My phone buzzes. Guitar lesson with Maree. Lesson #1 G to Em. The directive is a bowling ball, scattering my thoughts like pins. She stares at me, slumped over a guitar balanced in her lap. The buzz again, and while I’ve lost the fine threads of our conversation, I turn my thoughts to the task at hand. “Ready to get started?” I say.
Maree and I spend forty minutes together, which I know because I set a timer on my phone. I fill a page of my notebook with notes on what Maree did well and where she struggled, and I even include a line at the end that I think is very important information, so I draw a small star beside it: Maree loves her cat-eye glasses and Audrey Hepburn. It occurs to me when I’m writing that it feels close to the preparations I might have taken as a schoolteacher, and the idea that I’m teaching again in whatever capacity feels good.
“What are you doing?” Maree asks. We’re sitting in the kitchen now, and she leans over the table, elbows spread out like a newborn calf trying to stand. “That’s a lot of writing. What’s it about?”
“You,” I say with a smile. “If I keep good notes, then I’ll be more prepared for next time; plus there’s a few things you told me that I want to remember. Like the fact that you really love everything Audrey Hepburn.”
“Oh, wow! That’s great!” She pushes over a three-ringed scrapbook. “I’ll put that stuff in here, too, with my pictures.” She leans over the book to write, and her glasses slide off her face and hit the table with a plastic clunk. In one quick movement, she swoops them up and slides them back on her face. “How about we write some other things about me?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Like what?”
She shrugs, sticks out her bottom lip, and holds up her pointer finger. “One, I was born on February 23”—lifts the middle finger beside the first—“Two, I’m a pescatarian”—up goes her ring finger—“And three, my mom used a slingshot to take down a giant. But that’s not really about me, ’cept it is, kinda.”
The last one makes me pause, and my pen hovers above the page, my mouth opening to say something. She looks at me—blinking once, twice, behind the broken lenses of her too-big glasses—and I’m not at all sure how to respond. It’s a lot of information at once, so I dutifully write each one down before it slips from my head. I hear Maree pull in a sip of air like she’s going to say more.
“Only three?”
Her chin juts out when she leans over to read what I’ve written. She chews off a nail while she thinks, shrugs. “I guess,” she says.
I point to number two. “Pescatarian?”
“Yup, it means vegetarian ’cept I eat fish. My dad fishes all the time.” She rolls her eyes when she says all. “And I also think that killing animals is wrong, ’cept fish ’cause they’re so yum, you know? And there’s a lot of them, too, but killing animals isn’t okay. Especially baby animals.”
It’s a lot of information, but I jot a few notes under pescatarian because I think her social stand is sweet, if slightly misguided, and obviously important to her. My eyes slide over number three: my mom used a slingshot to take down a giant. It’s loaded with nuance, and I don’t have enough information to know exactly what to ask, but I take a stab at it anyway. “So what’s this about your mom and the giant?”
A smile spreads across her face, and she rushes to her feet. “Oh yeah, that’s the best one. I’m writing a book about it at school. I can read it to you when you come in to volunteer tomorrow.” She pushes a scrapbook across the table. “I’ll leave this here so you can stare at my face some more, and maybe it’ll burn into your brain like the camera does, okay?”
My fingers itch to turn back the pages of my notebook, to read everything we’ve done, to make my notes on this girl, to remember as much as I possibly can about her. Instead, I fold my arms over the notebook and take her scrapbook into my hands. “Thanks, Maree, I look forward to staring at your face.”
She giggles. “You’re funny.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, February 13
I have a date. Well, no, not a date, I remind myself—an early dinner with Tate Dunn, who is the new harbormaster and lives here now. My palms turn sweaty at the thought of seeing him again, after all this . . . no—I pull out the note card in my pocket, its edges worn and thin—he’s lived here for a few months, and I’m sure I’ve seen him multiple times given the number of hash marks that fill the note card.
When I open the door to the restaurant, my face is warmed by the heated air that floats out. I’m early, so I choose a table by the window that overlooks the boats in the harbor. Wet snow pockmarks the water, and a light mist crawls down the mountainside, dances across the undulating surface of the bay.
My phone buzzes. Dinner with Tate Dunn at Pete’s, 5 p.m. He left a message on my phone asking if I’d like to meet him, and I’m looking forward to seeing him, wondering how different he looks from how I remember him. I touch the butterfly clip in my hair, straighten out my blouse that’s come untucked from my jeans, and try not to allow the stubborn tentacles of hope to root into my heart. The best outcome I can imagine is that we can be friends again. I’ve missed his friendship.
I start to pull out my notebook, stop, and instead reach for the device with a sticky note attached that says it’s a gift from Tate. A graphic of notebook paper with colored tabs across the side appears on the screen. One says Movie Date with Tate. My arm muscles tingle when I click it, but it’s empty, save for one line. Pick one: Go to Anchorage to see a movie or stay in and watch at your place. I’ll make dinner.
A smile spreads across my face. I type, My place, you cook. I have no idea if Tate’s a good cook or not, but I’m not one to say no to a free dinner. Then I add, it’s not a date, we’re just friends. It dampens the excitement I feel, but it’s the truth, and I’m a fool to think otherwise.
My hand hovers above the screen. There’s another tab: Things Tate wants to know about you. I click on it, curious. It’s a list of questions—some short, others longer.
What is your favorite memory and why? What’s a perfect day for you? If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? (You can’t say memory!)
That one stops me, makes me laugh, because of course that’s the first thing I was going to say. But a perfect day. What would that look like? I wiggle my fingers at the idea of getting to choose anything I want to do, and suddenly my mind expands to include the things I loved doing before. Snow machining, I type, or skiing or anything outside, fresh air, glacier kayaking, seal watching, hiking . . . the list keeps going because I can’t seem to stop once I’ve allowed myself to think beyond systems and calendars and memory. I’m still typing when a woman’s voice interrupts me.
“Can I get you water or iced tea while you wait?”
I freeze. Mom. I look up and she stands at the table, wearing the server’s uniform of black shirt and black pants, short white apron around her waist. Her hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and the light makeup she wears accentuates her dark-blue eyes, which are as beautiful as I remember.
“Mom,” I say, reaching into my pocket as she slides a note card onto the place mat in front of me.
The meeting of two eternities, the past and the future . . . is precisely the present moment. —Henry David Thoreau
Dear Claire, I’m sober and I live in Whittier now. You are strong, kind, resilient, and everything I wished I could have been. You amaze me and I’m so proud of the woman you are, right at this moment. I love you and I’m here for you. Love, Mom
I read it again and again until it hurts to breathe, and when I start to give it back to her, she covers my hand with hers. “No, you keep it. I have a whole stack of them.” She smiles and suddenly I am in footed jammies, and she is humming while she tucks the covers around the outline of my small body, kisses me on my forehead. Snug as a bug, Claire bear.
“Don’t worry; this is just one of many.” Then she winks, and I can’t speak because in that moment she is exactly as I remember her.
; Another figure appears, takes the chair opposite me, and fills it far more substantially than I ever remembered. He wears a thick blue sweater that hugs his broad shoulders. Tate as a man. He resembles the younger version I knew intimately even if his squared jaw and straight nose seem somehow more manly, older, but in all the right ways. I uncross and recross my legs, try not to mess with my hair.
“I’ll bring you both some iced tea,” Mom says.
Tate sets a note card on top of the one Mom gave to me.
I live in Whittier now and I’m the new harbormaster and I’m not married anymore. I know all about the baby and I’m not upset or angry with you. I understand. We were different then, just kids with screwed-up childhoods. But you were my best friend then and we are friends now. You’re amazing, Claire. Love, Tate
Wordless, I move to return his note card.
“Keep it. It was Alice’s idea to keep g . . . g-iving them to you. Since we’re new to your schedule, she thinks we should g . . . hand you one every time we see you. So you have a record of when you see us and maybe with . . . time”—he shrugs—“it sticks somehow.” He leans forward. “But it doesn’t have to. I w . . . w-ant to know you just as you are.”
My lips quirk up and I sit back, relaxed. “Did you just kind of quote Bridget Jones to me?”
“Well, yes, and it w . . . w-orked.” Tate smiles. “Just like Sefina said.”
“Worked?”
“It made you smile.”
My cheeks warm and I read his note card again. “You’re not married anymore.”
“Correct.” He looks down at his hands, nods. “At your graduation, I’m not . . . proud of it, Claire. I should have t . . . t-old you. But . . .” He looks up to meet my gaze, green eyes bright against his black hair. “And in some . . . ways this makes me a terrible person, but I’ve never regretted being with you that n . . . n-ight. Ever. I just wish I’d been honest about Maria.”
Hearing her name makes it real, and I shift back in my chair, wanting distance from him. I pull out my notebook, write this bit down because I want to remember that all we can ever be is friends. “How did you meet her?”
He sighs. “You know, I thought . . . when I left here that things would get magically better. Like the distance from my dad would be all I n . . . n-needed.” He gives a bitter laugh. “But I was just a stupid kid with no p . . . p-lan and no idea how truly hard things could be. I couldn’t get a job at first . . .” He stops, swallows, continues, “I couldn’t g . . . g-et through a single interview without stuttering so hard I nearly choked. My money ran out fast and things were . . . hard, and then I met Maria.” He waits while I write. “We . . . were both running from something. We were both alone. I was all she had.”
“Did you love her?” I whisper.
He looks out the window, seems to search for his answer in the snow and the waves. “I did. But n . . . n-ever in the way I loved you.”
My breath catches, and I return to my notes. Something in there that Ruth told me makes me pause. “My dad helped you?”
His smile touches his eyes. “Yeah, he called out of the blue. I have no idea how he g . . . g-ot my number. I had a job at a lumber mill by then, was sharing a crappy apartment with Maria. Vance sent me money after that—not much, but enough to keep me g . . . g-oing. Kept encouraging me to . . . go to a community college, helped me figure out student loans, vouched for me.”
As I write I feel a warmth envelop me. None of it surprises me, but all of it touches me deeply.
“Here’s your iced teas.” I look up, startled to see my mother dressed all in black, like a waiter. She sets an iced tea in front of me—along with a note card—smiles, and walks away. I read the note card, notice there’s a number written in the upper right-hand corner.
“The . . . numbers are so you can easily keep track of how often you’ve run into Alice or me.” He points to another note card on my place mat, this one from him, with the number one written in the corner. “Technically, we’ve seen each other multiple t . . . t-imes before this, but since this is my first note card, I’m starting with one.”
I take several sips of tea, check my notes. “What happened with Maria?”
“We grew apart, w . . . w-anted different things.” There’s an intensity to his gaze that I don’t understand. “She had her own demons, and things with her became . . . too familiar, and I wasn’t about to put anyone through that. I tried to help, but she—once everything happened, she left, I think because she understood.”
“Understood what?”
“That I still love you.”
I’m grateful for the distraction of my notebook right then because the speed of my pulse is affecting my breathing and makes my face warm and cold at the same time.
Tate continues, “And now I’m here. Eighteen years . . . too late, of course.”
I look up. His smile sends goose bumps down my arms.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, Claire. The time just never seemed right, not w . . . w-ith my father still living here or Maria . . .” He shakes his head, touches my hand. “Until now.”
I want to twine my fingers through his, pull him to me, feel his lips on mine, because being with him again, sitting so close our knees keep brushing under the table, I understand that I’ve never stopped loving him. Not even a little. And he’s sitting here telling me he loves me, telling me he’s back and looking at me like we can pick up exactly where we left off. A space inside my chest fills with hope. Could Tate still love me in the way he used to? I squeeze the plastic pen in my hand, touch the smoothness of the notebook paper. Like this?
His fingers touch my face, run along my jaw, bring my face up so I’m staring into his cold-water green eyes. “Let’s start over, get to know each other again. Will you go on a date with me, Claire?”
A thought tempers the longing that unwinds inside me. “But how will I remember you?”
He smiles. “Over and over again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thursday, February 14
Journal, shower, dressed, coffee, schedule. Check, check, check, and I still have a few hours to go before I volunteer in Kiko’s classroom.
There is a knock at my door, and I open it to find a plate of cheese Danish on my doormat with a note.
What day is it? asked Pooh.
It’s today, squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day, said Pooh. (A. A. Milne)
Dear Claire, I live in Whittier and I’ve been sober for ten years. You are strong and amazing and you redefine courage. I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere. And I hope, like Pooh, that today is your favorite day too. Love, Mom.
Her words are touching and take me back to a time when I was very little and would sit on a kitchen stool eating cereal while she sipped coffee beside me and Winnie the Pooh played on a small TV on the counter. I take the Danish inside, holding the card to my chest, warmed through and wondering what Mom looks like now.
Outside, a winter storm rocks our small town, surrounding BTI in a wall of black cotton. With the wind pushing against the building, I brew a pot of coffee and slide a cheese Danish onto a plate, happy to be inside, and sink my teeth into the treat. The pastry is creamy and crispy and doughy in the right places, and the tang of the cream cheese blends smoothly with the bitterness of the coffee. It’s a perfect pairing, and when I close my eyes to savor it, I am five years old, sitting on my knees in a kitchen chair, making trails with my finger in a bowl through paths of icing until I have a big enough glob to eat. A hand touches my cheek, followed by the cool wetness of a washcloth. Silly girl, you’ve got more sugar on your cheeks than in your mouth. I giggle and my mother laughs—a warm untroubled sound.
The window is a kaleidoscope of white and black, and I sit back and watch the wet snow slide down the glass. I used to wonder what would have happened if Dad had been able to get the building manager job sooner. If he’d been home, I wonder whether Mom would have leaned on him instead of alcohol. I vividly recall the look on h
is face when he told her that he was going to apply for the manager job as soon as it opened up. I was twelve, long legged and clumsy and wanting nothing more than for my dad to live at home all the time. I was convinced that if he was around more, she’d be sober, happier. He’d stood in front of her, hands touching her shoulders and his smile so wide it nearly cleaved his beard in two.
If I get it, I’ll be around more, Alice. His eyes were bright with hope. I can help you get better, honey, so we can be a real family again. He’d pulled her toward him until she had to crane her neck to look up at him. He was much taller than her, and for a second I saw what they’d been like once, before me, before Mom got sad and drunk. And then it was gone, and they were just two people with nothing in common anymore.
It’s too late, Vance, she’d said and listed to the side out of his embrace, drunk already. Dad had winced, letting his hands fall away from her and hang long by his sides.
His voice had lowered then. I was supposed to be asleep; instead, I was spying on them through a crack in my bedroom door. You’re not your father, Alice. There was a note of desperation in his voice, something I’d never heard before in him, like it was something he didn’t believe himself anymore. This is your choice, your future, your daughter, our marriage. I’d heard liquid pouring into a glass, could only assume it was my mother and her vodka. A hardness had entered Dad’s words. There’s an AA meeting in Girdwood. I want you to go as much as you need. Every day, if that’s what it takes. Ruth said she’ll take you. When I get back, Alice. Here his voice had stretched so thin it made my eyes wet. I love you, honey, but it’s hurting Claire, and I can’t let anything happen to her.
In the silence that followed, I imagined my mother throwing the bottle out the window, flinging herself into his arms, and begging for his forgiveness. I dug my fingers into my thighs, imagining the wrinkle between my father’s eyes—the one that had become a permanent worry line—easing back into his skin with his relief. Instead, she walked into their bedroom, bottle in hand, tumbler in the other, closing and locking the door behind her. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and lay awake for the entire night.
Memories in the Drift Page 18
