The tunnel stretches long and narrow, with a low ceiling and walls painted in mountain scenes that pale in comparison to the real thing above my head. For someone my height, the tunnel should feel claustrophobic. But this is a journey I took often as a kid and then again as a young adult, just beginning my teaching career.
When I enter the school, I pass by the indoor playground and glance inside—empty, except for a vision of Leilani, swinging on the monkey bars. Her giggles follow me to the hydroponic gardens, where the air is warm, tangy with vegetation, and heavy with humidity. It was once a small setup of buckets and lights and has grown now to include a flood table with a floating platform that the kids built themselves. I know this because there are pictures throughout the space of the kids gardening and building the new system. I’m in some of the pictures too. It’s nice to know I had a hand in helping and being a part of its growth.
My phone buzzes. School Garden: water temp, prune, mist.
I take off my flannel shirt and hang it on the back of the door. Already I’m sweating from the added heat in the room, but it’s a perfect temperature for the plants.
“Can I help again?”
I turn to the voice. A girl stands in the doorway, her backpack slung around so that she’s wearing it with the bulky part resting against her chest. Across the front of the backpack is a strip of silver duct tape, and written in thick black letters on the tape is a name, “Maree.” Her words tell me that she’s helped me in the garden before, so we know each other. How well, I’m not sure, but her smile tugs gently at my heart. I’ve always had a soft spot for kids.
“You bet,” I say. “This garden belongs to you kids, anyway. I just help when I can.”
“Okay, but are you sure you want me to help?”
The way she says it, like we are familiar with each other, makes me pause. I have no context for what she might mean. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Yay!” she cheers and sets her backpack on the ground before skipping to my side. On her shirt is another strip of silver duct tape that reads “Maree.” She licks her lips, claps her hands, and stares at the rows of plants. “What are we doing?”
“Didn’t you say you helped me before?”
She makes a funny face. “Yep, but you were almost done, and it was a while ago, and maybe I wasn’t listening so great.” She holds her hands out, palms up, and shrugs. “Sorry.”
A buzz from my phone. School Garden: water temp, prune, mist.
“Well, let’s get started, and this time maybe try to listen a bit harder.” I smile, run a hand through my hair, and turn to the garden, check the water temp. The girl is staring at me, frowning, so I point to the thermometer reading. “The temperature needs to stay between sixty-five and eighty degrees.” Her mouth hangs open slightly. “Do you know how a hydroponic garden works?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Have you ever grown a plant yourself?”
“My dad gave me a little pot that had dirt and seeds to grow a sunflower. I just had to put a little packet of soil in, drop in some seeds, and give it water.”
“Sounds fun. How did it turn out?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Nothing happened, but I did accidentally knock it off the windowsill when I got mad about something, and all the dirt spilled out. Probably the seeds, too, I guess.”
I lift one corner of my mouth. Cute kid. “That happens. But look here.” I point to the rows of plants. “Can you see the difference between your flower and this garden?”
She walks up and down the rows, pinches her lips together as she studies the plants. Suddenly, her eyes grow wide behind her cat-eye glasses, which are taped in the middle like they’ve been broken at some point. “There’s no dirt!”
“Very observant, Maree.”
She goes so still I think I’ve scared her. “You remembered my name,” she says quietly.
I chuckle and point to her shirt. “You’re wearing a name tag.”
“Oh, right,” she says, and I feel a twinge because I think I’ve disappointed her. “I guess the name tag was a good idea. So how does this hypnotize garden work?”
I smile. “A hydroponic garden grows plants in a water-based nutrient solution. I come down here to check the water temperature, prune, and mist the plants.”
She nods. “Cool. So how come you can work down here and remember what to do and stuff?” I stiffen, and when I don’t say anything right away, she takes a step toward me and says in a loud voice, like she thinks I haven’t heard her, “You know, because of your short-memory thing and how you can’t ever remember my name.”
Heat prickles my cheeks. It’s not that I’m embarrassed by my condition—well, I mean, of course I can be, especially at this moment when a sweet kid is calling into question my ability to do such a simple task.
“Oof, sorry,” she says. “Was that a”—she curls her fingers into air quotes—“rude question? Ms. Kiko says that sometimes I don’t think before I talk, you know?” Maree kicks at the floor. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings and stuff.”
I don’t like having my memory deficits on full display for anyone, but something about this girl’s humbleness puts me at ease, and I find myself comfortably moving into teacher mode. “It’s good to ask questions, Maree. That’s how we learn, but thanks for asking anyway.” I wink. “I’m not offended, just surprised.”
“’Cause you can’t remember?” she says.
I shake my head; the girl is persistent, a bit like a dog with a bone. “Because it’s an intuitive question. I helped get these gardens started when I was a teacher here.”
Her eyes widen. “You did?”
I don’t add that the reason we were able to get the original equipment in the first place was after a raid on a resident who was growing marijuana in his apartment and who was given a onetime pass if—and only if—he donated the gardening equipment to the kids. “Partly. But it all happened before my accident, and most of those memories I still have.” I make a face. “I think.”
At that, Maree laughs so hard it comes out as a howl. “You think but you don’t really know ’cause you can’t remember if you remember. That’s so funny!” She grabs her sides, gulping for air. “And really confusing!”
A smile curls the edges of my lips. The girl’s reaction takes me by surprise, but it’s also refreshingly innocent, and sharing this moment with her is an unexpected pause in the predictability and order I usually seek. Her comfort level with me also makes me suspect I’ve interacted with her on more than a couple of occasions. “So how do we know each other, Maree?”
“I read to you at quiet activity time, but you haven’t been coming because of your dad and stuff, and Ms. Kiko says you need time to be sad.”
My hand goes to my pocket, and I pull out a note card. Dad died from a heart attack on September 21. It hurts to read, physically aches to have to stand in front of this girl and not give in to a weakness in my legs. But I make a hash mark on the card, can see that I’ve read it dozens and dozens of times, can see that it’s not new to me even if it feels that way. I breathe in, notice that the girl’s eyebrows are wriggled together in concern.
“It’s okay if you’re still sad, Ms. Claire. You don’t have to be happy just ’cause everyone says you should. I’m still sad about my mom being gone all the time, and that’s been my whole life, so.” She shrugs.
Her kindness touches me. “Thank you, Maree. That’s a very sweet thing to say.” I don’t ask about her mom, because I don’t think it’s wise of me to ask personal questions—not at the moment, anyway.
She kicks at the floor, eyes trained on her shoes. “I’ve missed you,” she says softly, and the sincerity behind her words surprises me, but before I can reply with anything, she looks up, puts her hands on her hips, and says, “So do you want to teach me how to take care of these plants?”
I smile. “I’d love to. You can follow along beside me and do what I do. Sound good?”
We set to work side by side. She’s quiet but s
eems to pick up on finding the dead leaves quickly. I think her favorite part is misting the plants, which she does with abandon, getting about as much water on herself as on the plants. She giggles easily and I am soothed by the sound.
When we finish, I pat her shoulder. “Great work today.”
“Thanks,” she says, and the tops of her cheeks turn a slight pink.
We wash our hands and head down the tunnel together, but when we get to the elevator, there are a few kids in the lobby, and with a wave to me, she heads in their direction.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’m walking into my apartment, bags from the market swinging off my arms, when I hear a voice that I would know anywhere.
“Hi, Claire.”
I turn sharply and the bags swing with me, one hitting the wall with a soft thump. Tate.
He’s holding out a note card, but I’m focused on the angle of his jaw, the green of his eyes, and then I’m thinking about the last time I saw him, and my eyes fly open because—
“I know all about the baby. You t . . . t-old me.”
I move back into my apartment, set the bags on the counter, and take the card he holds out. I live in Whittier and I work as the harbormaster and I’m not married anymore. I know about the baby and I understand. I love you, Claire.
A blush spreads across my cheeks, and I focus on my hands. We said it to each other as kids, but now, as adults, it feels different to me, important in a way I don’t think he feels.
“I thought you could add it to the one you k . . . k-eep in your pocket about Vance.” His voice is calm, but I think he’s nervous too.
There is a card in my pocket. I pull it out; one hand goes to my chest, and I have to blink hard, stare at the card until the words blur together. Then I grab a pen and make a hash mark. Yes, I know this; I’m sure I know this.
I look again at the card from Tate, feel a twinge at the kindness in his gesture. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, suddenly shy, touching my hair and wondering if I bothered to make it look nice today or, God forbid, did I even shower? I hope for the best, not daring to sniff my armpits to find out.
I put the few groceries I have away, acutely aware of Tate sitting on a stool at the counter, watching me. Do I look old to him? The same? Different? Does he pity me? My mind is full of questions, most of which I can answer with a disheartened yes. I don’t want to turn around, until a sardonic voice inside reminds me that he’s not here to make mad, passionate love to me. He’s here because he’ll always be my friend, and he more than likely feels sorry for me. I stand tall and turn to face him, but his full lips part into a wide smile that only highlights his cheekbones and eyes and, oh, that hair that I want to run my fingers through—
“Claire?”
Scattered thoughts in my mind that make me cross and uncross my arms, embarrassed and unsure what to do with myself.
“I have an idea,” he says. On the counter in front of him is a small rectangular device.
“What’s that?” I ask, coming closer, my interest piqued.
“It’s an iPad, basically like your phone but a little bigger, and it can do a bit more. It came out around the t . . . t-ime when, um”—he clears his throat—“when you were p . . . p-regnant.”
I’m nodding because, yes, I remember this part. “With your baby,” I say.
He nods. “Right.”
“And I’ve already told you,” I read from the note card.
He looks proud of himself, and it makes me smile. “Yes.”
He opens a program on the device that looks like a piece of notebook paper. “There’s a program on here, really similar to your n . . . n-otebooks, except you can organize it into categories that you can sort and search. You can even color code it the same w . . . w-ay. Here, see?” He taps a line that reads Vance’s Memorial Service, and up pops an entire screen full of notes—typed, not handwritten.
My forehead wrinkles. “How do I know if I wrote this?”
“You didn’t. I t . . . t-ook these notes for you. I w . . . w-anted you to be able to take everything in. These are for you to read now and whenever you . . . like.”
I bite my lip, touched and confused and fighting a reflex to pick up my notebook and transfer everything from the screen onto paper. But I don’t, because I couldn’t bear to ruin the hopeful look on his face. Instead, I say, “Thank you.” I didn’t use much technology when it was available to me in college, much preferring the old-school methods of paper planner, pens, and pencils. But I take a sticky note, write Tate gave this to you, it’s like a notebook and a phone, and stick it to the screen.
Tate stands, holds out his hand. “Come on.”
I hesitate. “Where?”
“Ruth made dinner and invited us over.”
I check my phone and the dry-erase board on my desk. “But it’s not on the calendar.”
Tate laughs and it’s a hearty, welcome sound that vibrates through my body. “I know, but it’s already done, and she’s w . . . w-aiting for us.”
I touch my hair. “Us?” Feeling every bit the blushing teenager.
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Yes, and we’re not in trouble or anything.”
I smile, enjoy the warmth of his hand clasped over mine. “That must be a first,” I say.
We’re both laughing when Ruth opens her door, and she gives us each a look that takes me back to the time she discovered us smoking cigarettes in the laundry room. She’s wearing an apron with a pink ruffled hem, like a tutu. The splash of color is an odd choice for Ruth, who has favored the more somber hues of brown and gray ever since her husband went through the tunnel and never came back.
I point to the floaty layers of pink tulle. “What’s with the apron, Ruth?”
She gives me a look that lightens my mood even more. “You gave it to me a couple of Christmases ago.”
“Did I?” I study the layers of tulle. “Well, it looks nice on you. I obviously have great taste.”
Inside, she hands me a plate of pasta with fried bacon bits, tomatoes, basil, and cubes of mozzarella along with a scoop of green salad. We all sit at her small table, but before she eats she reaches over and touches my arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I pull back, surprised by her sudden tenderness. “Me too.”
She gives me a tight smile, then stabs the pasta with her fork. “Your hair looks nice. Alice said she cut it for you this morning.”
A prickle of heat runs across my scalp, and I’m opening my notebook but Ruth is still talking.
“She lives in Whittier now and she’s sober.”
I’m nodding; even if I don’t know this, I don’t think it shocks me. My hand retreats from the pages, and I turn to the plate of food in front of me.
Tate smiles, points to my notebook. “You’ve always been so organized. Do you remember how you used to keep a rating system for my w . . . w-eed?”
Ruth groans. “I’m glad those days are over.”
I play with a strand of my hair, smile, letting the memory wash over me. “One was for chill, two for sleepy chill, three dopehead chill, and four . . .” I tap my chin, thinking.
“Four w . . . w-as for mostly dead chill.”
We both laugh; Ruth shakes her head, eats a tomato.
“I wasn’t that creative, was I?” I look down and try to ignore my racing pulse.
He leans across the table, and the air around me fills with the light scent of sandalwood and leather. His eyes are a deep green that glows next to his black hair. I look away, pull on a loose blue thread poking out of the cuff of my shirt, and try to remember that I am a thirty-six-year-old woman with no real future, not a teenage girl with everything ahead of her.
Tate’s smile creases the skin around his eyes in pleasant lines. “Do you remember that t . . . t-ime we snuck into the reindeer pen and tried to . . . take the biggest one for a walk?”
It comes easily to me—most memories with Tate do—and my back muscles relax. “Using a pair of Ruth’s pant
yhose.”
Tate eases back against his chair, laughs. “Why didn’t we think to find a rope?”
“Why did we think to do it at all?”
It was on a late Alaskan summer night when the sky was perpetually light, and Tate and I were into nothing but trouble. We’d tiptoed through the reindeer pen, nearly overpowered by the heady musk of mud and excrement. The reindeer stared at us through dark eyes and didn’t move a muscle while Tate tied the legs of the hose around his neck. “Do you remember how docile he was?” I say, and Tate nods, eyes bright, smile wide.
“Until we stepped out of the p . . . p-en and he t . . . t . . . ran off!” Tate laughs so hard he stops talking. “But you held on.”
“And Ruth’s pantyhose stretched nearly the entire length of Kenai Street before they snapped out of my hands.” A helium weightlessness fills my insides. I laugh so hard it brings tears to my eyes.
“Do they still call it P . . . p-antyhose Avenue?”
Ruth sets a carrot cake, small plates, and forks onto the table. “That’s quite enough from you two. It’s like no time has passed when you get together.”
I dip my head, don’t add that to me it doesn’t feel like any time has passed.
We eat the cake and I enjoy the easy quiet that comes with people I know well, awash in memories that flow naturally. I finish the last bite, savoring the sweetness of the carrots and the tang of ginger combined with the creamy, sour kick of the cream cheese frosting. “Did Mom make this?”
Ruth’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Tate swallows so loud I can hear it.
“What?” I ask.
“You remember?”
The question is a worm, wiggling through holes inside my brain. “Um, well, Mom loves to bake, so . . .” It’s such a direct question, and I can’t figure out what Ruth is asking of me.
Her face softens. “I’m sorry, Claire. That wasn’t fair of me. It’s just that your mom lives here now, and it just seemed like maybe you knew.”
“Mom lives here?” I say, and my hands clench, but I’m thinking of her gentleness and the way she could brush through my thick, tangled hair without pulling too hard or making my sensitive scalp ache. I rub my neck, confused at my thoughts because they don’t have the shadow of anger that’s trailed me since my thirteenth birthday. “Am I still angry with her?”
Memories in the Drift: A Novel Page 15
