Where I End and You Begin

by Preston Norton

  “Seven years?” I said, trying hard not to sound impressed.

  Roscoe nodded, a little more hopefully. “Yeah. I go to AA meetings when I can, but…it’s a little tricky in the restaurant business. I work nights, mostly. But I, uh…I just got my seven-year bronze medallion. Actually…” He reached into the pocket of his slacks, rummaging. “Here, I’ve got it on me.”

  He pulled a bronze coin out of his pocket and set it on the table in front of me. It sounded heavy, landing with a thick clunk. Around the outer edge, it read, To thine own self be true, and featured a triangle at the center with a word at each side—unity and service and recovery. Inside the triangle was the Roman numeral VII.

  I didn’t know shit about AA medallions, but this looked pretty legit to me.

  I nodded sternly, trying hard not to look impressed.

  “Anyway,” he said, grabbing the coin, pocketing it, “I know these are all just words, and words are nothing without the actions to back them up. I don’t expect you to let me back into your life. I don’t expect anything from you. But I’m honored that you would even think to come here and have this conversation with me. I know…I know it wasn’t easy. It’s probably not easy to even look at me. But I’m grateful. Thank you, Wynonna.”

  Okay. I knew it was a little premature to make judgments, but I already kind of liked this Roscoe guy. At least, for the time being, I had determined he wasn’t a “total piece of shit.”

  On to Phase Two.

  “Look,” I said. “I obviously have a lot of anger about what happened. And I’ll tell you right now: You’re catching me on a good day. Tomorrow might not be a good day. Tomorrow, I might want to punch you in the face.”

  Roscoe nodded rather acceptingly at this revelation.

  “The truth is,” I said, “I feel like there are two people inside of me. One of those people wants this to work out. Wants to give you a chance. Maybe even have a real father-daughter relationship with you.”

  Roscoe’s entire countenance flickered, lighting up.

  “The other person inside me wants to murder you in your sleep,” I said.

  Roscoe’s “lighting up” process pulled back hard on the reins. Reeled it back in to a reasonable dim glow.

  He went back to nodding, accepting the terms of his fate.

  “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to have that relationship with you,” I said, finally. “But I’d like to try. Maybe we can take it slow? One day at a time?”

  Roscoe was a dog, and I had just thrown him the greatest fucking stick of his life. He would have chased that stick off a cliff. He perked up, and he was trying so hard not to lose his shit with joy, and he was so totally failing.

  “In the meantime,” I said, “just…be aware of that other person inside of me. This may not make any sense, but she’s the one who needs you the most. She’s the one who’s hurting. She needs someone who understands that she hasn’t healed properly. Really, she’s just a bunch of broken pieces duct-taped together. But I think she needs you. Does that make sense?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you want. You are in charge.”

  The confused look on Roscoe’s face, however, indicated that it made zero sense. Maybe even negative sense. But he wasn’t about to admit it. Right now, he was the King of Understanding Metaphors. He nodded with so much raw determination, he could’ve skipped astronaut training and gone straight to the part where we launched him into outer space. If that’s where Wynonna was, he was so fucking there.

  Oh well. He didn’t need to understand right now. He’d understand the moment he crossed paths with the wrong Wynonna.

  “So…” I said. “You went to culinary school in Switzerland? That’s cool.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It was cool. It was also hell.”

  “Hell?”

  “Oh yeah. It sucked hard.”

  I offered a prodding look.

  “Imagine Gordon Ramsay cloning himself and running his own cooking school.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yikes is right. The Swiss method is generally: Kick them when they’re down. Wear steel-toe boots while you’re at it. Then gently insert the knowledge into their submissive, catatonic brains.”

  “Wow. Sounds great.”

  “It was a learning experience. And it wasn’t all bad. The training programs at most Swiss academies combine traditions of European culinary schools, including the French and Italian ones. Essentially, you’re getting the full culinary experience. And even though the courses are taught in English, they also offer German, French, and Italian to expand your employment possibilities.”

  “No shit,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Can you speak any of those languages?”

  “Ein bisschen,” said Roscoe, in a guttural, phlegmy accent.

  “Whoa. What was that?”

  “C’était allemand,” he said—this time in a completely different accent. Relaxed. Delicate.

  “Okay, that was French. Was that first one German?”

  “Sei molto bravo a capire gli accenti,” he said, in a third accent. Suave. Flowing. Probably Italian.

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  Roscoe chuckled. “You’re good at picking up those accents.”

  “You’re good at picking up three different languages!” I exclaimed. “There are just three of them, right? Please tell me there are only three of them.”

  “Just three. And to be fair, I learned French in high school. And I’m not good at any of them. At my best, most of my instructors would’ve told you that I sounded like three different kinds of bumbling village idiot.”

  “Friendly lot.”

  “I’m actually pen pals with some of them now.”

  “Pen pals?” It came out of me in a stifled burst of laughter.

  “Hey, pen pals are the shit! That’s how we roll in prison.”

  It felt so inappropriate to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

  “Guess I just never really warmed up to the whole ‘social media’ thing,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of putting my whole life up on display. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of. Besides, letters have just always felt more genuine. But I’m all about phone calls! In fact, I was just on the phone with one of my teachers the other day—Leif Lindberg. He just started a restaurant in Bern—that’s the Swiss capital—and it’s already opening to rave reviews. It’s called Waldeinsamkeit, and get this: He offered to fly me out there and basically offered me a—”

  He stopped himself.

  “A what?” I said. Even though the “what” was painfully obvious. “A job?”

  Roscoe shifted uncomfortably.

  “But you’re not taking it, right?” I said.

  “No.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m not taking it.”

  He didn’t need to tell me why. We both knew why he wasn’t taking it. There was only one thing tying him down to Carbondale.

  A thing who wanted nothing to do with him.

  “Anyway,” I said, desperate to change the subject, “we need a way to keep in contact. A secret way so, uh…Carol doesn’t know I’m meeting with you. Because Carol will definitely kill me if she finds out.”

  By Carol, I of course meant Wynonna. If anyone was going to get murdered in their sleep, it would be me. I had to handle this situation with tact.

  Roscoe stopped nodding. Something seemed to click. “Uh. I have a burner phone.”

  “A burner phone?” I said.

  What I wanted to say was “What possible reason does a non-criminal have for owning a burner phone?” But that seemed insensitive, given the circumstances. So instead, I merely accosted him with my leeriest stare.

  Roscoe seemed to overcome an intense internal battle, and whether he won or lost, the battle ended with a resolute sigh.

  “It’s for online dating,” he confessed.

  My confusion seemed to produce visible question marks floating around my person like a magical aura. So, he expounded.r />
  “I’m not seeing anyone,” he clarified, “if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just easier not to use your real phone number when you’re dealing with people you’ve never met before. I haven’t even used the thing yet. It’s just…I’m just…you know…” He hesitated.

  He said “you know” in a way that indicated that I knew. Which I didn’t.

  “I know what?” I said.

  “I’m just trying to move on,” said Roscoe.

  He immediately seemed to regret it. Shrank beneath his own words.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

  Roscoe stared at me. Stunned. Speechless. His eyes said, “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?” The irony was not lost on me.

  Finally, he snapped out of his daze. Cleared his throat. “The…uh…the burner phone’s in my car. Still in the package. I’ll go get it.”

  I followed him out to his car. He rummaged through the passenger side of his car—an embarrassing disaster area littered with energy drink cans, candy bar wrappers, and Burger King paraphernalia. Like, Jesus, how was this dude so cut?

  Sure enough, he emerged with a no-contract smartphone, still in its unopened packaging, still in the Walmart bag he purchased it in. He removed the receipt, crumpled and shoved it in his pocket, and handed me the bag.

  “Thanks,” I said. I shifted uncomfortably. “I should be going now.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  The tension was thick. The tension of a father who wanted to hug his daughter but knew he had no right. Besides, I wasn’t his daughter. I wasn’t about to delude the man. I wasn’t doing this for him.

  I was doing it for Wynonna.

  Lakes a half hour early to pick me up. Her excuse was that she had been sitting by the door, checking her phone every couple minutes for the past hour, literally losing her mind. She emphasized the literal part. Claimed that she was seconds away from a psychosis situation. Real Black Swan stuff.

  Imogen was literally too adorable to argue with.

  First, we went “semiformal dress shopping.” Naturally, we went to T.J.Maxx, and when that failed us, we went to Marshalls. Basically, I followed Imogen around the store while she said “Oooh” and “Ahhh” and draped dresses in my arms until my biceps ached. Then I tried them on.

  I thought I was becoming an expert in wearing girls’ clothes, but it turned out there was a whole dark underbelly of girls’ fashion that I had yet to meet: semiformal wear. Some of these dresses were complicated. Some were like puzzles made out of fabric, and the puzzle wasn’t solved until it was on your body, and you didn’t look like a complete idiot. One particular dress—this embarrassingly short, denim-blue thing—had an overabundance of straps and sashes that needed to be untied and retied to fit it to your shape, and after ten minutes of trying to figure it out, I had to do the unthinkable.

  “Imogen?” I mumbled.

  “Yeah?” said Imogen’s voice from the other side of the dressing room door. “Is everything okay?”

  I let out a ragged breath. “I can’t figure this thing out.”

  “Oh. Would you like some help?”

  “If that’s okay?” I said. Except my voice totally cracked on the word “okay.”

  I unlocked the door, Imogen came in, and locked it behind her. Then she looked me up and down with great amusement, like a circus attraction.

  “Wow,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “You look like a Christmas present that my baby brother wrapped.”

  “Help me,” I said.

  “Here, let’s take this thing off and start over. I think you have all the wrong things tied in the wrong places. Arms up.”

  Before I could even think to object, she grabbed the bottom and lifted it up to my tits. My arms flew up, but it was mostly a reaction to my panic. The dress came over my head, and Imogen immediately set to work unraveling the puzzle.

  There I was, in a tiny four-by-five room, with Imogen, in Wynonna’s bra and panties. I was so embarrassed and sexually overwhelmed, I was unraveling faster than the dress.

  “Okay, let’s try this again,” she said.

  This time, she lowered the dress and had me step into it. She pulled it up the curves of my body until it seemed to slink into place. Then she moved behind me, adjusting and tying the straps and sashes.

  “You seem different,” she said.

  My entire body tensed up, like I had been caught in a lie.

  “What do you mean?” I said, finally. My voice—even if it wasn’t mine—had never sounded so incriminating.

  “It’s not bad,” she said. “You’re just quieter. More…vulnerable. And I mean that in a good way. I miss this. I miss being this close. I feel like there’s been a…not a wall between us, but a layer. And not even a bad layer. More like a protective layer. And it’s weird. Ever since you and Ezra, I feel like that layer just disintegrated.”

  I nodded because words eluded me.

  “Anyway,” she said, “thank you for being you.”

  I know she meant that as the most genuine of compliments. Given the circumstances, however, it made me feel dirty, and ugly, and treacherous. Imogen had so much trust in Wynonna. And I wasn’t Wynonna. I was a liar in the perfect disguise.

  “Okay, done,” she said. “Turn around.”

  I turned around. Imogen’s eyes lit up.

  “Oh. My. Gosh,” she said. “This is it. This is the one.”

  Then, inexplicably, she gathered up all Wynonna’s clothes into a bundle in her arms—minus the burgundy combat boots I was still wearing—and left the dressing room with them.

  “Come on!” she said. “I’m buying.”

  “What?” I said in mild terror. “I can’t go to the register wearing this!”

  “Sure you can! I’m a regular, and Phoebe’s at the register. Phoebe lets me do this all the time.”

  Sure enough, Phoebe did.

  “Mm-mm, girl,” said Phoebe. “Rockin’ that dress. Here, turn around, lemme scan you.”

  Next up: nails.

  Imogen ordered French mani-pedis for both of us. I wasn’t going to lie, it was probably the most relaxing thing I had ever done in my entire life. I closed my eyes and nearly fell asleep, I was so in my Zen. It was only when we were finished that I discovered my fingernails had gained a centimeter or two. I tried to open Imogen’s car door, and they clicked uncomfortably against the exterior.

  “Is it supposed to be this impossible to use my hands?” I asked.

  “I know, right?!” Imogen exclaimed, like she had been holding her cynicism in. “Isn’t it maddening?”

  “Then why did we—”

  Imogen balled her hands as much as her nails would allow, smooshed them into her cheeks, and squealed, “BECAUSE WE LOOK SO DARN FREAKING CUTE.”

  We drove straight to Imogen’s house and burrowed ourselves in her bedroom. Her bedroom was pink and frilly—like she hadn’t attempted to redecorate since fifth grade—and featured bookshelves filled with old box sets like Anne of Green Gables and Little House on the Prairie. There was also an assortment of posters, ranging from The Sound of Music to Pride and Prejudice to Josh Groban. Imogen pulled out her desk chair, faced it away from her armoire mirror, and made me sit. I was instructed that I wasn’t allowed to look until she was finished.

  “I’ve been watching a ton of makeup tutorials lately for therapeutic reasons,” she said. “Here’s hoping I learned a thing or two in the process!”

  Imogen went to town on my face. I closed and opened my eyes when she told me to, puckered my lips, and was instructed on a second-to-second basis to be very, very, very still. I mostly succeeded.

  Finally, Imogen took a step back. Her eyes grew large and soft, and her mouth opened, on the fringe of breathless.

  “What?” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Huh?” said Imogen. She snapped out of her daze. “No, it’s…you’re just perfect is all.” She nodded at the mirror. “Go. Look at yourself.”

  I
stood up and turned around. What I saw reached into my lungs and stole the air right out of me.

  The true mastery of Imogen’s art was that it only served to draw attention to Wynonna’s natural features. The eyeliner was laid in thin, perfect lines, the mascara turning her already full lashes into an obsidian picture frame. Her eye shadow was a natural color, but there were possibly three or four different shades blended together in different parts, giving a surreal dimension to the shape of Wynonna’s already uniquely proportioned eyes.

  The contouring beneath her cheekbones drew attention to their broadness and strength.

  The lipstick was the one truly bold thing: the most intense red I had ever seen. Red like the fire that gave birth to the universe. Red like the lifeblood of everything. It was the sort of red that burrowed into your soul, never to be forgotten.

  Wynonna looked beautiful.

  I looked beautiful.

  That was the strangest thing—that it became very difficult to separate the beauty I was looking at from the beauty I felt. And I felt exquisite.

  “Okay, now that you look like an angel princess, maybe I should make myself look not like a hobo,” said Imogen. She leaned into the armoire mirror beside me and examined herself, making odd faces. “I’m thinking of plucking my eyebrows.”

  A spike of panic impaled me from top to bottom.

  “NO,” I sort of screamed.

  Imogen jumped back from the mirror, startled.

  “You just have really nice eyebrows,” I said. “Please don’t pluck them. Please. I can’t say ‘please’ enough. I’ll get on my knees and beg if I have to.”

  “Okay!” said Imogen, thoroughly amused. “I’ll keep the eyebrows. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t totally tempted to let you beg anyway.”

  I dropped down to my knees, clapped my hands together, and interlocked my fingers. “Please, please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease.”