This so-called breakfast nook is what most people would consider their dining room. In fact, in Manhattan I think it would be most people’s entire apartment. Remy seems almost chipper, listening to Vampire Weekend, singing along, talking about her mom without rolling her eyes even once.
“She’s not all bad. She just gets kind of obsessed, mostly about textiles.”
“Do they ever stay here?”
“Not really. She says it’s boring. My dad likes it better, probably ’cause he grew up here.”
“What about you?”
“I go back and forth. Right now I love it.”
We sit there, contemplating our chopsticks. This might be one of the quietest places I’ve ever been. Even the crickets are slumbering, luxuriating.
There’s an elephant in the room, so I’m just gonna say it.
“Hey, so . . . I’m really proud of you. That you went to that meeting on your own and that you’re really sticking to it. I mean it.”
Remy looks at me. I sometimes think people never talk to her about anything real. I think sometimes they just dance around everything with her.
“Yeah. I dunno. I just . . . One day at a time, right?”
“Yeah. But good job.”
She nods. Smiles and gives a little cute shrug. We both sit there for a second, trying not to think about our respective heartbreaks.
“Are you still depressed?”
“I dunno.”
“You know, you shouldn’t be depressed. There’s a lot to be thankful for.”
“Like what?” she sneers.
“Like that spiders can’t fly.”
She laughs. “Yes, that is true. For that I am grateful.”
“Also, that when you cry your tears aren’t made of acid and then they burn your face and then you cry some more and then they burn your face even more and it goes on and on in an endless cycle of crying and face burning until there’s nothing left but two eyeballs crying and burning themselves.”
“True.”
“Or that you don’t have to go back in time to the Middle Ages and become the wife of a fishmonger.”
Remy bats me with the seat pillow.
“Or that pillows were invented. Before pillows, everyone had to lay their sweet heads down on rusty nails. In the olden times.”
“Tell me some more about the olden times.”
“In the olden times, if you were grumpy . . . they would put you in jail. Also, everybody smelled bad. Because they never took a bath. Or they threw out the baby with the bathwater and then they were scared. Scared of the bath.”
“You’re scared of the bath. You are scared of haunted bathtubs.”
“If you had seen what I’ve seen, you would be, too.”
“I would be more scared of fishmongers.”
“What about haunted fishmongers?”
“Terrifying.”
It’s getting late now. I’m already starting to imagine my harrowing room for the night.
“Thanks for coming out here with me, mon amie. I know it’s kind of off the beaten path.”
It’s funny Remy thinks it would be a chore for me to come here. That just shows the universe between us.
“Are you kidding? It’s incredible. The only reason I’m not drooling openly is because I don’t want to come off like a hillbilly.”
“You’re so funny when it comes to that, Willa. You’re, like, ashamed when you should be so proud.”
“What? To be from Iowa?”
“Yeah. You should think that it’s cool because it is.”
“Why would it ever be cool?”
“Because it’s different. You don’t understand. All of us live in this tiny little fishbowl where everybody is the same and everybody is always gonna be the same and everyone knows everyone’s business and, like, the only question marks are if you’re gonna go to Harvard or Yale.”
She exhales. I think that’s the most Remy has ever said about anything.
She ends with a final thought. “It’s . . . oppressive.”
“Wow. That’s so funny. I never would’ve—”
“So, you know . . . somebody like you, who’s not from here, who’s not from those circles but who’s not a jerk and who’s funny and who’s a good person. It’s almost . . . refreshing.”
“Wow. Really? I’m refreshing?”
“Totally. You’re like a Sprite.”
“Does that mean I’m like a sprite like a wood nymph? Or a can of soda?”
“Soda can. One hundred percent.”
“I guess Milo didn’t think I was refreshing.”
“Willa, Milo is probably totally obsessed with you and freaking out right now about how he blew it. But having Milo obsessed with you is kind of not a good thing. Because he just kind of, like, hurts everyone around him. Like he’s got spikes. You remember that girl we saw at that club, remember? WTF girl?”
“Yeah. Okay, yeah. I do remember.”
“Like that.”
We’re making our way up the stairs now, to the “sleeping quarters.” I know when we get in here there are gonna be canopies involved. I get my own room, of course, because otherwise I won’t be scared to death all night.
I get what is called the blue room. Remy gets her room. You can have the Wedgwood room.
FIFTY-NINE
Remy doesn’t want to study in the library because the birds annoy her. I guess there’s a tree outside with scads of birds. Some people like birds and think the sound of them is a wonderful blessing signifying that everybody is happy. I am not one of those people. Birds are flying predators. If you were tied to the ground they would eat your eyeballs. That is enough for me to not like birds. And Remy, too, understands this.
What about the solarium? Oh, you don’t know what a solarium is? Oh, silly! It’s a sunroom with lots of grandma furniture and leaf prints and foliage where whoever has the loudest taste in the family gets to choose all the prints with a kicky abandon only suitable, I guess, for the solarium. So it’s wild in here. And playful. Vibrant. It’s a happy room. But Remy is not satisfied. The room is too open. Too many distractions outside.
Third time’s the charm. Back to the great room. That’s okay. I only study in rooms big enough to play a full-court game of basketball.
By the time we’re done plopping down all our stuff and getting comfortable, it’s already noon. I am not happy about this. We are losing a lot of time walking around, fussing, deciding, and generally avoiding doing what we are supposed to be doing.
“I think I’m hungry.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Remy, no. We’re studying now. We’ll take a break after Contemporary Lit and Bio.”
“Okay, okay.”
Very unenthused.
I crack open the books, trying to demonstrate a kind of passionate responsibility. Yes, we will study! This is great!
First up: The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton.
The House of Mirth is a book about this girl Lily Bart, who should probably marry a rich guy because she comes from a good family with a good name, but that family is broke by now, and so the whole time they are putting all these rich guys in front of her so she will be safe and secure for the rest of her life. And the book kind of does a number on you because the whole time you think she’s gonna marry this guy or that guy and you are kinda hoping she does, so that everything will be settled, but you are also kind of hoping she doesn’t because all these guys are total dolts who just warble on about themselves or real estate or the best restaurants in Europe the whole time. And here’s the kicker, none of the interesting guys have any money. So the choice is marry a cool guy and be poor or marry a bloviating blowhard and be set for the rest of your life but so bored you might want to put a bullet in your head. I won’t tell you how it ends or the moral of the story. Although I have taken my own personal moral of the story and it is to never rely on some jerkface who talks about real estate the whole time.
Ms. Ingall tries to keep us on our toes by doing all so
rts of different tests each time. Like, she’ll have us write impromptu essays on the book, or the characters, or the plot, which is really hard but at least seems to have something to do with the actual novel. And one time she did something really crazy, which is she had us write a poem inspired by the book. So, you see, you have no idea what you’re gonna get, so you have to be ready for any and all possibilities. And you have to read the book. You have to know the book. You have to be the book.
I can’t help but like Ms. Ingall. Not just because she’s taken a keen interest me. Not just that. She’s enthusiastic. She gets excited about the novel and gets a gleam in her eye talking about the story. Her eyes light up and she gesticulates, enthralled, talking about Lily Bart or Boo Radley or Holden Caulfield. She posts all sorts of words all around the classroom, on every blank part of the wall, in construction paper: “Synchronicity.” “Bucolic.” “Lugubrious.” “Quintessential.” “Louche.” You can tell she authentically loves the English language. She loves the language and she wants us to love the language. To love the words.
“Maybe we should take a break before Bio. You know that’s gonna be annoying.”
Can’t argue with Remy there. But we really shouldn’t. I’m trying to demonstrate some kind of responsibility here. Or at least the ability to get something done. Just one thing.
“I dunno. Let’s see if we—”
“Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
“Remy?”
“I have to pee.”
Okay, I’ll just stare out the window. There’s a lot to stare at. I noticed from upstairs there’s a pool somewhere out there. And a tennis court. And a horse stable. And a maze. Look, if you don’t have a maze at your house, I don’t know what to tell you. I think it comes in handy when you are at the end of that movie with Jack Nicholson and you need a place to lose him and escape with your life.
Looking out the window now, however, you would never know any of these features exist. Because they are tucked away, discreetly, behind the trees and the foliage and the carriage house. It’s just tacky to show everyone your maze right off the bat. Clearly.
After contemplating the grounds, I take a little constitutional around the great room. Maybe I could build a fort in the fireplace.
Remy still isn’t back, so I might as well wander back into the library. This place is like a shrine to old white males. Every wall has an oil painting, or three, of a sophisticated, snooty-looking, humorless old gent staring down his nose at you. Most of them are the color of chalk. I’m assuming this is the long line of Remy-ancestor blue bloods who are probably watching me now in ghost form from the attic.
And, of course, at the end . . . over the mantel. Look who. If it isn’t William Howard Taft himself. President William Howard Taft. And from the looks of him, it appears he might hold the record for the president who ate the most sandwiches. For he is sturdy. And he has a mustache. A blond mustache. That curves up at the ends. Not much in the way of eyebrows, though. Maybe he used his eyebrows to make his mustache.
He is definitely the sturdiest of all these ghouls glowering down from their picture frames. Maybe that’s why he got to be president. Everyone else was just too weak to make it through the campaign trail. No, William Howard Taft was definitely the only red-blooded one in the family.
Here’s something.
Remy’s still not back.
What is taking her? I mean, is she playing a joke on me? Some kind of Amagansett tomfoolery? Some kind of Waspy tradition meant to welcome me with a wink and a laugh over Pimms later?
It’s okay. I’m not freaking out. Not at all.
I’ll just look for her. I’m sure there are only a thousand rooms in the house. So I’ll be back in five hours. See you then.
Honestly, I have a feeling she went back to the bedroom to get her phone. I understand this. I, too, am tempted to get my phone and fuck off the rest of the day. But no. No, we are here to be good. I can hear the water running in her bathroom. Okay, well, hm . . . I guess the best thing to do is just sit here on the bed and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And . . . um . . . wait.
Well, now it’s been ten minutes and still the water is running.
This is getting weird.
“Remy?”
Nothing.
“Remy? Hello . . . ?”
Still nothing.
Okay, now my stomach is tying itself into a million small hard knots. I am worried. Like really worried.
“Remy? I’m coming in there, okay? Don’t get mad at me or think I’m weird. I totally don’t want to see you, like, peeing, but I’m kind of worried and I’m coming in. Okay?”
I expect that the door’s gonna be locked. Right? I mean, that’s a reasonable expectation of someone in the bathroom.
But it’s not.
It just comes right open.
It comes right open and there is Remy in the delicate Victorian bathroom, with the oval gilded mirror and the claw-foot tub, and everything is just so and exquisite and out of a fairy tale, except that the sink is overflowing and Remy is lying on the tile, unconscious.
SIXTY
Everybody knows you’re not supposed to have a needle sticking out of your arm. But does everybody know what to do if there is an unauthorized needle sticking out of your arm?
Exactly. What?
Do you pull it out? Or is it one of those things, like moving a body after an accident, where you could possibly do more harm than good? What to do? Do I google it or call an ambulance? Yes, maybe call an ambulance. But then that definitely raises this incident to a higher level of parental involvement.
Fuck it. Remy is unconscious on the floor.
Okay, I’m gonna call an ambulance.
I notice, as I’m waiting, that there are a few things to give everyone hope. It appears that Remy is breathing. Put your ear next to her mouth and there’s definitely breath there. But that is all. The lights are definitely out in all other categories.
Well, it’s a good thing she stopped doing drugs.
Remy, please fucking don’t die. Please fucking don’t die. Please fucking don’t die.
I don’t even feel like I’m in this room right now. I feel like I’m up at the top of this room, looking down at someone whose best friend is lying half-dead from an overdose with a needle sticking out of her arm. Oh, but that person sitting there is me.
That appears to be me crying and generally freaking out. I think that’s the normal reaction to this situation. But the me who’s looking down, removed from everything? That me has just switched to the off position. Powered down. Gone into sleep mode.
Boy, those ambulances sure know how to find a place. That was fast. I guess that’s what happens when you live in a castle.
There’s a second where I wonder if I’ll be in trouble. Like somehow I’ll be busted for even being here. But no. I’m not the show. I’m not the main event.
No one ever locks the front door around here, so these guys are yelling from downstairs and I am yelling from up here and now they are in the room. Both of these guys are pretty square-looking and they seem almost concerned about me, too, which is weird.
I think I should probably be doing something vaguely proactive or supportive, but for some reason all I can do is sit here, on the floor, staring, listening to all the commotion in a state of paralysis.
I know I should call someone. An adult. Someone responsible. Someone not me. My hand reaches into Remy’s bag and pulls out her phone—a separate hand. Just doing it. Not my hand. Not my brain. Not my will.
For some reason I call Humbert Humbert.
SIXTY-ONE
Apparently, calling Humbert Humbert was not a good idea. Apparently, this got him fired, shit-canned, axed. But wait, there’s more! Apparently, the whole extravaganza, between the teacher sex, the acting thing, and the OD incident, have led the Tafts to the sensible decision that maybe the Pembroke School is a bad influence on their daughter.
(If th
ey only knew.)
But there you have it.
Pembroke is bad for Remy.
So here I sit in my giant, beautiful room, with Remy’s sheets on the bed and Remy’s things scattered all around.
But no more Remy.
I have desperately wanted to talk to her but then desperately wanted not to talk to her and so on and so on to infinity.
I have kicked her stupid dirty clothes to the corner of the room in a raging fit. And I have wrapped myself up in her bedding and stared, silent, out my open door toward the maid’s room.
And Milo. Well, he’s AWOL, too. Just like Remy said he would be. Maybe his mom heard about the OD and took him out of Witherspoon. He hardly ever went to class anyway.
I wonder if they’ll still find a way to give them both their diplomas. I mean, if they did, would any of us be surprised?
And you. Perhaps you’re hoping for one of those romantic-comedy moments where one day Milo is running toward me on the quad and confessing his love and begging for forgiveness in the last minute. Nope. Sometimes life doesn’t get to be a movie. Sometimes it’s just weird and unsettling. Like getting dumped on Thanksgiving and then never speaking to someone ever again.
That’s okay, though. I’m trying to make it okay. Maybe part of the trick is not to expect that everything is gonna turn out like a movie. Maybe if you take away that expectation and just let everything be what it is, that’s how you get through this thing without tearing your hair out.
Maybe you’re just supposed to let it be. Maybe you just take away the “should.”
But right now there is no letting anything be, because everyone is freaking the fuck out about the play.
What to do, what to do?! All of them . . . brimming with anticipation about what’s gonna happen to the play.
Apparently, Mrs. Jacobsen—who has been reinstated after Humbert’s abrupt (ahem) departure—is in a real dither about the whole catastrophe. No Ophelia. No Ophelia! How can you have Hamlet without Ophelia?!
Maybe Mrs. Jacobsen can play Ophelia. A brilliant interpretation! Hamlet as Ann Taylor catalog!
The Fall of Butterflies Page 20
