by C. Spencer
Because after that comes Jordan for the rest of the day.
But, what, she’s kissing me and I can feel her gripping my hair and I can’t even. Why does she have to be so kind to me? “Here’s to an entire day of not even touching you,” I hear and all the while, the rush of that mail truck as it passes by, pauses at a box—open, shut, repeat.
It’s where I could say any number of things. But unfortunately every one of those options would take this to a completely new level of inappropriate. So instead I simply say, “We have tonight.”
“In eight to ten hours?” she says.
“Perhaps,” I say. And just the way she’s gazing at me as if she can’t look away. “This feels so strange. Why does it feel so strange?” I say.
“It’s not for me,” she says.
“I’m glad,” I say.
“Thanks for this,” she says.
“You say that now.”
“No, really,” she says.
“Why?” I say.
“I like this being-on-the-other-side thing.”
“Were your parents divorced?”
“Yours weren’t?”
“No,” I say. “But they should be. They’re never together.”
“So no awkward introductions, no dinners, no bribes?” she says.
“Tell me about your bribes.”
“My bribes, which one? So I can remember this game one time—baseball, I’m sure, since they loaded me up on chili dogs. And I’m in this guy’s back seat, mom’s boyfriend at the time, and it took forever getting out of that parking lot. We weren’t even moving. It must’ve been a stadium or something, and he was trying to impress me…And there was this putrid smell, which is why I mentioned your car being so clean. You know how, when you get takeout, it lingers? So I pushed this button and the window slid down. And thank God, air. But she turns to me and says Shut the window. Apparently the air conditioner was on. But it smells like fish, I said. That’s leather, she says. But it wasn’t. I love the smell of leather. I didn’t know that at the time. Nice car, though, Mercedes. He was talking it up, too. She would’ve hit the jackpot were it not for me. Since I hit back with I didn’t know leather smelled like fish,” she says, grinning in this juvenile way, adorable actually. “Embarrassed the shit out of her. But yeah, that’s all. Awkward introductions,” she says. “Let’s go do that.”
So when we get out, I’m reminded of that cut grass, the chrysanthemums, and I’m shouting over the hood of the car, “I’ll need coffee after this,” feeling flighty.
Next she’s gripping my hand. It’s nice. And we walk like that, and I’m thinking, isn’t this where Jordan usually dashes out? But no stomping, no yelling, just those same incessant birds waking up.
In fact, it’s not until Aline’s front door pulls in that Rae’s fingers slip from my grip and she’s stepping aside to assume some sort of companionable, neighborly, platonic gap between the two of us.
And I’m not exactly sure about the sequence of events that come after that. In fact, I’m only half aware of her existence. At some point, I’m bending into arms, squeezed, dodging a half-eaten Clif Bar pinched between fingers. A pillow tucks under my elbow, forcibly. I can smell that scent of C.O. Bigelow fabric conditioner through those vents. And every time I hope to glance at Aline, hear what she has to say, she’s settled on Rae—and Rae on me. Until I hear, “Eight o’clock sharp.” And I nod and turn and the kid starts squeezing my hand pretty hard, then leads me off, oblivious to the countless hours I’ve put into this moment. Weeks of what-ifs and that’s it. All effortlessly behind me.
I just…I don’t know. Maybe I wish she hadn’t been so quick about it. And shouldn’t I feel relieved now that it’s over? But I’m not. I mean, Aline didn’t even try to do anything. But what’s she supposed to do? It’s not as if I expected her to make a scene or anything like that. But she didn’t even fight in the slightest.
As I flip my key and Rae tugs the pillow out from under my arm. “You didn’t tell her about me, did you?” But she’s not mad.
I pop the trunk. “I couldn’t,” I say, adding a shrug, grateful she doesn’t ask why, since sure, it almost came up, the topic of Rae. But it didn’t. Since we don’t talk about that, about others. Nor do I think we should.
And I’m dwelling on this, disappointed, as Jordan squeezes right in between us with, “You’re pretty cool.”
And Rae says, “Am I?” Chuckling.
And next I hear, “Is she your girlfriend?” over my laugh, which is definitely one of relief.
And soon enough we’re racing down the highway, wind tugging at my hair as I eavesdrop on a conversation they’re having over the headrest. One that goes on nonstop until we get to the lake, where we trek through coarse sand in bare feet and sandals to my usual spot near the fallen tree and unpack. Straightening my hat. Sunglasses slipping down my nose. And I’m passing Jordan a half-empty tube of SPF before setting my phone on top of this hardback on biophilic design, which I do plan to make some progress on, rubbing my eyes as I ponder why this ordinarily sparse little reading nook feels more along the lines of comfortably crowded right about now. “It’s never this packed,” I say, apologetic amid the screaming and swarming of children. Plastic shovels meet their parents’ Stella Artois.
“It’s the Fourth of July,” Rae says with a laugh as if I should know this.
“That’s not until Monday,” I say. Then it clicks, and I crawl to my knees and flip the blanket before full-on collapsing.
“Stay here,” she says, then reclines beside me.
“No, I’m coming out there with you.” But why am I so exhausted?
“I’ll take her out,” she says. “You just work on that coffee.” As she proceeds to peel her shirt overhead, one that bares her abdomen, that bikini tank, the kind that all but flattens an otherwise shapely size C chest. Before she’s tugged by the arm to the shore.
And as for me, I’m still widening and lengthening the blanket. I tent my chair, glide sunscreen up an arm and down the next, gazing at Rae as she ducks beneath a low wave only to resurface, sopped, strands flipping over and back like a pompadour. And that laugh, I could hear it a mile away. Before she’s leaning in to hear some sort of long and lengthy dialogue with Jordan about who knows what, though I’d like to. Accompanied by the rhythmic symphony of all that is summer. Creasing open my book.
Reading.
And every so often pausing, marking the page with a thumb, shading my brow. Gazing at heads bobbing along waves. That scent of coconut like a gentle breeze up my leg. The taste of root beer lip balm. The monotonous squawk of gulls. Grill-scented everything. Garbled calls and warnings from dads who’d rather be anywhere but here. Boys and girls and belly laughs, that bottomless kind, squeals and shouts to Do it again…do it again. As they bury that kid in sand, toes exposed, buckets filling.
And I’m two pages short of finishing this passage when they slog back in snapping, sagging suits. Water flings.
Rae collapses beside me, lifting her gaze as I follow along the rising curve of her hip. Drops of water beading along her skin. “How’s your book?” she says as she runs a thumb along those damp lips. And I guess I just linger there for a few, studying her gaze, her lips, wishing I could kiss her. I want to, but I can’t. Everyone’s here.
“It’s captivating,” I say with this look. Then she turns and tips her head with the most insatiable grin. Stop.
As I’m sitting up, straddling my legs around the Coleman to pull up its lid, distributing lunches. Baguettes wrapped tight in white deli paper. Jordan’s bag of Kettle chips.
And another hour at least fades into nothing before the two run back to the water. Which is when I finally meet up for a rather cold dip, though you do get used to it after some time, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself as Rae swims over, bouncing, sluggish, slipping a hand lax around my waist before it drifts everywhere it shouldn’t. Me, guiding her palm back to the waterline. “You’re a hit,” I say, admiring lean muscles
along her arm.
“You bribe a kid with chocolate,” she says.
“It’s much more than that.”
“I really like this suit,” she says.
“Stop…you’re making me—”
“What?”
“Blush, and it’s so cold,” I say.
“I’ve got you,” she says, and she does.
“Who thought up that pink doughnut float you gave her?”
“You think it’s a little over the top?”
“I don’t. But tell me,” I say, “what were the two of you talking about a while back?”
“You stuff mostly. Secrets,” she says in this cagey way. “That sort.”
“I’m curious what sort of secrets my daughter might be sharing.”
“Oh, it was nothing important,” she says with that laugh. “Look, we made a pact.” Uh-huh. “I promised her.”
And I leave it at that because, to be honest, I don’t think I want to know.
I’m outvoted in favor of pizza at the end of the day, and Rae calls it in, and we swing by and I pick it up. Then along the drive, we’re lectured on the trials and tribulations of third grade, on fifth period, on the history of the Fourth of July, on the awesomeness of Charlotte’s Web, and on Lindsay and Lauren, the kid’s BFFs—and this continues nonstop from Haskell Road onto South Willard.
And by ten o’clock, we’re drawing knees to our chests on the couch as Jordan crashes, lit blue by the glow of Netflix. Until we slip off and I’m led by fingers gripping loosely along the banister, thinking, who knows. It’s late and, well, those hips treading water, those drops of water along bare skin. But the last thing I hear out of Rae is, “About that suit you wore today,” before she drifts off.
The following day after drinks, sparklers, fireflies and those fireworks and their smoke lingering through our Ohhs and Ooos, that gaze resting languid beside me on the pillow with an arm heavy across my hip, and yeah, that’s that. And by that, I mean I’m planning to get her a bit more coffee’d up so she can keep up with this.
* * *
My workweek is short and drags me into a less eventful weekend, given it happens to fall on Mother’s less than spectacular sixty-seventh birthday complete with two invitees: her and me. Because steel, I keep telling myself. That’s what I’m made of. So why after one brief overnight in her presence do I feel more like a crushed ball of foil in her fist?
She being my trusted, constant source of criticism.
And thus would explain this brief yet essential sanity break upstairs to call Andi in this sun-filled room complete with that so-not-me floral duvet on my twin-sized adolescent bed where not even a shadow on the wall has changed since the day I turned sixteen. Even that desk I left behind, that poster—now framed as if my youth was something to hold on to or cherish. And the exact same view outside my window.
“Just think of it this way,” Andi’s saying, ever so hopeful. “You might enjoy yourself this time.”
“You act as if I could ever let my guard down low enough,” I say, gazing down at this chemical lawn. “You’re so fortunate not to know her the way I do.”
“Take her out for lunch, have a few drinks, loosen her up.”
“She’s fourteen years sober,” I say. “And not an alcoholic. Seriously, how do you not remember that?”
“I remember that you both love Brooks Brothers.” And this is when it hits, that too much of Mother creeping up in me, my shopping for therapy, my reason enough for an occasional visit if only to remind myself how not to be. “Why didn’t you bring Rae?” she says.
“Because that would only make matters worse,” I say.
“So just a mother-daughter day?”
“Hold out,” I say, “she might be screaming.”
“Screaming?”
“Lord, make that crying,” I say. “I’ve got to go.”
“So full report when you’re home?” she says as I dash along the hall toward those sharp jarring echoes rising from the kitchen before taking a seat at my end of the island where Mother is bleary eyed, her trusty phone by her side.
“They’re bringing it?”
“No,” she says. “They hung up on me.” Quietly angered. “They told me to call back when I calm down.”
“Jesus Christ, it’s not a big deal,” I say. “It’s just the Sunday paper. Perhaps the carrier’s sick.”
“It’s called doing your goddamned job,” she says. “That’s what it is.” Then she’s making her way off in a silent huff, setting her mug at the sink, brewing the next pot. “She needs to be fired.”
So I check my phone.
Rae: Morning, beautiful.
For an instant mood lift.
Dodging from across the room that gaze now simmering on the national news as she orchestrates whatever it is she’s heating on the stove—Egg Beaters from a carton. And all the while, political pundits head off, reminding me of all the conversations we won’t be having today.
“Work?” I hear as I study her unrumpled PJ’s, the button-up style you’d see on some old man, only feminized in navy with pipe trim in white, fashionable as always with hair once blond now gray, in a style that’s never been long like mine. Her glasses so thick they magnify her age as she eyes my phone.
So I apologize. “Just Rae,” I say. As I set it aside for whatever conversation it is she’s thinking about having.
“Ah,” she says in that tone, dismissive. “I thought we’d go downtown,” she adds, “shopping.”
I shrug.
As she taps along the side of that frying pan. “How is she?”
“Who, Rae?” I say. “Fine.”
“What does your friend do?”
“I told you that last night. We had a long conversation about this.”
“Ah,” she says. “That’s right, the artistic type.”
“Not quite,” I say, “more like catalogs—that sort. She does catalogs. She only does catalogs, like the kind you get in the mail, websites, that sort.” Before adopting a less defensive stance. “She has her own business.”
“And that would be why she couldn’t make it?”
But I shake my head, change the subject, go on about my unremarkable client, as she’s spooning faux eggs onto everyday plates. “I don’t normally eat this much,” I say.
“You look fine,” she tells me, but it’s not that. I’m not trying to lose weight. I just don’t like eggs. As she piles on more. And I go back to my phone.
Me: High protein
Rae: Caffeine
Me: Rescue me.
Rae: Swoops in.
“Is that such a good idea?” I hear.
But I’m already smitten when I say, “Is what a good idea?” To the point that I’m grinning shamelessly, which all but riles her more—which might be my intent.
“You seem to be moving fast,” she says, only to mumble something else under her breath, but all I hear is, “Aline,” which is her way of reminding me that I have a rather astute ability to epically fail at every relationship, at everything, but let’s not consider the nine years that were reasonably good. “I just wouldn’t have—”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t have done that to you.”
“Done what?”
“Divorce, it’s rough on the kids, you know. I worry about my granddaughter. How is she?”
You could call once in a while is my unspoken response. But I take a sip of coffee as opposed to taking her bait.
“You’ve always been like this,” she prods. “You’ve never listened to me. You do your own thing.”
Funny, I thought that was my right.
So as the afternoon drags on, I find myself reminiscing about the good old days when she might’ve cut the edge after lunch with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and Kahlúa.
* * *
For the last weekend in July, I’m agreeing to the best friend date out here against the green river, Rae’s hand squeezing mine as we steady our way along bobbing boards with the kid just ahead,
tottering in her two-piece suit now stretched to cover the entirety of her torso, hair twisted back in French braids.
A not-so-modest powerboat is parked at the end of the dock right past her shoulder, where Andi’s lifting a knee, extending a hand, pulling Jordan in, then me, as the deck dips with my weight, or maybe it’s just a swell.
Next I gaze at Rae, now gripping Andi’s hand. “So you’ve never been out on the lake?” Andi says before pulling her in. “Nice to finally meet you.”
And their eyes meet. “Mutual,” I hear and they shake and she brushes past and we slide along a padded seat, her thigh pressed warm against mine. Adding to that is her top, snug, with sleeves up high along her bicep. High and taut across her chest. As I imagine how it might feel to run a finger along those gathers now bunched against her torso. Red creases. Racing stripes bent where it curves. As I lean in to press indebted lips against hers while the boat swims onward.
“Could I convince you to come back,” I say, “alone?” Still tasting a trace of that kiss, her skin so warm from the heat of the sun. “I’d like to,” I say as the wind lifts our hair, “when it’s starlit,” as I slip my fingers between hers. A hand resting heavy on my thigh, sundrenched and stuck to this padding as spray glistens across her lips. I can feel it cool against mine.
I’m gazing overhead at the last few darkening clouds, gulls, when my mind shifts to Jordan, now balancing, boney kneed, her small grip tight around a slick white pole.
And after that, a flash of that time with Aline. Her renting that sleeper out there, because what was she thinking? A roar so loud I could hear it vibrate for hours after we’d stopped.
It’s funny how a sound, a motor, does that. Makes you feel it again. Makes you see it right down to that glossy woodwork—stocking food under lights so dim, recessed, and ducking afterward into the lounge where we ate by folded tabletop that later turned into a bed piled high in down. No sounds. Drifting. Blinded by sunrise. Her dive. Bobbing, limbs like waves beneath, unnaturally swaying. And without any rain, the sand at the shore seemed like islands. Sun muscling clouds into streams of light. Strands of hair floating at the surface. Paddling her way. Lifting up with her palms flat, then resting on her chin.
