That must mean he took me there for other reasons. Maybe because it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth. Because the water is a completely clear and brilliant shade of blue, reflecting the sky above like a mirror, and it feels like you’re standing above the clouds and looking down at heaven. Because he knows I love it there.
Crater Lake formed after Mount Mazama erupted, sending a cloud of ash as far as Canada, Wyoming, California, and Nevada. The volcano then collapsed, which created an enormous hole, a kind of cauldron that slowly filled with rain and meltwater. The lake is 1,942 feet deep, the deepest in the whole United States, and has no inlets or outlets. That’s what makes the water so unbelievably beautiful.
“Not even eight thousand years old,” I said. “You’re losing your touch.”
“I thought I’d probably showed you enough rocks in the middle of nowhere.”
“Admit it. You come here because you think it’s beautiful. You’ve missed Oregon.”
“I’ve missed certain things in Oregon.”
I laughed. I was trapped in my own bubble of happiness. We never stopped looking at each other. We never stopped smiling.
It wasn’t as though I thought we would be together forever. I knew he might leave me again. The rocks might call to him, all those exciting, exotic places that were memories to him and empty words to me. Places like Shark’s Bay. It was just that the future didn’t matter. Time had been knocked off-kilter. Maybe that moment at Crater Lake would last forever, or maybe it would be followed by several moments that were just as painfully beautiful, but I would take it on regardless. I wasn’t afraid of pain borne out of love. There and then, life seemed as crystal clear as the water beneath us.
Just live, I thought. Experience everything. Feel everything. Seconds count; several days are a miracle.
Chapter 13
A Certain Amount of Happiness
I’m aware of the irony.
During our last weekend together, I tried to convince Michael to visit his family, but now that we’re standing outside his parents’ house, all I want is to take him away from here.
Michael is wasting my time. Our time. Just two short days from now, I’m going to be cremated. He is wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a jacket. He looks unbelievably handsome, but not even that can perk me up. He’s going to waste an entire evening with his family.
“They don’t even like you!” I say, though I instantly feel guilty. I should be supporting him. I should probably have put on a dress or something, but I’m stuck in these jeans and this damned polka-dot top, and there’s nothing I can do about it because I also happen to be dead.
Michael is hovering by the front door. He still hasn’t rung the bell.
“Okay, okay.” I say. “It’s fine. It’s going to be okay.”
Then I take a step back.
“What are we doing here, Michael?” I ask.
I can’t waste my time at expensive houses with someone else’s dysfunctional family.
“It’s not too late,” I plead. “We can still get out of here.”
“So you came, did you?” Mr. Callahan grunts as he opens the door.
“Guess so.”
He steps aside for Michael, and after hesitating for a moment, I follow them in. A couple of hours. I’ll keep him company and suffer through this evening, and then I’ll get to be alone with him. Relax next to him and forget all about my upcoming funeral.
The family has gathered in the living room for a drink before dinner: Michael’s mom, Joyce; his brother, Derek; and Stacey, who is already tipsy. I used to like Joyce. She’s nice as long as you take her for what she is. But now she says “Michael” in a confused voice, as if she has just remembered she has another son.
Derek thumps him on the back, unnecessarily hard. Of course he does. He’s an ex-football player, after all. Not that he’s played in fifteen years, but I guess he needs to show that he’s still got it. Stacey gives Michael a hug that lasts a little too long.
We’re an odd bunch, even Joyce. She is wearing something pale and lavender, and it’s almost as if she blends in with her surroundings. She drifts around, seemingly unaware of the conversations going on, and when she leaves the living room to check on dinner, Michael is the only one who notices. The faint, lingering scent of her perfume is the only sign she was ever there.
Mr. Callahan is chatting with Stacey, and Derek takes the opportunity to pull Michael to one side. I follow them.
“So how’s it going with the rocks, Bro?” Derek asks. He has put on weight since he stopped playing football. There are still muscles beneath the fat, but they’re well hidden. His shirt is crumpled and a size too small, one of the buttons struggling to hold it closed.
There’s something else about him, about the way he keeps glancing at Michael. Derek used to look at the world with a kind of boyish charm. Here I am. Come on, love me. But now he seems surprised that life has moved on without him. Here I am. Why don’t you love me anymore?
“The prodigal son returns,” he says.
“Temporarily,” Michael replies, forcing himself to look at his brother.
I can’t tell what he is feeling. At one point in time, he used to worship Derek. Derek took care of him and occasionally let him tag along on his adventures, teasing him the way big brothers and demigods do, and if he expected a little worshipping in return, Michael was perfectly willing to give it to him.
“Worked down any interesting mines lately?” Derek asks.
“Arizona. Copper.”
I wonder whether Michael has missed him. I wonder whether he still misses the old Derek.
“So you couldn’t sneak out any gold with you? How’s the price of gold doing these days?” Derek buys and sells things, each deal crazier than the last, but never anything as valuable as gold. “Still, the book must’ve brought in some money? New York Times bestseller and all that. Who would’ve thought it? My little brother, a celebrity.”
“What do you want, Derek?”
“I’ve got an investment opportunity for you. It’s a sure deal. I’d…”
“How much?” Michael interrupts him.
“Five hundred bucks. I’d do it myself, but I thought I’d give you a chance to make a killing.”
From across the room, Stacey’s eyes narrow as she studies her husband.
“Since you’re my brother and all.” Derek’s eyes glitter. “And because I’m broke. My capital’s a little tied up at the moment. Got a couple of other projects in the pipeline. So what do you say?”
There it is: the old Derek’s smile. He is always so sure people will forgive him, even when he’s begging for money from his brother—a man he hasn’t seen in fifteen years. Almost no one can resist that smile.
I’m not surprised to hear Michael say, “All right. I’ll transfer the money tomorrow.”
Derek boxes him on the shoulder. “Welcome home, Bro,” he says.
Stacey shakes her head as though she knows exactly what just happened.
* * *
Eventually, they all make their way into the dining room. It has dark wooden paneling and a large table set with pretty, delicate porcelain. I stick to the walls, suddenly embarrassed to be intruding like this. Maybe I should have stayed in the living room. I wonder how long they can take to eat. Almost free, almost free, I repeat to myself like a mantra.
Each of the plates is laden with an impressive slab of steak, mashed sweet potatoes, and peas.
“I guess you heard that the Canadians closed the sawmill,” Mr. Callahan says. He pauses to chew on a chunk of meat. “Three years.” More chewing. His jaws grind in the same way as his voice when he continues: “That’s how long they managed without me. I knew what would happen the minute I saw the manager they’d sent down to take over. That man had no idea what people here need or want. I could’ve taught them a thing or two, if the
y’d bothered to ask. But, you know, they paid well. I’m not complaining. I’ve managed to keep myself busy, I’ll have you know. There’s always something that needs fixing in this town. Bob does his best, I suppose, but you know what it’s like. In the end, he’s just a politician. He doesn’t exactly live in the real world.”
“But you do, Dad,” Michael says drily.
Joyce impales the peas on her fork, one at a time.
“You bet your ass I did. I had to work hard for all this. I certainly never got anything for free. This piece of meat didn’t just jump into my mouth.” He waves his fork to prove his point.
“How about you, Mom?” Michael asks. “What’s been going on in your life lately?”
Joyce misses the next pea, and her fork screeches against the plate. She looks up at her son in confusion.
“Going on?” says Mr. Callahan. “What could possibly be going on in her life? She doesn’t do anything.”
Joyce looks relieved. She manages to stab the pea on her next attempt.
* * *
After dinner, Michael escapes onto the porch. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes.
“We can go now, Michael,” I say. “It can just be the two of us for the rest of the evening.”
But no. He doesn’t move.
Fine, I think bitterly. Let’s stay here a little longer.
Stacey comes out with two glasses of whiskey. “I’m sorry about Henny,” she says. “And for not talking about her at dinner. We’re a bunch of self-centered assholes. You two were friends, right?”
Michael knocks back the whiskey. Stacey raises an eyebrow, but then heads back inside and returns with a refilled glass. And the bottle.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks, sitting down on one of the porch chairs.
Michael reluctantly slumps down in the chair next to her. “Dad hasn’t changed, has he?” he says.
Stacey lights a cigarette. There is an old cola can on the table between them, and she uses it as an ashtray. “Did you think he would’ve?”
“I guess I’d hoped so.”
“I just want everything to be like it was before. But Derek has definitely changed.”
“How do you think Mom’s doing?” Michael asks.
“Doing? Joyce? She’s the picture of health.”
“No, I mean… Is she happy?”
“As happy as anyone else. More than a lot of folks, I’d guess.” Stacey blows a perfect smoke ring. “Did you know she’s a vegetarian now? I caught her smuggling tofu into the house a couple weeks ago. She has it for lunch.”
“You know you can eat tofu without being a vegetarian?”
“You think? This isn’t Portland, you know.”
“I just meant that maybe she…”
“Did you notice she managed not to eat a single bite of that incredible chateaubriand at dinner?”
“A vegetarian, huh. Keeping it a secret from Dad, I assume?”
“Clearly.”
Stacey lights another cigarette and takes a long drag on it, closing her eyes and slowly blowing the smoke from one corner of her mouth. With the cigarette between her fingers, she takes a sip of whiskey, her eyes still shut.
“Do you remember what I looked like in high school?” she asks.
“Everyone remembers how you looked in high school,” Michael replies. He empties his glass. Fills it again.
It’s true. Perfect skin, as though her personality was too good for acne. Dimples, brilliantly white teeth. Long legs, always tanned. Full of life and youthful energy.
“No, I mean really. When I look at myself in the mirror now, I can’t believe I was ever that young. Do you think we only get a certain amount of happiness in life? That you can use it all up over the space of a few years and then have none left?”
“Suffering seems to be limitless, in any case.”
“I was happy in high school. I was. It made me forget all about my pathetic white-trash parents and the trailer and the dirt. I even duped myself. I wish high school had never ended.”
Stacey used to turn up at every game Derek played. People in town cheered on their relationship almost as much as they cheered on the team.
Her cigarette has burned down to the filter and singes her fingers. Swearing, she drops it into the can.
I was also happy in high school. Looking back now, it seems like only the idiots were. People who didn’t know any better. Stacey tells a long anecdote from our time at school, but Michael doesn’t speak. He just drinks whiskey.
“Dwelling on things is pointless,” he eventually says.
“Why? It’s one of my favorite pastimes. Cheers to dwelling!”
Cheers to that, I think.
More of her bright-coral lipstick transfers onto Mr. Callahan’s expensive whiskey glass.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says after a while. “And you definitely did the right thing by leaving. I should’ve forced you to take me with you.”
“I left the day after your wedding.”
“Exactly. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve done the same.”
There is something hard and cruel in her eye. She doesn’t duck from the truth about herself, so why should she spare anyone else? Michael looks embarrassed, but I can’t help but admire her. If she really had wanted to, she would’ve jumped into his car the day after her wedding and left with him.
When she gets to her feet, she is unsteady. She raises her voice when she next speaks: “If I’d had even an ounce of sense, I would’ve left before my wedding.”
I hear a voice from the living room window: “If only my wife would spend a little more time on the house and a little less on booze.”
“All I know about drinking, I learned from my husband.”
* * *
Michael stays outside long enough to drink two more glasses before he gets up and walks toward his car. He has to take a sudden step to one side to avoid walking straight into the oak tree. He leans against the car and waits for the world to stop spinning. Then he kicks the tire and says, “Goddamn it.” His voice echoes around the expensive houses and parked cars, each of which is probably worth more than the motel. He kicks his car one last time and slumps down to the pavement. He sends a text and covers his face with his hands, and then we sit there beneath the oak tree.
Twenty minutes later, MacKenzie’s pickup pulls up in front of us. Michael staggers to his feet and slumps into the passenger seat. I jump up into the bed. Through the small window separating the cab from the bed, I can see their tired faces, momentarily illuminated by the cab light. I can see myself, too. Outside. In the bed of the truck. While MacKenzie sits there next to Michael.
“I drank too much” is all he says.
“That’s what family does to you.”
Michael turns away. “Thanks,” he reluctantly says.
MacKenzie shrugs and drives away. “It’s all included in the price,” she says.
“I’m think I’m going crazy.”
“Craziness is included, too. And I’m sure whiskey helps.”
I can see his face in the rearview mirror. It looks dogged, blank, faintly lit by the dashboard and the headlights. I want to run a finger across his forehead and smooth out his frown.
“Can’t get much worse, in any case,” he says.
“You sure about that?” MacKenzie goes on: “Drinking is overrated. I’d try hitting something instead.”
“I already tried that.”
“You look like you’ve gone twelve rounds against yourself.”
“And lost.” Silence. “I was crazy to come back here. What did I think would happen? Everything would suddenly be great, and all of life’s secrets would reveal themselves, and the past wouldn’t matter anymore? Like I’d become someone new the minute I parked outside the motel?”
“Tha
t’s not true,” I say quietly. “You’re crazy for staying away for so long.”
“Sure,” MacKenzie agrees. “You’re crazy for coming back.”
“It’s not like I even made a conscious decision to do it. It was more like I woke up at check-in one day, and there she was. Everything felt right again. Like all the different parts of my life had suddenly come together. Past and future, reality and fantasy.”
“It was right,” I say stubbornly.
“And then?” MacKenzie asks. “What did you think would happen then?”
“I didn’t think. And now it’s too late.” He runs a hand over his face.
MacKenzie parks outside his cabin. Michael struggles with the seat belt, and then he is free and out of the car. He stands with his back to her, to me.
But he continues to talk. Now that he’s started, it seems like he needs to get it all out. “Do you know how many times I’ve cleaned that damn cabin?” he asks.
“No.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ve scrubbed the floor, cleaned the whole bathroom, washed the sheets three times, swapped out all the towels, wiped every surface—”
“You do know cleaning is included in the price of the room?”
“—but I can still smell her everywhere. When I go to bed, I can feel her body beside mine. Soft and warm and sexy and, goddamn it, just there. I’ve already been back too long, even though there’s nothing for me here. But for some reason I can’t leave. I keep hearing her voice. Stay, don’t go, stay. I’ve always been strong enough to know what I want, but it’s like she’s taken over my head.”
Michael turns back to the car, and as he throws open his arms, it feels as though the gesture is directed at me. “I left her once when she was alive, for God’s sake. Why can’t I leave her now? Why can’t I just get out of here, move on, stop smelling her everywhere.”
“Go to bed, Michael.”
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 10
