The Possibilities

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  Everyone seems to be thinking about something nice. It’s hard not to on this part of the drive, surrounded by mountains. There’s this sense of pleasant expectation, that something great is imminent. I like the way it looks going the other way too, upon exiting, the ten-mile range in the rearview mirror. Snow falls upon the windshield, then dissolves, leaving foggy marks that look like tiny paw prints. I imagine us as a scene in a snow globe: snow falling peacefully, our miniature world vivid and contained.

  On the ridge, homes flicker through the snow, wrapped around them like shawls. There are the aspens, their white bark glowing like distant lanterns, and there’s the mountain face ahead, bathed in a muted light, cutting a perfect silhouette into the deep-sea-blue sky.

  Even though we haven’t been gone for very long, I feel the comfort of being here. Here are the trees I know, the turns in the road. I slip back easily, entitled. It was important that we left.

  “My life is based on a true story,” I say. “Bumper sticker.” I point to the car ahead, with a license plate from Kansas. What’s in Kansas? I wonder. Dorothy and her red shoes.

  “That’s a good one,” Kit says.

  I increase the speed of the wipers.

  “Spring isn’t ready yet,” my dad says.

  I see the lights of town, then we come upon Main Street. People, cars, signs of life, all of it now endearing, invigorating, lasting. For the first time in a very long time I am happy and grateful that this is my home. I have an affection for the residents. We’ve made it work. We’ve stuck it out. We’ll watch the others go.

  The headlights accent a small space of road in front of us, the wiper wands sounding like a fast heartbeat.

  Chapter 22

  I place everything on the table. Everything and everyone has rested. It’s time to eat.

  “I’ll just toss the salad,” I say, regretting it immediately.

  “Can Billy help you out with that?” my dad says, and nudges Kit.

  We all sit down. No one knows that this is our last supper.

  The chicken is spicy and so is the wine. My father has a dangle of spinach hanging between his two front teeth.

  “You sure whipped this up,” he says. “I don’t know how you found the time to do everything so well.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Doing it badly would take just as much time,” Billy says.

  “In Cully’s calendar,” Kit says, when she’s finished chewing, “what did he mean by ‘hunting’?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Treasure hunting,” Billy says. “When the snow melts they all go under the lifts and find things people have dropped. It’s a tradition, I’m told.”

  “Must be a new one,” I say.

  “You guys seemed close,” Kit says.

  Billy nods, finishing his bite. “We were. Took a while though. When he was around sixteen—driving age—he’d visit. I mean, we had always seen each other before then, set up visits, but he just started instigating them on his own accord. It was nice.”

  He watches me carefully, over the centerpiece that my dad must have put out—a wooden monkey wearing wire-framed glasses, I assume from channel two. I keep my gaze steady, warm, the little clues forming a picture. I wonder why they kept it a secret. Secrets are bonding, I guess. Maybe it was a way to avoid confusion and hurt feelings, or maybe secrets just make room for a little mystery, a little incongruity and magic in life. Cully’s secrets: some I now know, some I never will.

  We continue to eat, the conversation easy and flowing. I listen to everything everyone says, an urgency to pay attention, to not miss these moments you don’t know are moments until they’re gone. I narrow in, trying to hold it all in place, even though I think that if you document life this way, the moments will never set. We don’t need to remember. Everything just becomes a part of you. And then it’s over.

  My dad excuses himself and his absence shifts the air. Billy and I look at one another, and I bet the same thing crosses his mind—that this is a different version of us, sitting at the dinner table with a kid. This could have worked. If it had, who would Cully have been, who would we have been?

  My dad comes back up the stairs holding something. When he gets closer I see that it’s the Home Haircut, a device that looks like a hand-held vacuum.

  “Check this out,” he says, holding it in front of Billy. “You adjust the clipper to your preferred length and you can give yourself a haircut.”

  Kit and I silently communicate that my dad is so strange and yet somehow his actions always improve or make the occasion.

  “Come on,” he says to Billy. “Let me show you. I’ll give you a haircut.”

  Billy takes a sip of his beer and runs a hand through his hair. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” my dad says. “Why not? You’re starting to look like you belong here.”

  Billy runs his hand through his hair again. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

  Kit and I look at one another as if to say, So this is how it will end.

  Billy stands and walks toward the kitchen, sits on the stool. He claps his hands together. Kit and I walk over to watch.

  “Do you have some sort of cape or towel?” Billy asks me.

  “What if I happened to have a cape?” I say.

  “You don’t need it,” my dad says. “It has a suction. There’s no mess. You just empty the hairs out after.” He poises the clipper above Billy’s head. “Where we’re going, you don’t need a towel. All right!” he says, flipping the switch. The trimmer vibrates. He places it on Billy’s head and moves the tiny machine up and down his skull.

  “Feels kind of nice,” Billy says.

  “Won’t it all be one length all around?” I ask.

  “Would it work on dogs?” Kit asks.

  “I bet small ones,” my dad says. A sense of power seems to come over him, a calm. He is sharing his ridiculous self, his ridiculous toy, and he’s being received. I watch him trim Billy’s hair and I remember the small red scissors I used to use on Cully, the snip snip of the silver blades, his smooth brown hair falling to the floor. He was so quiet during this process, as Billy is now. I remember the bunched wisps of hair on the kitchen tile. There are no wisps on the floor tonight.

  My dad looks over Billy’s head at me and we hold each other this way for a moment. Maybe he’s remembering the same thing—my childhood haircuts, small red scissors—but then I remember that he wouldn’t have those kinds of memories. He never cut my hair. I cut it myself.

  I notice Kit has her coat hung over her arm. She’s probably ready though unsure how to go. Goodbyes can ruin everything. The repetition of sentiment, the staged lines. And what is there to say? What would I say to him?

  My eyes water—tiny pools of feeling—and then my dad turns the trimmer off, and my emotions follow: they turn off as if by switch.

  “Finished,” my dad says.

  Billy brushes away nonexistent hairs from his jeans. He looks younger, refreshed. It kind of worked.

  “Looks good,” my dad says. “Right?”

  My dad moves to the front of Billy, admiring his work, feeling a bit triumphant as if he has accomplished something, which, I suppose, he has.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s good.” I look at Billy and tilt my head toward Kit.

  “You’re off then?” he says.

  “Yeah, I should get going,” she says.

  “You sure you’re okay driving home?” my dad asks, holding the device and scratching his forehead with it.

  “Of course,” she says.

  She takes a step toward him. “Thank you for everything.” She puts her arms around him. My eyes water and Billy sees this and he gives the impression of understanding not everything but something.

  “You call us tomorrow, okay?” my dad says, softly so it’s directed just to her. He kisses her on the top of the head. I am working so hard at keeping myself quiet and I think Kit is too.

  Billy stands, and widens his arms, welcoming her i
n. They give each other a hug. I have the odd sensation of watching a graduation.

  “Lyle, let’s play some pool?” Billy says.

  “I’ll be right down,” I say.

  Billy takes my dad downstairs. Kit looks away and gathers her few things.

  “Ready,” she says, her strong voice trying to cover a weakness.

  “This seems so quick, so rushed,” I say.

  “May as well stay the course,” she says.

  “I don’t want you to leave angry with me. I want you to understand.”

  She crosses her arms and looks outside.

  “I understand,” she says. “I do. I’m just scared. I’m scared, Sarah.”

  “Come sit down for a second,” I say, leading her to the couch. Her shoulders shudder. I realize I have never seen her really break down. She is holding so much up. She sits down next to me in her elegant East Coast coat. Her tears are slow.

  I think of the shame I felt when telling my father, the relief of his arms around me, then back to the shame (which never really goes away) of having your dad know you’ve had sex.

  “My poor mom,” she says. “First the stripper, now a pregnant daughter.”

  Kit laughs, stops, then resumes, almost hysterically, and I don’t know if I should join her or calm her down. “I’m so embarrassed,” she says. “I’m seeing the future. My mom . . . God.”

  I recognize her tone—one of intimacy, of knowing someone so well and having the privilege to be annoyed by them.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” I say. “Just think of Billy on the floor if you get embarrassed. Or think of yourself throwing up in front of strangers.”

  This makes her smile. “I actually can’t predict her reaction,” she says, and the thought seems to calm her. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You will,” I say.

  “I guess this is it then,” she says.

  I add something else to her pile of things: Cully’s money. It has found its purpose.

  “From Cully,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says, and I’m glad she doesn’t resist.

  “Are you warm enough?” I ask. “Are you sure you can drive in all this snow? It’s coming down now.”

  She looks out toward the street. “If I were in New York, they’d call in the National Guard.”

  “If you want to wait it out . . .” I force myself to not say another word, to not offer her food, water, shelter, more money or warmth.

  “Sarah,” Kit says, “do you want to say goodbye? Or you know, safe travels?”

  “Oh,” I say, when I understand what she’s talking about. I look at her stomach. “Okay.”

  She straightens her posture in preparation. She looks up at the ceiling. I turn on the couch to face her.

  “This isn’t weird?” I ask.

  “It’s kind of weird,” she says.

  I put my hand on her stomach. It feels like any other stomach. A hardness, a softness, a digestive grumbling. She places her hand over mine and something awkward becomes okay, becomes both private and shared.

  I close my eyes, saying safe travels to something, to cells, to DNA, to potential and possibility. Then it turns into a goodbye, a farewell to something else—to my son, to my anger and my yearning to pin him down. I say goodbye to this that is not my son. I know that. Cully has lived his life. The acknowledgment weakens me, forcing out a whimper. I didn’t want to fall apart in front of her. She doesn’t say anything, though she must feel me shaking. She must hear me. I cry out quickly and draw my hand back, but she presses her hand harder upon mine, keeping me there, forcing me to go on, to stay the course, to say goodbye and to let myself feel both good and bad, weakened though quenched and revealed.

  Goodbye, Cully. I love you so much.

  Yet if given the chance, I wouldn’t have said goodbye that way. I probably wouldn’t say anything. I’d just look at him, knowing that the deepest, truest feelings are best expressed in silence.

  Silently, I say goodbye to this time in my life and I say goodbye to this girl, this version of her. She will leave and no matter what she does, what she chooses, whatever happens, a new person will emerge, one that I might never know but I’m certain I will. I wouldn’t have chosen these things to take place, but now that they have, I can’t stop looking, fascinated by my life, his life, just plain life. I can’t wait to see what else happens.

  I open my eyes.

  I take my hand off of her stomach.

  I let her go.

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve used my fiction license to adapt a real place. The real Breckenridge, Colorado, is perfect as is. It’s where I met my husband, Andy Lautenbach, in 1998. With my writing (and other things) he has always been generous with his praise and honest with his criticisms, despite the hazards of doing so.

  Thank you Yaddo and The Brown Foundation Fellows Program at the Dora Maar house.

  And finally, thank you to my super agents, Kim Witherspoon and David Forrer, for your love and support of this ol’ thing and for leading me to Marysue Rucci and Emily Graff at Simon & Schuster. Marysue, thank you for helping me see with fresh eyes and for making it all such a pleasure.

  Simon & Schuster Reading Group Guide

  The Possibilities

  Three months after her son Cully was killed by an avalanche, the pain is still raw for single mom Sarah St. John. She’s taking small steps to bring herself back to life—going back to work, starting to clean out Cully’s room. But then a young girl shows up on the eve of Cully’s memorial with news that changes everything. In a whirlwind couple of days, Sarah learns there was a lot about her son that she didn’t know, and trying to move forward takes on a whole new meaning. In an authentic voice that is immediately relatable, bestselling author Kaui Hart Hemmings delivers a story about grief, relationships, and dealing with life’s curveballs that will ultimately leave you rejoicing in the possibilities.

  For Discussion

  1. After her son’s death, Sarah is surprised to find out that there was a lot she didn’t know about Cully—from the fact that he was selling marijuana, to a girlfriend he never mentioned, to the close relationship he had with his father, Billy. How much do you think most parents really know about their children’s lives? How well do/did your parents know you? If you have kids, do you even want to know everything about their lives?

  2. Suzanne is also going through a period of loss and struggle during her divorce and sometimes makes comments that compare her grief to Sarah’s. Even if the stages of grief are the same and it’s clear Suzanne is just trying to help, do you think it’s fair to try to compare divorce to the death of a child? Does Suzanne deserve some indulgence for the loss she’s going through, or should her divorce take a backseat to Sarah’s grief for now?

  3. “Guilt, guilt, guilt. Can’t go a day without it. After Cully died I felt guilty for singing in the car. . . . Guilt came for feeling hungry, for having that sensation. It came from yawning, from putting on makeup, dressing nicely. It came when I felt sexual desire.” What do you make of Sarah’s guilt? Does experiencing other emotions and sensations take away from the sadness or grief she must also be feeling?

  4. Sarah has seen single parenthood from both sides—she was raised by a single father and then she raised her son as single mother. How do you think her relationship with her father compared to her relationship with Cully? Discuss all the different images of single parenthood depicted throughout the story.

  5. What do you think of Lyle’s strategy to take an argument or conflict to a restaurant, to “neutral ground”? Is this a good way to keep everyone level-headed? What are your tactics for hashing out family issues?

  6. Why do you think the author broke the story into two parts? How does the first part differ from the second? Why do you think she chose that point in the story to end part one and begin a second?

  7. Discuss this statement: “You can know people so well and still make discoveries about them as a family, but you’ll never know everythin
g, the mundane day-to-day, the behaviors when the doors are closed. Families are all such elite clubs.”

  8. Later in the book we learn that Kit had actually canceled her appointment just before they embarked on their trip to CC. Why do you think she made that decision then?

  9. Sarah says “‘Sorry. . . . The mother in me,’ and then I’m reminded that I’m not one anymore.” What do you think being a mother means? Do you cease to be a mother once your child is no longer living?

  10. On page 264, Sarah realizes that “this life has so many lifetimes, and I’m ready for the next one.” Do you agree with the idea of multiple lifetimes in one life? What are some of the different lifetimes you’ve gone through?

  11. Do you agree with Sarah’s advice for Kit? What would you do if you were in Sarah’s shoes?

  12. The book ends with “I let her go.” Is letting Kit go symbolic of a greater act of letting go? What else does Sarah let go of in the end?

  13. The future of these characters is left very open-ended. There are so many possibilities! What do you imagine happens to them? What would you like their ending to be?

  A Conversation with Kaui Hart Hemmings

  Q. How did the experience of writing The Possibilities compare to that of writing your first novel? How does writing a novel differ from writing short stories?

  A. It was such a different experience. My story collection, House of Thieves, prepared me to write The Descendants. I had been ruminating and immersed in characters whose lives, feats, and defeats take place in Hawaii. I was reading Hawaiian history and trying to let research translate into prose. I was seeing how culture, race, economics, and the past inform the present. So there was a lot of pre-production, and then when I sat down and wrote that first sentence in The Descendants, in general it was pretty smooth sailing. The Possibilities—let’s say the pre-production time was much longer. It took me a lot of drafts to find the story and the character who was going to deliver the story. I wrote this novel so many times—one all in the father’s POV (it had a completely different plot), one in Kit’s, one from all of them. In my documents folder I have SARAH ST. JOHN, SARAH ST. JOHN 1, SARAH 2, on and on, and finally SARAH HOLY F(*#@INS!*T!