Parts Unknown

by Davidson, S. P.

  ~ ~ ~

  I couldn’t stay focused all weekend; I was guilty, miserable, and grouchy. I had to spend Saturday and Sunday with George and Lucy, as we always did, and all I wanted was to be with Josh. But seeing him that weekend was impossible without arousing all kinds of suspicion. After Astrid’s revelation, coming up with more fake “lunches” with friends was out of the question. George had said nothing. Fine—if he wasn’t going to bring it up, I wasn’t either. How could he act so calm when he knew? Being with me, every day, suspecting infidelity, and he didn’t say a damn thing. The man had an iron will. Sitting together on the sofa, reading the paper, watching TV, brushing our teeth together in the bathroom, we spoke pleasantly, politely, everything just the same as always. I couldn’t stand it, but I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t say anything. Keeping all my options open, just in case, and hating myself for it.

  On Saturday morning George and I took Lucy to Roxbury Park, a perennial weekend haunt. I sucked down my oversized Starbucks coffee as fast as possible, standing under the shade of the big nearby oak while George helped Lucy climb the plastic rope ladder, willing the caffeine to transport me to a different frame of mind. I was dying for a cigarette, but this wasn’t the time or the place. George didn’t even know I was still smoking; I always brushed my teeth after, and washed any clothes I’d been wearing while I’d been guiltily puffing on the balcony. See—I was duplicitous, through and through.

  We went through the motions all morning. After the park, I napped while Lucy did, just so I didn’t need to be alone with George. I’d refused to make love with him the night before, and he hadn’t said a word, just turned his back to me and started breathing deeply and evenly far too soon to have actually fallen asleep. I’d never said no before; never changed a piece of the routine we were all so dependent on. But if he didn’t acknowledge it, it didn’t need to be fixed.

  How ridiculous was that, to think how desperately I’d searched out change when really I’d ended up just like my parents: keeping secrets, not voicing anything worth talking about. It would have been so much easier if I’d kept things that way. If I’d allowed the days to keep dripping one into the other in an endless stream, so that looking over them you couldn’t differentiate one day from the next, one year from the next, forever. At least that way, I’d have remained both honest and safe. Now I was neither.

  Instead, I was ready. No matter what happened with Josh, my life couldn’t remain the same. My fingers tingled, itching to hold a brush the way they’d longed before to pour glass after glass of wine at night. No more Pottery Barn Kids catalogs and aimless evenings waiting for something to change. I could take a small step toward a different life, bringing my paint box along with me. And Lucy. Always Lucy.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mom called on Sunday morning, just like always. I’d found myself lingering near the phone near 10 a.m., rehearsing in my mind what I would say; wondering how she would react.

  “Hi Mom, how’s it going?”

  “Oh, the spring planting is killing me. I bought about thirty new perennials at SummerWinds nursery last weekend, if you can believe it. And they didn’t have the variety of yarrow I’ve been wanting—it’s called Moonbeam, and it’ll go wonderfully interspersed in the row of David Austin roses I have in that corner of the backyard—you know the one, the far corner where it used to be shady, and now since I trimmed back that magnolia, it gets more sun?” She said this all very fast, hardly stopping for breath.

  “Maybe Dad can help you,” I joked.

  “Your father? In my garden? Never!”

  “So how’s Marty’s room? He told me he painted it black.”

  “That boy,” she sighed.

  I looked around to make sure George wasn’t in the room, and lowered my voice.

  “Mom, I’m thinking about maybe coming for a visit, with Lucy.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear! It’ll be so nice to see you. When are you coming?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said softly. “I’m not sure when I’m coming, and I’m not sure if I’ll be coming, actually. But I might want to stay a while.”

  “Is everything all right?” Mom asked.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  She was silent for a moment, then: “Vivian . . .” she said.

  I waited expectantly.

  “You know you can always come home, and you can stay as long as you like. I really want to help out, any way I can. I tell you what. I’ll set up that spare room off the kitchen for Lucy; that way she can have her own room. Is her favorite color still pink?”

  “Sure is.” I drew a ragged breath.

  “Well, I’ll paint it pink. It’ll be a fun project for me, this weekend.”

  “Mom, I really appreciate it, but I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying. Don’t go to all that trouble.”

  “I’d like to,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how long you stay. It just matters that you wanted to come back.”

  “I do,” I said softly, and for the first time, I realized it was true.

  “So,” she finished brightly, “Anyhow, about the garden. There are bare spots between the roses, and it’s always bothered me. It took me years to figure it out, but now I’m convinced—that yarrow, and a border of iberis and catmint in front—it’ll look so pretty every spring. I hear it’ll be getting hot this week, so I need to get them right in the ground. I just don’t know how I’m going to get it all done, along with all the work I need to do for that History Park benefit.

  “Meanwhile, I’d like to ask your advice. My subscriptions to Bon Appetit and Gourmet have both come due, and honestly I’m not sure I need to keep getting both magazines. Marty refuses to eat anything but sushi these days, and your dad never seems to be home. It’s only me that I’m cooking for most days. What do you think?”

  And that was that.

  ~ ~ ~

  The day went by too quickly. I couldn’t imagine looking forward to Sunday dinner any less. As it had been on Thursday and the week before, the sidewalk was still dismantled in front of Madame’s house. She hugged George effusively as usual, and me gingerly, as if I was carrying a contagious disease. My eyes narrowed. I’d had just about enough of the old bag. Why had I let her walk all over me all these years?

  At dinner, Madame smiled at me, baring her teeth. Behind that smile lurked consequences. I didn’t care. “Vivian, are you still thinking about going back to work?” she asked. “That was big news, the other week.”

  “It’s one of the possibilities,” I said coolly, poking at my grisly lamb chop and watery mashed potatoes—clearly instant.

  “I thought so.” Madame was done with me, and turned to Lucy. “Alors,” she began, “Q’uest-ce que as-tu fait à . . .” Lucy looked terrified, her little knuckles whitening around the spoon she’d been chasing her potatoes with.

  “Lucy,” I said suddenly, “do you want to speak French right now?”

  She shook her head, silent. I leveled a look at Madame. “Another time, Anna,” I said, using her given name. “Lucy won’t be speaking French at Sunday dinners for a while.”

  Madame simply stared at me, shocked. I continued gazing at her. She no longer had any power over me. George started to say something, but I glared at him and he silenced. Madame found her voice, unfortunately. “Listen, you little . . .” she began. For six years, she’d been waiting to tell me what she really thought of me, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I said to Lucy, standing up and offering my hand, “So Daddy and Grand-mère can chat in peace.” I heard shouting behind me, chairs scraping back, but I paid no attention.

  Holding hands, Lucy and I walked right out the front door, into the warm, jasmine-scented evening.

  Chapter 16

  We walked all the way home. We stopped sometimes to talk about cats we saw peering out of lit windows, and to pick dandelions. We blew on the dandelions and made wishes. It was a long walk, so we sang a song about a turtle that liv
ed in a box, and we hummed tunes from a Celtic musical CD we both loved, about a seal who turns herself into a girl despite her mother’s admonitions. We used our fingers to make the eensy-beensy spider that climbed up the water spout. Lucy told me a story about a fairy who wanted a bicycle, then demonstrated how far she could hop. We finally arrived home, and I got her ready for bed. She was all compliant, warm, and quiet. It was so easy, sometimes, being Lucy’s mother. The hard edges that rubbed us against each other had worn down this afternoon, and we meshed together as perfectly as a precise clock mechanism, ticking in time, in tune with each other. At least today.

  She was asleep almost as soon as I tucked the comforter around her. I rubbed her back as her eyes rolled closed; an almost visible glow emanated from her, a bright softness that all young children have. I wondered when we lose that glow. In the second grade, maybe, or a bit later, when we stop believing in leprechauns and the tooth fairy. Perhaps we spend our entire lives trying to catch it again. Almost touching it; watching it slip through our fingers time and again.

  George was in a rage when he got home. “I drove all through Hancock Park looking for you!” he yelled. “I was worried sick. I thought something happened to you!”

  Tonight, I felt no fear; I was outside myself, watching the scene like a bystander. “I can take care of myself,” I said mildly. “You didn’t have to worry.”

  “You know you can’t!” George shouted; I worried that he’d wake Lucy. “You know that without me, you’d be a complete failure. Your life was a mess when I met you, for chrissakes.” It was almost comical, watching his slender hands gesticulate wildly, the freckles and almost invisible hairs flashing by my face.

  “It’s all in how you look at it,” I retorted. “Maybe you and me—our life is the big mess. And maybe you were the one who screwed things up for me.” I was proud of myself. I couldn’t usually think of just the right response, at the right time. But it seemed that there were different consequences for things this week. Everything was topsy-turvy, confused, in a week where adultery was the right thing to do, and walking out on my mother-in-law, and by extension, my marriage seemed the only logical course of action.

  George, apparently, was still talking. I tuned back in. “. . . the family is the only rule I have!”

  “What? The only rule?”

  “Yeah!” he yelled impatiently. “Family comes first! You know that’s not negotiable. You and Lucy and Mother; we’re a team. We’re all we have. Your family . . . you know we can’t count on them. You don’t even want to spend time with them.”

  “About that . . .” I started to say, but he kept talking.

  “I can’t believe you did that tonight. Walking out on us was un . . for . . . givable.” The more he shouted, the more he slurred his words. I’d never before seen him lose control like that. “You knew my number one rule when you married me. The Anglin family has to stay together. It’s all for Lucy, don’t you see?”

  “You have a lot more rules than that,” I returned. “You just never said them out loud. I know them all. And they’re choking me. I can’t breathe. I’ve only been half-alive for years, and I didn’t even know it. And that life can’t be what’s best for Lucy. It just can’t.”

  I breathed in deep, gasping gulps. “You always knew your mother hated me. And what she’s doing to Lucy . . . you never stopped her. You never thought anything was wrong. She’s not my family, and she never will be. So forget your number-one rule, alright? It doesn’t exist, and it never did. And you and me—it can’t work. Not anymore.”

  I saw that George was pale and shaking. “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

  “The plan,” he said hoarsely. “I should have known I couldn’t count on you.”

  “It was always your plan,” I said. “Never mine.”

  He threw the cut-glass bowl on the coffee table against the wall, hard. It had been my gift to him on our third anniversary—glass, the traditional gift for that milestone. With a crash, the bowl exploded into millions of tiny little pieces. They caught the light briefly, glittering tiny prisms, before tinkling into the rug, disappearing into the beige so you couldn’t see them, not even one.

  “I should never have trusted you. I can’t believe what a collosal mistake I made.” He’d put all his anguish into that throw, and was glassy-eyed now, limp.

  Mrs. Schusterman’s window scraped up downstairs and she yelled, “Keep it down up there, for God’s sake!”

  “Sometimes you have to go out on a limb,” I said, quieter now. “Marrying me—it was really brave, George. Maybe the bravest thing you ever did.” I touched his trembling hand, and he grasped my fingers for a moment, then let go.

  “I thought it would turn out differently,” he said brokenly.

  I gave him a watery smile. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, didn’t it?”

  “I should have listened to Mother.” His voice was so sad. “I let my emotions get the better of me, and now I know. It won’t happen again.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I said urgently. “It was all worth it, just to have Lucy.”

  “Of course you’re right. She’s the only good thing to come out of . . . this. You must stay nearby. With her.”

  I said carefully, “I don’t think so. It would be better for us if I went away for a while. I know you’ll miss Lucy, so of course you can come visit us whenever you want. We’re probably going home, to San Jose.” The word “home” felt surprisingly comfortable. I could almost see the glowing plastic stars on my ceiling, shining down on me as I slept, safe, in of all places, my parents’ house. He didn’t say anything, so I dared, “I promise, wherever I go, I’ll be near a university that offers statistics courses. If you wanted to live near Lucy.”

  I’d gone too far. He looked grimly down at his hands, clasped his thin fingers together. “You don’t get to . . .” He shook his head and caught himself. “That’s a conversation for another time. You can go for a little while, sure, but I need to be near Lucy in the long term.”

  Nervously I kissed his mouth, a light brush, feeling a momentary reprieve. “Thank you, for everything you did. Everything you tried to do. And I wanted to say, I’m so, I’m just so sorry . . .”

  “I don’t want to know,” he said. “Don’t tell me. When I think about . . .” He clenched his fists.

  “Okay,” I mouthed silently.

  And then I drifted off toward the bedroom, closed the door, and locked it. I heard the vacuum cleaner whirring into action. How like George, to clean up any mess.

  I huddled in the bed, my hands balled into fists, hating Josh. He was the one who had started all this. I’d been perfectly content with George. We could have easily gone along as we had been for years, for decades, for our whole lives. In this little apartment together, loving Lucy together, and letting the days go by, me always secure, safe, and cared for.

  Josh had ruined it all. Now I would always know what I’d be missing. Instead of secure and safe, really I was trapped, imprisoned, living with someone who loved me but who had never understood me. The carved satyrs on the bedposts leered at me. I hated them too. I tossed and turned, tears tracking one by one down my cheeks, sliding slippery and warm down my neck. Funny how I’d met them both near a fountain, the sun shining, children playing, on days pregnant with possibility and change. And in the end, the only two men who had ever loved me were the two I could never be with.

  The front door closed softly, but it didn’t matter.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday morning, Josh and I made love with the desperation of two people who don’t know when, or if, they’ll see each other again. But there’s only so long that can go on for, and soon I was itching to get out of that apartment. We’d hidden ourselves in here every day for a week, and I was sick of it. My sense of consequences was minimal. When I’d awoken that morning, the only sign of George was a crumpled sheet and blanket on the sofa, and a body-shaped indentation where he’d spent the night. There was no going back to where G
eorge and I had been just the day before. Just two weeks before.

  “Get dressed,” I told Josh—the first time I’d ever ordered him to do anything. I hastily buttoned my pants, and then we stepped out into the sunlight, the brightness disorienting me. Exiting Josh’s apartment felt like leaving a movie theater after a film so absorbing that asphalt, movement, people seemed confusing and strange. As if the real world I’d stepped into wasn’t as true as the fantasy life I’d been wrapped up in.

  The funny thing was, Josh looked different outside the duplex on Vista Street. Now I could see the frown lines around his mouth. How his lips habitually turned down instead of up. The calculating look in his eyes. He’d been someone else entirely, hidden away with me in that dim bedroom with the curtains partway drawn all the time. Unfortunately, once you’ve given your heart completely to someone—no matter which way their mouth turns—it’s very hard to get it back. I’d never given all of myself to George, so over the last weeks it had been easy to collect the bits and pieces I’d handed away and reassemble them inside me. But I’d entrusted Josh with some crucial puzzle piece, and I was convinced that no matter what he could possibly do—leave me again, hurt me, deride me—I’d still love him. Unwillingly, angrily perhaps, but I would never stop.

  He brushed his hand along my cheek. “So, where to?”

  “Let’s go have breakfast,” I said spontaneously. “I’m going to take you to my favorite place. Let’s just eat like pigs. Masses of pancakes. French toast. Food that’s bad for you. Let’s have so much food that we can barely move when we’re done.”

  “Oh-kay . . .”

  “We’ll go to Du-Par’s at the Farmer’s Market. They have the best pancakes. And we’ll sit outside. Who cares if anyone sees us.”

  “Alright then,” said Josh, linking his arm with mine, but he hesitated slightly before saying so. What did he have to lose that was greater than what I’d lost?

  We walked west on Third Street, past Pan Pacific Park, a big green park spanning a city block. Walking past the park, the temperature was cooler, breezes wafting from the trees. Then through Nordstrom into the Grove, quiet on a weekday, but still seductive. The exclusive stores beckoned, flanking the small main street of the manufactured outdoor shopping village. They promised perfection, rightness, plastic beauty—if you shopped here, if you lived the lifestyle promised by the mannequins in the window, your life could be that airbrushed, too.