by Rachel Cohn
“So far it sounds amazing,” I said.
“I like your sense of humor, Lily. And your way with a dog.” We crossed the busy road to a path along a park that ran beside a river. “I’ve told you the not-lovely parts about Twickenham. Here are the wonderful ones. Parks. The Thames. It’s not the quaint version of England you might have imagined. But Twickenham has its quirks.”
One of those quirks was sitting on a park bench. “Who’s that?” I asked.
It was a disarmingly lifelike statue of a lady, seated with a book on her lap and a hat by her side. “Poor dear Virginia Woolf,” said Jane Douglas. “She was hospitalized at a nursing home for women with mental disorders here in Twickenham. There’s a proposal for a permanent statue of her to be erected here, but the funds haven’t been approved. A local artist made this mock statue from Styrofoam, to show what the statue could look like.” Quotes from Virginia Woolf were painted on large rocks situated on the pavement below her feet.
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Books are the mirrors of the soul.
I thought, of course, of Dash. I thought of how lost he seemed to have felt lately.
And I thought, I know exactly what I’m doing with my life. I don’t know how I’m going to do it—or if Pembroke will be the place—but I know with certainty: I want a career working with dogs. I didn’t want to go to Barnard.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
What could be a more wild and precious life than one working with dogs and living near Dash? Why should I wait on that until I finished college? That was the life I wanted, now. So what if the school was in someone’s living room? I didn’t need to be rich or famous or fabulous and I didn’t need a prestigious education to please my parents. I needed to please myself.
Life is so hard. I see it everywhere. I see the homeless people on the street. I see how tragically humans have hurt the earth. How terribly they hurt each other. I also knew how lucky I was. I wouldn’t take my privilege for granted.
Truth be told, my parents would prefer me to break up with Dash, even though they like him well enough. You’re too young to know what you want, they’re always saying. To which I say … Really? Over his parents’ objections, my great-uncle Sal married his high school sweetheart when they were just eighteen, and they’ve been together for over fifty years now, and they have four children, nine grandchildren, great-grand-twins on the way, and a house on the Jersey shore that’s always too crowded but also always brimming with love and laughter. I think they knew exactly what they were doing when they were eighteen.
And suddenly, as I looked at Styrofoam Virginia Woolf, I had a vision of what my future could be. It was just a flash, but it was a certainty. My future, at least right now, was here in England. Dreary, odd, wonderful Britain. With my dreary, odd, wonderful Dash.
And the Pembroke Canine Facilitator Institute was quite possibly where I’d forge that future. On the train back to London, I composed that Christmas present Mom requested, and CC’d her on the email.
Dear Professor Garvey:
Thank you for your kind invitation to meet me and talk about my courses at Barnard. I’m sure you have amazing insights and I’m truly grateful for your offer. However, I have decided not to go to Barnard after all. I hope someone who really wants to go there will get my place instead. That’s who should have it: someone who actually wants it. Turns out, what I want right now is not in New York at all.
Yours sincerely,
Lily
After I hit Send, I made a hotel reservation for the rest of my stay in London. Like an Actual Adult.
I couldn’t wait to return to the city and see Dash and tell him the news. Him! Me! Together in England! But just as I was about to text him, he texted me a photo of a Christmas tree standing in snow-covered Central Park and this message: I can’t wait to go home to New York.
eight
December 21st and December 22th
I wandered for hours until I found my way home.
I plunged headlong into the streets without a phone to guide me. I was no longer in the forest, but I was in a different kind of forest, weaving through the canopy of concrete and glass, largely silent as the night narrowed into sleeping hours.
This was something I loved to do in New York; I’d much rather walk fifty blocks home than entrap myself in the sweaty subway. But in Manhattan I had mastery of the grid, whereas in London I was confounded. I knew the sensation of wandering in the city but not the city itself; I was in a different version of the familiar world, geography in an idiosyncratic translation. Instead of going into a pub and asking for a bit of charge, I decided to feel my way, consulting the rare map that appeared along the side of the road, more for daytime tourists than nighttime wanderers. I knew I had to make it to the river, and eventually I did. Then all I needed to do was make my way to the other side.
By the time I got to the Millennium Bridge, there were still a few late-night carousers around—drunkards wobbling from their ale-ments, couples huddling close to keep their relationships warm, every now and then a fellow fellow dressed to the nines well after twelve. I let them all drift past me like ghosts while I focused on my own materiality, on feeling that I could anchor myself amidst the wideness of this world. On the larger scale, I had no idea where I was going. So best to focus smaller-scale, to know that Gem’s town house was my next and best destination.
Still, I didn’t go there directly. Even as I made it to the southern side of the Thames, I let my path diverge so I could stay solitary for a little bit longer. What better way is there to clear your head than to stroll in a normally crowded space that’s now empty of all people?
I needed that aloneness … and then I needed to return from it.
I texted Lily as soon as my phone’s charge had returned, and I left a note of apology for Gem on the kitchen table before crashing to a largely dreamless slumber. I awoke the next morning to Gem in my doorway, saying, “Dash, I think we need to have a conversation about manners.”
“I’m sorry,” I said before opening my eyes. “My spirits died, and my phone followed suit. So I went for a wander.”
“I certainly admire the impulse, but I have some quibbles with the methodology.” I opened my eyes and saw her looking around my room. “But at least you hung up your suit rather than sleep in it. This speaks to a certain sobriety.”
“The only elixir to pass my lips was solitude,” I assured her.
“Be careful you don’t drink too much of that,” Gem warned. “It needs to be balanced by a rich diet of fine company. Otherwise, the benders can be cruel.”
“Today shall be dedicated to fine company,” I promised. “Starting, ending, and in-betweening with Lily.”
“Is she up?”
“I haven’t sent my owl over to check.” In truth, I didn’t even know where she was staying, although I assumed it was with despicable Mark.
“Well, if she is, invite her over for breakfast. The British have done this wonderful thing where they’ve taken guacamole out of the realm of corn chips and put it on toast.”
“It’s also beloved by young Americans, I’m told.”
“How appropriate. Every time I take a bite, I recall Bowie, circa Young Americans. And I think, Somebody up there likes me.”
Before I texted Lily again, I opened her Advent calendar and found an exhortation from Mary Oliver:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
It was a very good question, and rather than try to answer it alone, I wanted Lily’s help.
Shuffling into the kitchen, I sent my message and discovered she wasn’t free until after lunch. Mercifully, she was willing to break from Mark’s feat of literary control-freakery, so we’d be able to wander our own way. (I imagined Sir Ian nodding at this decision.)
Gem seemed
disappointed that Lily wasn’t able to join us for our morning repast, but she took it in stride and went into the parlor to put Young Americans on the turntable. We started to sing along to “Fame” together, me somehow understanding how trapped Bowie felt even though I wasn’t remotely famous. Then something tragic occurred—the record gashed itself into a nasty skip, and an already repetitive song got stuck in a rut.
“That’s not good,” Gem said as Bowie sang I reject you first over and over.
Gem pulled the needle from the damage done, and put on Bowie’s Low as a salve. Returning to the kitchen, she said, “You’ll have to run to FOPP to pick up a new copy. I’d do it myself, but I’ve pledged myself to Liberty for the day. I’m not sure they’d be able to make it through the holiday season without me.”
I headed off to the shower (British showers being a somber drip as opposed to a turbo jet), continuing the “Fame” chorus even though the high notes weren’t ones I could reach (not even in the shower).
Perhaps it was the thoughts of fame, or maybe it was because my brain had already been wired against my will to pick up my phone the instant I had a free moment. Whatever the case, my mind went back to the notion that Lily had made herself a presence on the internet—a presence I’d never detected myself. So after clothing myself and seeing Gem off into the day, I went onto Lily’s dog-walker Instagram.
I didn’t know why I’d never checked it before. I’d been assuming it was utilitarian, the equivalent of a copy-center-multiplied flyer that you’d put up on supermarket bulletin boards. I didn’t think there’d be photos—which I immediately conceded was a complete failure of my imagination: I knew this culture, so I should have known that something involving dogs would also involve photos. Give the people what they like, right? Dogs playing chess. Dogs dressed as hamburgers. Dogs walking into refrigerator doors, then coming back and walking into them all over again.
But that wasn’t what her Instagram was like. There were dog photos for sure. But the dogs were never alone. They were always, always joined by Lily. Lily beaming as a Jack Russell terrier tries to run up a slide. Lily managing to keep four bulldogs leashed and happy as they pass under the Washington Square Arch. Lily tenderly coaxing a Chihuahua out of a tree. These weren’t selfies. And they weren’t posed. Lily seemed aware of the camera, but mostly she was aware of the dogs. These photos were posted by other people. Which meant that other people knew who Lily was, and where to tag her.
Which meant that Lily was a celebrity.
Maybe not a major celebrity. But definitely a New York celebrity, which was its own kind of celebrity. The pimple doctor who advertised on the subway. The mayor’s third mistress, who seduced the mayor’s fourth mistress as an act of revenge. The hairdresser who went a little crazy and shaved his initials into the back of his client’s necks, which was only noticed weeks later. Of course, the initials soon became a status symbol, and rich people paid hundreds of dollars extra to be thus defaced.
And not only was Lily a New York celebrity—she seemed aware of it. Her Instagram led to her dog-walking website. And on her website there was a button marked SHOP. This was where the doggy raincoats could be found. And the doggy sweaters. And the doggy beanies. Not to mention Lily-branded pooper scoopers.
“This is unreal,” I said out loud, because apparently I couldn’t keep it inside.
It wasn’t like I thought Lily was dig-nostic or e-theist. I knew she was on social media. But I’d kinda thought it was so she could see her friends’ cat photos or to donate to strangers’ kidney drives. In other words, I figured she was on it to see things. Not to be seen.
But that wasn’t what this looked like.
I knew I should have been proud of her. I’d known her dog-walking business was a success—but this took it to a whole new level. And even though I fought against it, what I felt when I realized this was … loss. I’d thought we were nobodies together. But now I was seeing a somebody. And there was no trace of me anywhere near her.
I scrolled back to the start, but all I found were dogs. Lily, dog, and New York City. I found myself running to her Facebook profile for consolation, because there we were, right in the profile picture, on a blanket in Bryant Park for a free summer viewing of Booksmart. We were both cracking up—instead of asking us to say cheese, our friend Boomer, behind the camera, had yelled out different kinds of cheese himself, taking picture after picture as he cried “Jarlsberg!” and “Pepper Jack!” and “Havarti!” to the heavens until we were having a conniption, mostly at the reaction of the hipster hordes around us, despairing at something so cheesy.
Even as I headed out to wander the streets of London, I kept riding Lily’s time machine back to New York. While I walked over the Thames, I thought about the Hudson. While I made my way up the Strand, I thought about navigating aisles of the Strand. As I stopped by Piccadilly Circus, I was reminded of the circus of Times Square. And while I didn’t feel any tenderness toward Times Square itself, I did feel tenderness toward the way its lights would bathe Lily in different colors as she beheld the dazzle of the display. Where I saw crowds, she saw congregations. Where I saw light pollution, she saw light shows. Seeing the place through her eyes didn’t bring it to life for me, but it gave it a humanity that I wouldn’t normally grant it. And feeling the humanity of the city around you always makes it feel more like home.
I made my way to the Waterstones flagship, knowing that a bookstore in any city could feel like home. Waterstones did not disappoint. But even as I retreated into the comfort of shelf-talkers telling me which titles various booksellers had recommended, I still felt too much of a remove from the city of my heartbeat. In rushing off to Oxford for a more formal education, had I stepped too far from all the things that New York had taught me? I’d been happy enough to move away from my parents, but weren’t Lily and Boomer and Dov and Yohnny and Sofia and all my other friends part of my family as well?
I can’t wait to go home to New York, I texted Lily. Then I added, It’s been too long.
When I didn’t get an immediate response, I reached out further.
In the meantime, be a Young American with me.
Then I sent her the link to FOPP’s closest location.
If our hard drives are ever wiped out by an electrical pulse, a place like FOPP will be indispensible for the restoration of our culture. Records lined the walls and both CDs and DVDs lined the aisles. In other words, it was a haven for those of us who wished we were back in 1994. Beneath people’s parkas there were plentiful glimpses of flannel and band T-shirts. All of the staff members looked like they played in bands, or at the very least did light design for bands. Stevie Wonder sang from the rafters, signed, sealed, and delivered straight into our hearts. I couldn’t think of any better ode to joy for this holiday season.
From what I could tell, Gem’s record collection went no later than the later works of George Michael, so while I waited for Lily, I picked out some Decemberist and National records for her Christmas present. Then I went over to Bowie and found a pristine remaster of Young Americans. As I flipped through all of his albums, his glance traveled around the room—eyes up, eyes down, side glance, straight-on stare. It was as if he never wanted to be photographed the same way twice. Here was a person of his own invention. I had to admire that, and wonder how I could get there myself.
“I once had a babysitter who would show us Labyrinth every time she came over,” Lily’s voice said from somewhere close behind me. “I was never sure whether David Bowie was a Muppet or a god. I didn’t know he was a singer until Langston started getting into his music. When I asked him what he was listening to, he showed me the album, and I said, ‘Oh! The guy from Labyrinth!’ He thought that was hysterical.”
I turned around and gave her a kiss. Then I said, “Gee, my life’s a funny thing.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Oh,” I said. I held up Young Americans. “It’s from the title song.”
“I guess I have some catching up to do.”
She started sifting through the records in the row next to Bowie’s. The song overhead shifted to “Wonderwall.” Her face lit up. “Oh,” she said, “I know this one. And love it. Though I still don’t really know what a wonderwall is.”
“That’s what’s so perfect about it,” I told her. “He’s made up this whole word for how he feels about the person he loves. The line before it, saying maybe you’ll be the one to save me, is what defines wonderwall.”
“Well, in that case, you’re my … songloop.”
“And you, Lily, are my joypill.”
We flipped through records some more.
Casually, I said, “I saw your Instagram.”
She kept flipping through the Bs and Cs. “I haven’t posted anything in days. It’s the same as last week.”
“Yeah. But that’s kinda what I’m trying to say. I’ve never actually looked at it before.”
Lily picked up a Brandi Carlile record, then put it back. She looked Brandi in the eye, not me, when she said, “Okay …”
It was starting to feel like a mistake to bring this up. I said, “It’s not that I wasn’t interested in you. You see that, right? It was because I was interested in you.”
This got Lily to look at me. “You didn’t check my Instagram because you were interested in me?”
“I’m interested in the in-person version of you,” I explained. “Not the … creation that’s on there.”
This was not the right thing to say.
“How is that creation not me?”
“No! It is you! I know that. But it’s not—” I stopped myself.
“It’s not what?”
“It’s not the you I love.”
Triple-wrong thing to say.
Lily put the Brandi Carlile record back, then faced me fully. “Dash, I know you think you’re better than the internet. There’s a part of me that absolutely loves the fact that you want to write letters instead of emailing, and hold off on seeing each other until we can actually see each other face to face. But when this Dash comes out, the one who can only see me if he’s looking down his nose at me—well, let me put it this way: That is not the Dash I love.”
