by Jessica Park
At one point, Sam slightly lifts his chin and points with the bottle. “Porpoise.”
I squint toward where he’s gesturing and see the figure bounding in the waves. I would never have been able to pick out the animal if he hadn’t shown me. My smile might be permanent. The porpoise travels out of sight, and I shift my eyes to the ground below.
At this time of year, the yard is just coming back to life. It’s not a huge garden under my feet, but what’s there is rather unusual. I can see five distinct dirt circles carved into the grass, each probably three feet in diameter. Something about Sam’s funny landscaping is quite charming, but I don’t ask him what he plans on growing there. I want to be surprised. A set of tiered flat stones creates a small path to a long dock that leads out over boulders and into the water, and I make a note to take a walk down there soon.
The silence between us might be uncomfortable for him—I don’t know—but it’s not for me. On this scraped-up deck with the water view and the evergreen frame, I am filled with peace. While Sam isn’t overwhelming me with conversation and enthusiasm, he hasn’t pushed me off the deck. So, there’s that, and I’ll take it.
“I gotta get back to work.” He returns the empty bottle to the cardboard box and wipes his hands on his jeans as he stands. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to finish up.”
“I’m sure it’s going to look great.” A breeze blows, and I raise a hand to my eyes. For a second, I think I see movement in the foliage near the dock, but then it’s gone. Clearly, my perceptions are still wonky, and I silently curse my mother for how I see or mis-see everything. “Is there a Laundromat here? I don’t have that much with me, so I’ll need to wash clothes soon.”
He checks my outfit, covered in dirt and cleaning products. “There’s a washer and dryer in the basement. The door is on the side of the house.” Sam replaces his earbuds and mask and reaches for the sander. He starts it up as I walk past, but then he turns it off. After a few moments, with his head still down, he says, “Thanks for lunch.”
“You brought me Wonder Woman socks, Bishop. It was the least I could do.”
Even though he refuses to look at me and even from behind the shield of his hair, I can see him smile.
It’s a start. And I wonder if he remembers more details of that day and if he remembers the way he took care of me and how I ran into his arms and how our teenage kiss was more than just that.
For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, I tackle the bedroom. While I do leave the French doors shut to keep out the noise and debris from Sam’s work, I take down the formerly white curtains that are now covered in cobwebs.
I catch Sam’s eye a few times as he walks past, but I try very hard not to stare.
The sheets and comforter that I pulled from the closet are worn and have a few holes, but they’re soft and cozy. They’re also rather musty, as I discovered when sleeping on them last night, but a good wash will fix those and the curtains.
Sam is now at the front section of the deck when I head out with an armful of bedding.
On my way back up from starting a wash, he calls down to me, “You should wear better shoes around here.”
I have on ankle boots with two-inch heels. It is a little odd to be doing hard cleaning in these shoes, not to mention in the linen pants and patterned blouse right out of the dry-cleaning bag. Both of which will probably end up in the trash after today.
“I told you. I don’t have much here.”
“Oh. Right.” Sam lifts a large bucket and relocates it to another spot. “The deck is going to be wet with stain for a while, so stay off of it.”
I nod and go back upstairs.
After a thorough shower and an hour of primping, I decide to continue with my bravery and attempt to cook the steak and shrimp I bought this morning. Because my culinary skills have been limited to microwave meals, I’m thinking that I should have bought a cookbook, too, but this can’t be that difficult.
Except it is because I burn the steak, filling the entire room with smoke, yet I’ve managed to leave the inside undercooked. And I stupidly forgot to remove the shrimp shells, which I didn’t notice until I had a mouthful of them. I dump my inedible food into the trash.
Wine and bread, I decide, are a suitable dinner, so I open the windows to air out the place and curl up on the sofa with a glass of red wine. It’s cold tonight, but I have to get rid of this smell, and I have no idea how to start a fire in the fireplace. I tear off a piece of sourdough, drink wine, snuggle under a blanket, and stare at the fireplace screen. I’m still crazy enough that I can picture flames. It’s a fun side benefit of my mental issues.
Midway through my second glass, there’s a knock at my front door. Immediately, my stomach drops, and the glass in my hand begins to tremble. I see the imaginary flames in the fireplace double in size and burst toward me. It’s her. She said I was dead to her, but my mother has come after me. I shake my head and clear my thoughts. It cannot be her, and I will not live in a state of constant paranoia.
Sam is at the door with a stack of laundry in his hands. “Are you trying to burn the place down?”
“It’s out. It’s out. I promise.” I look back at the fireplace. Shit. Was that real? No. There are no flames. But maybe there were? My voice is shaky. “I’m sorry.”
“What were you trying to cook?”
“Oh.” He means my burned dinner. My heart rate starts returning to normal. “Steak and shrimp.”
“I can smell it downstairs.” His breath is loaded with alcohol.
“It didn’t go well.” I shuffle my feet. “Did you know that shrimp have shells? They’re clear. It’s kind of deceptive, if you ask me.”
“I did actually. You know”—Sam waves a hand around behind him—“Maine and all.” He doesn’t full on sway, but he’s not acting as though he’s on solid ground either.
“I know. Trust me. I’m embarrassed.”
He holds out his laundry to me. “Here.”
I blink at him. “You…want me to do your laundry?”
“Really?” He rolls his eyes. “They’re for you. Some T-shirts and sweats and jeans. They’ll be too big for you, but you said you don’t have much, so…you might need something to sleep in or whatever. And you can’t go around scrubbing floors in dresses and stuff.”
My face heats up as he gestures to the long dress I have on. I take the stack of clothes from him. “Thank you. This is very sweet.” I fidget with the tag on one of the shirts. “I’m going to order some clothes online tomorrow.”
Sam nods and starts to leave, but then he looks back. “You doin’ okay?”
I nod back. “Yeah, I’m doing okay.”
That night, I sleep in a Red Sox shirt that is three sizes too big, yet it fits perfectly.
IT’S NOT AS THOUGH THE HEAVENS HAVE OPENED UP and doused me in utter ecstasy, but my first two weeks in Maine have given me hope that I can save myself. No one is telling me what to do or how I’m doing it wrong or that I’m hideous and useless and pathetic. No one is clinging to me out of narcissistic need. I’m trying to shake off years of damage, much of it from my family, but I also fault myself for not being stronger. Jay, for instance, and what I allowed him to do to me was sick.
I’m trying to build a new life for myself, one that I choose and I direct, but I’m so paralyzed that I hardly leave the house, except to restock food. I’m a little tired of sandwiches, but I’ll live. My apartment is still almost empty because I haven’t the slightest idea how to decorate it. I don’t know what I like, but I do know that I can’t stand the sight of anything that looks like something my mother might choose.
Every day, I sit in the rather barren living room with my laptop and work on my designs, occasionally hopping on store websites to browse clothes. I’ve nearly bought about a million items before deleting shopping carts. It’s just another example of how I haven’t the slightest clue of who I am outside of the push-and-pull relationship with my mother. And that m
akes me want to vomit. Designing for clients who hire me to create graphics, book covers, banners, and all that—that’s easy. I can do for others. When it comes to figuring out myself, I’m still rather lost.
I take a break to grab some coffee. I don’t care that it’s already seven. I don’t sleep well anyway. Caffeine is the least of my worries.
As I walk to the kitchen, I catch sight of myself in the old mirror hanging by a scraggly piece of twine. Something about my reflection is vile, but I can’t decide what. My hair and makeup are as they always are, and my navy dress and nylons are clean and orderly. Suddenly, I realize how fucking asinine it is that I am still dressing in these preposterous clothes that my mother expected and that I’m spending eons every morning on some stupid beauty routine that only makes me feel worse about myself. I can’t stand to look at myself any longer.
As I stir sugar into my coffee, I become more and more agitated. While still in the kitchen, I pull the dress over my head and yank down my nylons. I stuff them in the trash can, and then I grab scissors from a drawer and head for the bathroom.
The water pressure from the sink is not great, so it takes a while, but I soap up my face and scrub until I can barely breathe under all the water that I’m splashing over my skin. I go through a few cotton balls of makeup remover to get the last of the eyeliner and mascara off, and then I really examine myself as I am—without gobs of shit all over my face. Right now, a stranger is looking back at me, one I’m going to have to get to know. My fingers run over my lips, my eyes, my forehead as I trace my features and feel what it is to be me.
Section by section, I hold handfuls of hair out, and the scissors chop through them. All I care about is getting rid of the weight that has been dragging me down. Dyed auburn locks fall over the sink and the floor, and I don’t stop cutting until my hair is well above my chin. I run wet fingers through it and push it off my face. I start laughing with relief and exhilaration. This is better. My natural dark brown shows through at the roots, and I’m happy.
I dump my makeup bag into the waste bin, but then I think better of losing it all. I refuse to ever again be a slave to those products, but even I can’t argue with putting on a little something now and then. Only if I want, only if it’s fun for me.
After loading a trash bag with all my old clothes, I throw on one of Sam’s sleeveless T-shirts and a pair of his jeans. I have to roll the legs and the waist, so I can walk without tripping, and my bra is totally showing on the sides, but I am so beyond comfortable that I don’t mind how kooky I might look. It’s now become imperative that I buy some clothes that fit me, so I’m going to have to go shopping tomorrow. With glee, I decide I want ninety pairs of jeans. I don’t think I’ve worn jeans since I was a kid, and I plan to make up for that.
It’s after eight when I hear Sam’s truck rumble up to the house. I’ve barely seen him, but the sound stops me in my tracks every time he comes home. I’ve resisted my constant urge to race out of the house to catch sight of him. It’s not as though he’s given me the slightest indication that he wants any sort of friendship. Sometimes, I hear his music playing downstairs, and I’ll lie on the floor and press my ear to the wood, trying to hear what he listens to. Maybe then I can find out who he is, why he’s so angry.
I miss him, which is crazy and not based on reason, but I do.
The sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs is reassuring, and I wait to hear his front door slam. Instead, the footsteps continue, and then he knocks on my door. The second that I open it, he walks in with two large paper bags in his arms, and he goes right to the kitchen. I stand, dumbfounded, while he begins unpacking the contents onto my counter, and then he adds water to a large pot that he brought.
When I get to the kitchen, he’s got a burner going, and he is chopping an onion.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” Sam keeps chopping. “Do you want to open that wine for me?” His elbow juts out to a bottle by the stove.
The corkscrew shakes in my hand a bit, but I manage to get the cork out. I set down the bottle and stare at him until he looks at me.
“What?” he asks all innocently.
I keep staring.
“I’m cooking you things with shells. Steamed clams and mussels in a tomato-wine broth and then two lobsters.”
I bite my lip and try not to smile. Sam, however, gives in and shows me the first smile I’ve seen on him. It looks good.
I cross my arms. “What if I’ve already eaten dinner?”
“Have you?”
“Well, no,” I admit.
“Because you were too busy cutting your hair?”
Shit. Shit! I forgot. He probably thinks I look atrocious. “Are you making fun of me?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. Short hair suits you. And…” His eyes travel over my face. “I like the new look. You don’t need all that makeup.”
“It wasn’t really me anyway.”
He smashes garlic with the side of the knife and then locates another good-sized pot under the counter. After a few minutes, he asks, “So, what is you?”
It’s a simple question really and one I should be able to answer without my head swirling as I struggle to find a response. The room grows fuzzy in front of me, and I feel my anxiety level climb. “I don’t know. I have no idea. I threw out all my clothes and don’t know what to buy. I can’t decorate the apartment because I don’t know what I like.” I can hear my voice rising along with my panicked diatribe. “I don’t even know if I’ll like what you’re cooking because I’ve only had stuffed clams once at some stupid goddamn social affair that my fucking insane mother made me go to, and I couldn’t even taste anything I was eating. I never taste anything. When I was out with my mother, she’d watch everything I ate. She often told me what I could and couldn’t eat, what I liked and what I didn’t. It was that way with everything—everything—until it got to where I truly had no idea what I liked and didn’t. What I felt. What I saw. Who I was. Then, the other night, when I had clam chowder for the first time at your parents’ inn, I actually got to really taste something and like it, all on my own. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but that was the first time I remember enjoying food, and it was probably a fluke. Something is wrong with me if I don’t know what I like, and what if you make this and—”
“Breathe,” he says calmly as he adds oil and the chopped garlic to the small pot.
“And why are you cooking dinner like that’s a normal thing to do? You just march in here after barely speaking to me and act all blasé and cool? You don’t even really remember much about when we met, do you? That day? It was a big day for me, and it was probably nothing to you, which I get. Why would it be?”
“You didn’t breathe.” He catches a tomato that almost rolled off the counter and then expertly begins dicing it.
I inhale and exhale dramatically. “Happy?”
Sam adds the tomato, sending a burst of steam into the air, and the smell immediately fills the room. For a few minutes, he just cooks as though I’m not there, as though I have not just blurted out monstrously huge and weird shit. But I can see that he is thinking. Then, he puts down the knife and faces me while I swim in confusion across from him.
He runs his hands through his hair a few times. “I’ve been an asshole. I’m sorry.” Now, he’s the one who takes a big breath, but he maintains eye contact while he blows me away with his words. “You up and ditched an entire life in Chicago, which is a big goddamn deal. I don’t know what you left behind, but it was some pile of shit, I’m guessing.” He looks away and busies himself with rummaging through a drawer.
I watch him take mussels and clams from a netted bag, and he washes them under the tap.
“I’m glad you’re doing something for yourself. Healing.” He pauses. “We should all be as smart as you are. As strong. You’re pretty tough, you know that?”
In the few moments it takes Sam to say these words, he undoes so many knots of unhappiness that have been twisting inside
me for years.
I also realize that this is a boy who knows deep pain.
We stand side by side in the kitchen for the next half an hour, our arms occasionally brushing while we cook, with no further discussion. Sam teaches me that mussels and clams are done when their shells are fully open, and we throw out a few that stay closed. I laugh when he takes the live lobsters out of a bag and strokes one with a finger, causing it to go limp.
“See? You can put them to sleep. You know, before you really put them to sleep.” He winks and drops one into the pot that has a few inches of boiling water. “You do the next one,” he insists.
I scream and whine as I hold the lobster as far away from my body as possible. Then, with half-shut eyes, I fling it into the pot. Sam claps the lid down.
Since I don’t have a proper dining room table—or maybe as an excuse to stay close to him in the cramped kitchen—I suggest we just eat in here. I hop onto the counter while Sam pours the clams and mussels from the steaming pot into a large bowl. He rips off a piece of bread and dunks it into the aromatic broth. Then, he cups his hand under the dripping bread as he lifts it to my mouth.
“Good, right? This isn’t that farm-raised shit. This is the real thing, straight from the ocean.”
I groan and nod. I get that same salty depth that I got from the clam chowder I had at the inn. That reminds me that I’ve been avoiding stopping in to see Sam’s mom, Felicia. I didn’t know how to explain that Sam had not been particularly friendly. Well, until now.
“Is it really good, or are you just saying that?” he asks.
“It’s delicious. For real.” It is. I can taste and smell as I never have. It’s as though my body is coming alive in all new ways.
“Intense, huh? Now, try this.” He scrapes a clam loose and hands me the shell. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. Some people are weirded out by the texture.”
I shake my head as I swallow. “No, it’s so good.”
Next, I greedily devour three more clams as if I haven’t eaten in years. I can’t get enough of the briny taste. The mussels are just as good—a smokier taste but wonderful. We pull out the meat and toss our empty shells across the room, making baskets into the trash bin.
