We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  Part of me wonders what Cooper’s “thing” is.

  “It’s sort of a weird job,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Dog walking, I mean.”

  Cooper looks at me, still holding tight to Samson’s collar. “How so?”

  “It’s just sort of weird how people get these animals, knowing they can’t take care of them, but it’s okay because there’s this whole system that will take care of their pet for them.”

  “So, I’m part of the system?” Cooper asks me.

  “Everyone is,” I say. “You. The dogs. The owners. It’s like this big system designed to let people have what they want without any responsibility.”

  “Maybe they realize they aren’t the best ones to take care of their dogs,” Cooper says.

  “Then why get them?” I ask. “Why have something if you’re not going to take care of it?”

  Cooper shrugs. “Probably some of them mean well, but at some point, they realize they just can’t.”

  “Can’t?” I ask. “Or won’t?”

  Cooper sighs. “Both, probably.”

  “So when they’re just too much of a hassle or it gets inconvenient, or maybe the dog makes a mistake, they just dump her on someone else?”

  Too late, I realize I just said her. Cooper looks at me for a long moment, and I feel like I did when he knew it was me wearing the costume. That he knows me just by looking at me.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to go off.”

  “I like people who aren’t afraid to say what they’re thinking,” Cooper says. He smiles at me for a moment before turning his attention back to the dogs. Cooper gives a whistle, which the dogs must recognize, because all of them except the basset hound come over.

  “Will you go get him?” Cooper asks, taking the multileash from me. “He’s a little deaf.”

  I walk over to the basset hound, who has his back turned to me. I put my hand out and touch him softly on the back so I don’t startle him, but he jumps anyway. He turns and stares at me with his mournful eyes, and then he gets up and follows me, trusting I’ll take him where he needs to go. I walk back to where Cooper is trying to hold Samson with one hand while clipping all the other dogs to the leash. I help him by holding on to Samson, who must have tired himself out, because he’s acting mostly normal.

  Waffles sits on my foot again while we wait for Cooper to finish clicking all the dogs in. I look down at Waffles and think about how he likes me without even knowing me. And I wonder if he did know me, would he still like me? Maybe, I think. Dogs just do that. But people?

  I glance at Cooper out of the corner of my eye, but he’s staring at the mass of dogs swirling in front of us. I wonder if he really knew me, knew what was inside, would he still like me? With dogs, you pretty much get what you see. I used to think people were the same way, but now I think most people are really two people—the person on the inside that we keep hidden, and the person on the outside that we dress up and fix up and show to the world as a form of protection.

  Sometimes I feel like the person on the inside of me is just going to fade away and all I’ll be left with is a hollow shell.

  Chapter Nine

  There’s a note on the kitchen counter when I get back to my grandmother’s apartment.

  Your father called.

  I check my cell, thinking I might not have heard it ring with all the barking, but there are no missed calls. Photos, yes. Words, no.

  I sit down in Veronica’s reading chair by the window. From where I’m sitting, there’s a pretty good view of the building next to us. I stand up and press my forehead against the glass; all I can see is the edge of the alley that separates Veronica’s building from the one next to it. I unlatch the window and try to raise it. I’m not really expecting it to move as I pull it, but it does, and I lean out in an attempt to see anything else. With my head out, I can view more of the alleyway—a dumpster and trash, and a chair with only three legs. To the left, there’s just more alleyway and a thin strip of light where it ends in the next street, but when I turn to the right, I smile. If I lean a little farther out, I can see the Brooklyn Bridge and a tiny slice of water. For some reason, seeing that makes me happy, like there’s something bigger beyond this apartment and this building and this block. Something bigger beyond me.

  There’s a noise behind me. I pull my head in and look.

  “What are you doing?” Veronica is standing in the doorway, her keys clutched in one hand and her purse in the other. She looks very pale.

  “Did you know you can see the bridge from here?” I ask. I poke my head back out and look right again. Soon there are footsteps behind me. I pull my head back in and look at my grandmother, who looks even worse up close. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “You were just looking at the view?” Veronica asks. Her voice trembles a little.

  “What did you think I was doing?” I ask.

  Her eyes flood with tears. I open my mouth to say something more, but she’s already turning away from me, brushing at her cheeks. I look down at the alleyway far below me and then I walk into the kitchen, where Veronica is filling up the kettle at the sink.

  “I was just looking at the view,” I confirm.

  “Of course you were,” Veronica says, putting the kettle on the stove. Her voice is calm, but her hand is shaking slightly, making the water in the kettle slosh against its sides.

  “I’m not a threat to myself or others,” I say, attempting to joke with her.

  “Of course you aren’t.” She looks at me, uncertainty in her eyes. It makes me wonder what my father told her. But then her mask slips back into place. Whatever she was thinking or feeling is buried again.

  “Do you want some tea?” she asks, taking two cups from the cabinet without waiting for an answer.

  “Yes,” I say. “Please.”

  She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the mask slip just a tiny bit again, but she gives herself a little shake, like she’s reminding herself to keep it together. The gesture seems familiar, and I realize it’s the same move my mother developed last year. Like she was a snow globe that needed to keep the snow swirling enough to hide what was inside.

  “I’m going to go freshen up,” Veronica says. “Will you keep an eye on the kettle?”

  I say I will and watch her walk out of the kitchen and down the hall toward her room. She pulls the door shut behind her. When the kettle whistles, I pour the steaming water into the teapot she has waiting on the counter. I wait for a few minutes, but when Veronica doesn’t come back, I walk over to her closed door. I lift my hand to knock, to tell her that the tea’s ready, but a noise from within stops me. I lean in a little and listen, then I pull back and quietly walk back to the kitchen.

  When I crawl into bed hours later, exhausted from the day, I can still hear the sounds echoing in my head.

  The sound of crying behind a closed door.

  Even though I want to hear Sarah play and even though I know Cooper will be there, I try to get out of going to The Wall. Fig tells me it will be dark. No, not pitch black. And that hardly anyone will be there. Manhattan hardly anyone. Not Downeast Maine hardly anyone. I tell Fig my grandmother might need me, but Fig has Nonna call Veronica and get her okay, which, truthfully, I probably had all along. Finally, Fig corners me in the cooler when I go in to get Joey more jam.

  “What’s really going on, Mia?” she asks. She stands in the open doorway with her arms folded. I look at the jar of strawberry jam I’m holding, thinking.

  “Close the door!” Grace shouts at us as she walks through. I start to go past Fig and out into the kitchen, but Fig just pulls the door closed behind her, shutting us both in.

  “Tell me,” she says. I keep turning the jar in my hands, watching the pieces of strawberry shift inside. “If you don’t want to hang out with us, just say it.”

  That makes me look up. She’s staring at the stacks of cheese just behind me. “Fig,” I say. “Look at me.” She moves her gaze to my face.
<
br />   “Okay,” she says when I don’t say anything.

  “No,” I say. “Really look at my face.” I turn my head to the left, so the whole right side of my face is toward her.

  “Mia, I know,” she says quietly.

  “Do you?” I ask. “Do you really know what it’s like to have people stare at you?”

  “Yeah,” she says softly. “I do.” Something about the way she says it makes me pause. We stand there looking at each other for a few moments before Grace yanks the door open.

  “Break’s over, ladies,” she says. She holds the door open for us as we walk back into the kitchen.

  I head toward the door, to where Joey is waiting for the jam. Fig puts a hand on my arm. I look over at her. “Just come,” she says.

  Fig was right about one thing: the coffee house is dark. But she was hugely wrong about one thing. There aren’t “like seven” people there as she said. More like seven hundred. I say this to her. She gives me a look.

  “Okay, more like two hundred,” I say.

  “Mia, there are probably like forty people here. Tops.” She hands me a mug of coffee, nodding toward the counter that contains pitchers of milk and packets of sugar and eco-friendly napkins. I walk over and I stand there, looking at all the options. I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker.

  Fig joins me and shakes some sugar into her mug and adds a stream of milk. I take a sip from my mug and make a face. “Here.” She hands me the milk. I add enough to make the black coffee turn tan. “And here,” she says, handing me a packet of raw sugar. I pour it in and stir.

  I take another sip. Better, but still pretty nasty. “It’s so bitter,” I say.

  “You get used to it,” she says.

  “Doesn’t that seem sort of twisted?” I ask. “You drink something foul until you get used to the taste?”

  “Ah, the irony of being a grown-up,” Fig says. “You do things that you don’t like until you do like them, and then you complain that you can’t stop.”

  We walk toward an empty table off to one side. “It’s the same with beer,” I say, thinking of the one beer I’ve ever had.

  “Beer?” she asks. She looks at me funny. Instantly, I regret mentioning it.

  “One,” I say.

  She nods. “You didn’t seem like the type.”

  “The beer-drinking type?” I ask.

  She shrugs and takes a sip from her mug. “A partier,” she says.

  “I’m definitely not a partier,” I respond, thinking of the one and only party I’ve ever been to.

  A guy in tight black jeans and black Chucks steps onto the stage. He starts rearranging stools and microphones and random boxes full of extra mugs and bags of coffee and reams of napkins.

  Fig waves at Sebastian, who has just walked in. He smiles over at us. “Be right back,” she says.

  She joins him at the counter, and he puts his hand on the middle of her back while they stand there. Seeing that makes my heart ache. Hardly anyone’s really touched me in almost a year, other than a couple of perfunctory hugs and pats from my parents. I’m untouchable.

  Sebastian and Fig walk over. He sets his mug on the table and grins at me. “I’m glad you decided to come.” The way he says it makes me know he and Fig talked about how I was trying to get out of coming tonight.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I say, looking over at Fig. She takes a sip of her coffee, but her eyes are smiling at me.

  Sebastian sits next to Fig and puts his arm around her chair. He’s not actually touching her, but I still feel the same bump in my heart.

  “Have you seen Sarah yet?” Sebastian asks.

  Fig shakes her head. “You know how she is.”

  Sebastian looks at me. “She has stage fright. Bad.” I tilt my head at this. “I mean puking, hyperventilating bad.”

  “Then why does she do it?” I ask.

  Sebastian looks at me for a long moment. “Did you bring your camera tonight?”

  “I did,” I say.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because—” I begin, not sure how to answer.

  He smiles at me. “Exactly. Because you have to. Because your photography is a part of you.” I nod slowly. “Even if it was hard for you to take photos, you still would.” I nod again, thinking, if only he knew how hard. “It’s like a fire shut up in your bones.”

  Fig shakes her head. “He’s just quoting Cooper,” she says.

  “It’s not like Cooper made that up,” Sebastian complains.

  The guy on the stage taps the microphone, silencing everyone. “Welcome to Open Mic Night,” he says. A few people clap. “First up, Tyler White.” A burst of applause from a table on the other side of the room makes me jump.

  Fig rolls her eyes. “Tyler White is such a poser.”

  “Hipster doofus,” Sebastian says.

  Tyler White steps onto the stage and stands silently in front of the microphone. Then he begins chanting. It’s not English.

  “Romulan,” Sebastian says. I shake my head, confused. “As in Star Trek.”

  Fig shakes her head. “Poser.” I nod. We have to endure nearly ten minutes of Tyler. After the chanting comes poetry. Original. Bad.

  “Okay,” the emcee guy says, taking the stage again. “Let’s hear it for Tyler White.”

  The table near the back erupts with whistles and clapping. I turn and see a whole table filled with Tyler clones, both male and female.

  The emcee guy clears his throat and the table settles down. “Next up is Sarah Callum.”

  He steps away from the mic as Sarah walks forward from the other side of the stage with a guitar clutched in one hand. She looks very pale and very small. I pull my camera out. switch it on, and make sure the flash is off. Sarah stands in front of the microphone and closes her eyes. I look over at the opposite wall and see Cooper standing there. His eyes meet mine, and then he looks back at Sarah, who is still standing silently in front of the microphone with her eyes still closed. I zoom in and click once, twice, then turn my camera off. She shifts her guitar and strums a chord, and then she leans toward the microphone.

  Her singing is breathless and soft. The lyrics are of home and love. Then they turn dark, and her words are of loss and pain. But at the end, she repeats the same phrase a bit softer each time until it’s little more than a whisper.

  Then we were beautiful.

  Then we were beautiful.

  Sarah steps away from the microphone. The only sound is the hiss of the milk steamer and the steady rumble of cars driving past. Sarah walks to the edge of the stage. Fig is the first on her feet, clapping. Sebastian and I both follow. Then one by one, people all around us are standing and clapping. Even the barista has stopped making coffee and is clapping. I’m surprised to see tears on Fig’s cheeks. And more surprised to feel them on my own.

  Chapter Ten

  My dad left first. He signed up for advanced ballistics training last fall, training that my mother said he didn’t even need. I was back in the hospital at that point for another surgery. He came in to tell me he was going. Talked to me while he looked at the floor, out the window, at the machine dripping saline into my arm. He never looked at me, even when he said he’d miss me and patted my leg through the thin blanket. He called a lot during that trip, almost every night. I was only in the hospital for two days that time, so I was home for most of them. Sometimes he and my mother would be on the phone a long time, but sometimes she’d just hand the phone to me. It was hard with him gone. The house was too big. The rooms too empty.

  But it was worse when he got back. We’re not yellers in my family; we’re stuffers. We just push down whatever is bothering us. The problem is when you’re too full and you keep pushing. It’s like a garbage bag bursting. All the trash spews out and goes all over everything.

  I remember the day the bag burst.

  They stood in the hallway—my father at one end, my mother at the other. Framed photos of our family hung on the walls between them. They thought I was out
walking, but I sat on my bed, the teddy bear I’ve had since I was two years old clutched in my arms.

  “I just can’t do it anymore!” my mother said, her voice hard and low.

  “What?” my father asked. “Be married? Be a mother?” I held my breath and closed my eyes.

  “Yes,” my mother said softly.

  “Yes, to which?” my father asked.

  “Both,” my mother said. I felt the heat behind them. “I’m sorry, David,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. The whispering was worse.

  “Is that what you’re going to tell Mia?” my father asked. “That you’re sorry?”

  My mother didn’t respond. I breathed deeply, smelling the antiseptic they’d sprayed on my bear so I could keep him with me in the hospital.

  “What am I supposed to do?” my mother finally asked.

  “You’re supposed to keep going,” my father said. “Just like the rest of us.”

  “David,” my mother said, slowly. “I can’t. It just hurts too much.”

  “You’re not the only one hurting, Kate.”

  A loon called from the lake behind our house. A warning trill. The machine gun call of danger. I touched the long scar along my cheek, drawing my finger down the length of it.

  “I know,” my mother said quietly. “I know you’re hurting too.” I held the heart-shaped locket that hung on my neck, fingered the clasp on the side. Rachel had told me that I had to fill it myself. Fill it with something that gives you joy, she said.

  “What about Mia?” my father asked. “You’re just going to leave her?” I held my breath.

  “David,” my mother said, so low I could barely hear. “I can’t take her with me.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?” my father asked.

  The loon’s call sounded again. Sharper, more frantic.

  “Both,” my mother said.

  “You tell her,” my father said. I heard his footsteps retreating down the hall, then the front door opening and shutting, and finally the sound of his truck’s engine and the tires on gravel.