Dad made his bed on the couch.”

  He almost told her right then that Taylor knew, so she could at least stop that part of the act. But he felt like he couldn’t do that without consulting with Taylor.

  “Why are you even here?” Kyle asked.

  She leaned back in her swing, gripping the chains, and stared up at the sky.

  Then she said, “I don’t think you’ve been hearing me, Kyle. This is my family. This is the only family I’ve known since I was about twenty, when I met Dad. This place . . . these people. They all mean something to me, even though our relationships aren’t perfect. Even though it can all be so difficult. No, I don’t totally fit in, but they’re what I have.” She let out something between a huge sigh and a bellow. “Maybe if I could go back in time a year, six months, three months, I wouldn’t have made the same choices. I don’t know. None of us gets to have a time machine.”

  A seed of tenderness sprouted in Kyle. Here she was, finally saying the words he’d wanted her to for so long, words he understood in his own way because of his own regrets with Nadia.

  But he didn’t want that seed to take root, because then would that mean he’d have to forgive her? That he couldn’t be angry anymore?

  “Nope,” he said, “we don’t.” He jumped off the swing and headed back to the house.

  3

  ALL THE cousins except Martie were sitting at the patio table while Aunt Brenda, holding a tumbler of wine, showed them a couple of scrapbooks from one of the boxes of stuff Grandma was making her go through. Emily somehow sensed him there, glanced over her shoulder, and scooted over to make room for him on the bench.

  “This is the front page of the paper the day after the men’s gymnastics team won gold in 1984,” Aunt Brenda was saying. “Yes, children, in the olden days we cut things out of actual newspapers and put them into photo albums.”

  Alex climbed halfway across the table to look. “Did you have a crush on one of them or something?”

  “No, honey. Well, maybe Mitch Gaylord. We were just really proud, as a country.” She turned the page. “Oh,” Aunt Brenda said to Kyle and Taylor, “here’s all of us sending your dad off to college.”

  It was a Polaroid of young Grandpa Baker with massive sideburns, and Grandma, and Uncle Mike and Aunt Brenda in high school or maybe junior high, standing around in an airport.

  “Cool outfit,” Taylor said with a laugh, pointing at teen Brenda in a paisley shirt two sizes too big, which she wore over long johns.

  Kyle studied his eighteen-year-old dad, skinnier than Kyle had ever known him to be, with a bushy head of blond hair and an uncomfortable expression on his face that Kyle recognized.

  “Looks like you,” Emily said to him quietly.

  “If I never cut my hair.”

  Aunt Brenda pulled the album closer. “That was when you could go right to the gate to meet people or send them off. You went through a metal detector, but it was fast and easy and you could be there when someone you loved stepped off a plane.” She shook her head and took another sip of wine. “So much for those days, I guess.”

  Her mood had changed; Kyle could feel Emily tense up next to him. Aunt Brenda flipped through a dozen more pages, mostly of her with her theater friends in high school and college, in plays and working on the stage crew. All she said about each of them was the name of the play; then she’d turn the page.

  “Twelve Angry Men . . . well, Twelve Angry Jurors.

  “Sweeney Todd.

  “Anything Goes.

  “Glass Menagerie.

  “Arsenic and Old Lace.”

  Emily said, “The Glass Menagerie was the first one you directed, right?”

  “Yep. I hated that play, but it’s a small cast, so my teacher thought I could probably handle it.”

  “Did you ever do West Side Story?” Kyle asked.

  “Twice! Once in college as a member of the chorus, and then I codirected it for the San Jose Light Opera a few years ago.”

  “You did?” Emily asked.

  Brenda turned some more pages in the book. “You had the flu. I guess it was more than a few years ago. I probably have a program or a clipping in here somewhere. . . .”

  There were a few blank pages, and then one with a picture of a young woman, maybe high school age, black, with bell-bottoms and an embroidered blouse, smiling at the camera. Aunt Brenda stared at it, expressionless.

  “Who’s that?” Kyle asked.

  “Loreen.”

  Taylor pulled the album closer. “Who?”

  “Your dad never told you about Loreen?” Aunt Brenda asked, looking from Taylor to Kyle.

  “No.”

  She drained her glass of wine. “Loreen used to babysit for us. I barely remember her, but Jeff was older, he should remember.” She touched Loreen’s face. “She died at Jonestown.”

  “What’s that?” Alex asked.

  “There was this cult that got big right around here,” Aunt Brenda said. “For a while they were in Santa Rosa. That’s when Loreen’s parents got involved. Anyway, later on, a bunch of them went to this place in South America to start, like, a commune, and Loreen went too. And . . .” She closed the photo album. “A lot of people died. Way before you were born, Al.”

  “How did they die?” Alex asked.

  “Brenda, don’t.” It was Uncle Dale. He’d come out of the house and stood behind Kyle and Emily.

  “She’s old enough. She hears about the news every day.”

  “Mom . . . ,” Emily said.

  “Okay, fine.” She looked the table. “The world is very shitty sometimes. And this is why I need each of you to s
wear to me you will vote in the next election. That you will always vote. Local, national, special elections, everything. Not all shitty things are preventable, but some are. Such as electing a criminal president.” She slapped her hand on the table. “Promise!”

  Taylor said, “We promise.”

  “Okay, Brenda,” Uncle Dale said. “Save up some of your righteous anger for the rest of the week?”

  Emily stood up and put her hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “I don’t like it when she gets like that,” Emily said.

  They were walking to the pond. “She’s passionate.”

  “Oh, that’s fine and I agree with her and she’s right. But watch. The whole rest of the night she’s going to sit in a corner drinking, and if anyone tries to talk to her, she’ll do that the-world-is-shitty speech again and not be able to get out of her bleak mood until after a pot of coffee in the morning.”

  “I can’t believe that thing about their babysitter,” Kyle said, in a little bit of a mood himself. “Loreen. Like, why has it never come up before here?”

  “Bakers don’t like to kill the party vibe. I know. It’s depressing.”

  They’d reached the gazebo, far enough from the pond to avoid the clouds of gnats and mosquitos that hovered over the layer of green scum on the water. Emily jumped up onto one of the gazebo benches and leaped from it to another bench, then back again, her arms open.

  “Who am I?” she asked.

  “Liesl, obviously.” From The Sound of Music. Except in cutoffs and a T-shirt instead of a floaty dress.

  “That makes you Rolf.”

  “I don’t want to be Rolf. He was a Nazi and a traitor!”

  “But for a minute he was cute and they were in love.”

  She jumped to another bench, seeming oblivious to the awkwardness of what she’d just said, and Kyle tried to think of a joke or a line from “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” to sing that wasn’t too weird. Then one end of the bench sort of collapsed under Emily. She squealed and leaped out of the way, landing in a squat.

  “Oh my god,” she said, laughing.

  “Are you okay? The wood is rotting.” He reached out his hand; she took it and he hoisted her up. Her hand was warm and strong. She pulled it out of his so she could brush off the back of her shorts. They stood close.

  “I feel happy when I’m with you,” he said. That was okay to say, right?

  “You’d better,” she joked. “It would kind of suck if we did all that texting and everything and then we didn’t feel happy while we’re actually here.” She grabbed his arm. “Look.”

  The sun had dipped part of the way behind the hills in the distance. Kyle felt Emily’s fingers on his forearm, her breath calming down after jumping around the benches.

  The gazebo would be gone soon too, added to the inventory of losses.

  But this moment, this moment he didn’t have to lose.

  He tried to stay in it, inside every micro moment within the moment, and not think about how it would feel at the end of the week, when they’d have to say goodbye.

  4

  KYLE AWOKE way too early, could see around the edges of the curtain in his tiny room that it was just getting light. Disoriented, he thought about Nadia. Like that it was Thanksgiving again and she was in the house, and he had to go down and see her.

  “Rise and shine, buddy.”

  What the—

  Grandpa Baker stood over his bed, talking in the loudest possible whisper with a cup of coffee in each hand, his cane hanging on the crook of his elbow. He held one out as Kyle sat up.

  “Oh. I don’t drink coffee.”

  “You might want to start.”

  No, he didn’t want to start, but Grandpa had brought him a mug and he had to take it. He took a sip, for show. It was hot, really freaking hot and terrible. He grimaced.

  “Coffee starts as a necessity, then grows into a pleasure.”

  “Um, okay,” Kyle said, and blew on the surface of his coffee before he sipped again. It was only slightly less terrible. “Why are you . . . why are we awake?” He noticed Pico the dog sitting calmly by the door, ears up.

  “I want to go over the bunkhouse plans with you.” Grandpa tugged the blanket off Kyle. “You’re in charge.”

  Kyle groaned and pulled the blankets back over him. “I don’t want to be in charge.”

  “You’re the oldest.”

  “Megan’s the oldest.”

  Grandpa looked around the room. “Do you see Megan here?”

  “Taylor is older than me, Grandpa. Literally I’m the youngest in my family.” He tried another sip of coffee. Yep, still awful. “Anyway, there should be no one in charge. It makes the girls hate me. Make us all equally in charge.”

  “Oh, boy. Sure. Great idea, everyone equally in charge, no matter their skills and experience.” He had a way of talking that turned everything into a speech. It dawned on Kyle that Grandpa and Aunt Brenda were kind of alike even though they had such different opinions about the world. “Answer me this: Am I wrong in thinking you’re the only one of your cousins who’s worked for a contractor?”

  “I mean, I help my dad.”

  “Who is a contractor.” Grandpa sucked his teeth. “Kyle, you’re my only male grandchild. You’re the only one carrying on the Baker name when the rest of us are all gone. I’m probably not supposed to say this in this day and age, but I think of you differently than I think of the rest of them. Oh, get that expression off your face.”

  “What?”

  Grandpa leaned in close enough for Kyle to get a strong whiff of coffee breath, which smelled way worse than coffee. “Like you feel guilty.”

  “I mean . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, drawing back. “I’m not saying you’re my favorite. Just different. I think you’re a good man, Kyle. Or on your way there.”

  His voice shook. He made a fist against his leg.

  “Really?” Kyle asked quietly. “You think that?”

  “Yes.” His voice had gone back to steely. “Now get dressed and meet me downstairs.”

  Grandpa leaned over the numerous sheets of yellow legal paper laid out on the big kitchen table. There were also blueprints.

  “What’s this?” Kyle asked. “I thought it was a demo project only.”

  “Well. I wanted you to see the endgame here.” Grandpa tapped the papers. “Know what you’re working toward.” He walked Kyle through the plans. It was a total upgrade and redesign and expansion of the bunkhouse. It would have six separate living quarters—super small but each with its own mini-kitchenette and private, tiny bathroom with a toilet and shower just big enough to turn around in. They were going to add more windows so that all six units had natural light. “I’ll hire some guys to finish it after you all leave,” he said.

  “But why?” Kyle asked. “I mean, if you’re selling, why do all this work? Maybe the buyers won’t even want the bunkhouse. Maybe they’re going to end up tearing it all down anyway.”

  Grandpa smoothed out the blueprints. His big hands were splattered with reddish-brown age spots. His face wasn’t all that wrinkled, considering he was like eighty-three or whatever. Not as wrinkled as Grandma’s, with the deep lines that ran the width of her forehead, and around her mouth, and all down her neck. With Grandpa, where you saw it was his eyes—red rimmed, a little cloudy, sometimes confused. Not now, though.

  “You can help me out, here,” he said, holding up a few of the yellow sheets, “or you can not help me.”

  “I’m gonna help you! I was just curious.”

  “Well.” Grandpa’s voice softened. “Curiosity is overrated.”

  Kyle put his mug down, still more than half full. “So’s coffee.”

  They went down the orchard path with Pico to look at the bunkhouse. The sun had come up while they were in the kitchen. It wasn’t full light yet; the pink-tinged sky was soft and the air was cool. Birds sang like crazy, though Kyle couldn’t see any. When they got to the two
picnic tables by the bunkhouse, he thought back to the night in the spring when he and Emily had talked out here, the starry night.

  “We keeping the tables?” he asked Grandpa.

  “I forgot about them.” Pico walked in a circle around the clearing.

  “It’s nice to have a place to sit, eat outside, whatever.”

  Grandpa put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, studying the tables. “This wood is going rotten. I guess if the buyers want furniture out here, they can get some of their own.”

  Grandpa showed Kyle how he wanted the demo material piled clear of the walking path, sorted by type of material and salvageable and unsalvageable. “I don’t want a mess out here.”

  “I know.” Kyle looked at the tables again and had an idea. “I bet I could use some of the salvage to build a couple of new picnic tables. I mean, that would be cool, having tables made out of the old structure as part of the new structure.”

  Grandpa was quiet, then said, “No one would know the history. They wouldn’t appreciate it.” He sounded tired, like his enthusiasm for the day had already been drained.

  “We would.”

  “You’ll never see it again after this summer.”

  “But we’ll know it’s here.”

  Maybe they couldn’t keep anyone from coming along and tearing down what they’d built. Maybe it was wrong to try to preserve something that had served its purpose. But it still seemed worth caring about.

  He followed Grandpa into the bunkhouse. It smelled like something had died in there.

  “It’s a dump,” Grandpa said.

  “It’s old.”

  “Even when it was new it was a dump.”

  Pico had come in and was sniffing under one particular bunk.

  “And the reason,” Grandpa continued, “the reason I want it torn down and replaced with something new is that the new owners are putting in grapes. On every inch of the tract. It’s going to be a huge operation, and there are going to be workers. And if I leave this like it is, they might be tempted to actually make people live here.”

  Kyle laughed. “Like it is now? No one would do that. You wouldn’t.”

  Grandpa raised his wiry eyebrows. “Oh no? You think not? People are greedy, Kyle. And cheap. I am. I ran this place greedy and cheap back in the early days. Your think I haven’t been listening to your aunt Jenny about worker exploitation and whatnot, but I have.”