by Hope Lyda
We meet midbridge. It is the very bridge where I first figured out he was the Beau who worked as recreation director at Golden Horizons before I took that job. The other day outside of the convention center we exchanged “I’m sorry’s” with sincerity, but these are our first and simultaneously exchanged words tonight.
I laugh, but he is very serious as he says, “I am sorry about our anniversary date tension, I’m sorry about canceling out on several of our weekend plans…”
“Numerous.” I prod, half joking.
“Yes, numerous. And I am very sorry about…”
I know where he is going with this. “It’s okay. I overreacted to the whole thing. I’m not a deeply jealous person, yet I sounded so much like a person I don’t want to be. That girl is hypersensitive and untrusting.” As I say this, another thought runs across the back of my mind, I didn’t expect so many apologies to be a part of a good relationship.
Beau’s eyes go from serious to sentimental. “This girl reacts just as she should.” He points to my chin.
“With the geographic distance we will have, it is going to take effort from both of us. You are so busy, and once I am living at the Urban Center, helping Mom, Dad—things will be hectic.” Even during my rambling, my mind censored adding Marcus to the list.
“You are right. It will take more effort,” he says gently and places my hand on his heart. “I vow to be better at this dating thing so that when you return, we will be back on track.”
This statement jolts me a bit. What does that mean to a guy like Beau? We are just beginning to figure out how to apologize. Surely he doesn’t mean to imply…
“It’s our song. By request, of course.” Beau interrupts my derailed thoughts.
“Fly Me to the Moon” is our cue to stop talking, to stop assessing our relationship. And for me, a clear signal to stop obsessing about hypotheticals once again.
We start to dance, holding each other cheek to cheek. It feels good to be so close. Recent arguments and misunderstandings have swelled beneath us and sent us off balance. Now, under the stars and the spell of the music, we are steady and close. And those trivial things are hard to recall.
Security Measures
So I got to thinking about what you said last night. About the distance and how hard it will be to feel like we are together, and…”
“Do you have my ticket? Wasn’t it in the front pouch of my laptop case?” I am sweating and tired and a bit anxious about the day of travel. I check my watch for the zillionth time and realize we are considerably early. Which Beau annoyingly points out.
“It isn’t even six o’clock. And your ticket is still in that pouch.”
“Maybe I should have come on my own this morning.” I get agitated with myself on travel days. Trying to be pleasant with Beau, who is just trying to be nice, is making me more frustrated. Something about the maze of people, lines, gates, and flashing boards sends my heart rate flying. “There’s the line I need to be in.” I dash down the airline lobby and get behind a woman with two little boys, each with his own roller backpack.
“Anyway, I created a travel kit for you. But first you have to open this.” Beau removes a small nylon mailer envelope from his backpack. There is a small bulge in one corner.
“What’s this?” I say, verbally shooing it away. I had just prided myself on packing the ideal bag. The journal from the girls was the missing piece to fill my case perfectly. “There’s no more room.” I crane my neck to see who is holding the line up.
“I know. It fits in your laptop bag. I already measured it.”
The guy measured his gift for me, and I am worried about being late for a flight that is likely still midjourney from Florida. “That is sweet. Will you open it for me? My hands are full.”
Beau grabs my suitcase handle and reshapes my tight grip around the package.
I detach the Velcro opening and peer inside. A small flip phone with a bow on it is the bulge, and there are several other items tied up with string.
“I have a phone.” I explain a bit like Mr. Rogers might. “You’ve called me on it.”
Beau’s eyes get wide and just when he should want to slap me, he gets more excited. “I know, but this one is under my plan so we can talk free anytime. There is no limit on minutes between our phones. Now you can always reach me.”
I resist asking him if the phone also has a tracking device because it wasn’t my phone plan that made him difficult to reach lately.
“Keep looking, honey.”
I crack a smile. How can I resist such enthusiasm? I dig further and first pull out a calling card. One of the two boys in front of us falls over and the other knees him in the back. We help the one up and direct the antagonist toward his mother.
“That is in case you cannot use the cell phone. You could use the shelter’s line and not charge them. And I was thinking that when you are out and about there might be places the signal doesn’t cover, and you could use the card at a pay phone to check in with me.”
Check in?
“Good morning. I’m Clarissa, your Fly Right representative. Thank you for choosing Fly Right flights for your flight.”
“That must be difficult to say all day.” I smile to make up for my bad mood.
“A pleasure,” Clarissa says without an ounce of it in her voice.
“Like flying,” I return.
“Has anyone asked you to carry anything for them or assisted with your packing?” Clarissa says her next line as she accuses me over her dark-rimmed glasses.
“No.”
“Please step over there.” Clarissa points in the opposite direction of the gates.
“What’s over there?”
She sighs and points with a firmer thrust of her finger. “Extra security measures. You were seen receiving that package while in line. Please go.”
I give Beau a stern look. A “this is your fault” grimace so he too will worry that maybe my one and a half hours of extra time won’t be enough for me to make this flight.
While my nylon bag is searched, the third gift is removed by the security guard and held up for all to see—a very large necklace with an oval of mother of pearl. As it spins in the breeze of air-conditioning, I see that one side is scary. Beau has affixed a close-up photo of our faces on that side.
“It’s so you can wear us all the time.”
Wear us? What are we now, Dolce & Gabbana?
The guard gives me a sympathetic smile and motions for Beau to stay behind a blue line three feet away.
“Did I mention the cell phone is a camera phone? You could send me pictures anytime. And I got one too,” he says, holding up a matching phone, “so I can show you what I’m doing…” Beau’s voice trails off and in its wake his unspoken thoughts rise and take shape. Now I understand. This pocket full of communication tools is more about the state of us. He is making up for the fact that I heard the name Paige through the phone line. He is making a peace offering, a guilt gifting.
When I finally get through security, I understand he is just helping me through my insecurities. And maybe a few of his own.
I place the necklace over my head after going through the metal detectors. While an elderly man is getting his hat searched I call out over my fellow travelers and tell Beau the gifts are wonderful and sweet.
And I blow him a kiss.
Welcome Matt
My name is Mari Hamilton. Everyone is expecting me.” I have bellowed this same sentence four different ways into the intercom speaker outside the gate of the Urban Center.
The young voice on the other end is that of a boy trying to sound a bit older. He coughs every few words to add gruffness to his vocal impression. “We don’t let anyone in when they aren’t approved.”
I try again. “My flight was delayed. I traveled all the way from Arizona. Because I got stuck in Chicago for a while, the Hamiltons had to go on to their doctor’s appointment. So I took a cab from the airport.”
There is static on the other en
d. My counterpart has forgotten to push the “talk” button again. I cannot hear his rebuttal.
I press my talk button and try my last attempt before walking down to a café a few blocks away to wait out the return of people who want me here. “Who am I talking to?”
Static. Then “Matty. I mean Matt.”
“Matt, I really need a bathroom. I’ve been traveling all day, and I never use airplane bathrooms. I’m too claustrophobic. It started when I got stuck in a sleeping bag at camp and I’ve never gotten over it. Does your breathing ever get shallow and your chest hurt with panic? It isn’t fun.” Good grief, give me a captive audience and I turn it into a counseling session.
Static. “Nope.”
“Matty, look over the soda fountain counter and you will see a big photo of the Hamiltons and me taken last year at the Thanksgiving dinner—maybe you were there? Then look at the security monitor, and I will make the same hand signal as I am in the photo. A stranger wouldn’t know what that is. But I do because I am not a stranger. In fact, I will be living at the house for a while. We’ll be buds.” I may have pushed a bit too far on that one, but my idea must be logical to his young mind.
“Okay. Do the signal.”
Placing my suitcase on the ground, I spread both hands wide and make moose horns with them. To add to the authenticity of this test of identity, I also cross my eyes. Some folks worry about the day when everywhere we go we simply hold up our thumb for print identification, but I believe I would welcome this technology about now.
There is a faltering buzz and the gate unlocks. I quickly shove my things on through and shut the gate behind me. If the gate is left open too long, an alarm sounds.
By now it is late afternoon and I am hungry, tired, and in need of a post-travel shower. I pity Matty if he tries to stop me.
I can already see the signs of Dad’s illness. The rose garden to the right of the walkway is scorched from summer sun. The grass is brown and the fountain is sputtering instead of flowing. A bit of frustration rises up in me. How long has he not been able to do this work? Why isn’t Marcus on top of caring for the yard? I come all this way, leaving a great job, romance, and circle of friends to find the place in disarray. Someone should have called me to come much sooner. I find my emotions bouncing back and forth between my martyr and my savior complexes.
Considering how the gate conversation went, I decide to knock before entering the house. Before my second tap a large boy answers the door. He has rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and a shock of red hair. His appearance makes me smile.
“Matty, I presume?” I hold out my hand, which he shakes firmly. “I’m Mari. Can I come in and get settled?”
“Sure,” he says, as though he has not been the stern gatekeeper for the past ten minutes.
I look around at what used to be three individual rooms but is now one large multipurpose area: the kitchen, dining room, and meeting area. My eyes and heart take it all in. Funny how a place that seemed to offer uncertainty as a child now provides the strongest sense of home and peace.
“If you are looking for the bathroom, it’s that way.” Matty points to the back by the walk-in freezer.
“I used to live here.” I reinforce that fact in case he didn’t make the connection.
An expression of curiosity crosses the boy’s features. It is a “why are you still talking to me” look, not a “that is interesting, keep going” invitation. I make my way to the bathroom.
Once the door is closed behind me in the one-stall room I revert to old behavior. I start holler-talking to those in the main room. “So where is everyone? Since when do they leave you kids all alone?” I want to gather information before I lay into Marcus about letting things fall apart before I could get here.
About the time I figure Matty has left the room I hear his voice filled with confusion about the boundaries of this conversation through a bathroom door. “I’m not a kid. My fifteenth birthday was last week.”
“But still. We have strict policies about leaving any child alone in the house.” I return to the main room wiping my hands with a paper towel. “I want to know what has happened to house rules, to proper conduct, and to professional treatment of the residents. This is unacceptable.”
Matty holds his hands up in the air. “Okay. If it makes you feel better, our house folks are at the doctor’s—which you seemed to know—and Uncle Marcus took everyone to the roller rink. I, however, got a D in my summer school math class, so I was supposed to stay behind with some giant, angry woman who was going to be here earlier, but she never showed.”
I realize he is talking about me. “And who described this so-called large person?”
“Giant,” he corrects. “Marcus.”
“Yes. Sweet Uncle Marcus.” I roll my eyes and sit down at the large farm table. I can see Marcus avoiding the use of my name, but my parents? Wasn’t anyone excited about this huge decision I made to come here and help? I thought I would come in and be welcomed with open arms, balloons even. Instead, I am alone with a kid who has only heard me referred to as big and mean. Correction: giant and angry.
Matty reaches into the fridge for bottled water. “And I’ll probably get kitchen duty for a week for letting you in.”
“I will stand up for you.”
He looks me up and down for a moment and seems to assess that I won’t have the clout to ease his fate.
“Just to give me a fighting chance, would you please stay here in the main room until they arrive? No outsiders are allowed in the study room,” he points his fruit of choice toward the side porch that has three rows of antique school desks.
“Math?” I ask the obvious.
“What?”
“No, not Matt. I asked if you are doing math because I am really good.” I lie a bit to make connection with the boy who will be my housemate for who knows how long.
He raises his eyebrows to indicate I’m weird and moseys on to his studies while I sit at what was once my place at this huge table. I reach underneath and feel around until I find the area where years ago I had drilled tiny holes into the wood with the tip of a ball point pen.
Anything to avoid my math assignments.
Pass the Role
Mari!” A chorus of one word—my name—rings loudly in my ear. I have fallen asleep at the dining table and can barely rouse to consciousness even with the earsplitting vocal alarm.
“What time is it?” I wipe a bit of spittle from the corner of my mouth and “Uncle” Marcus takes a picture of the awakening grouchy woman.
I punch his arm hard. Angelica would be proud.
“See, what’d I tell you?” Marcus shouts to the gathering of kids who stand behind him trying to get a look at me. “Well, maybe she is petite, but I was right about the angry part!”
My heart is still racing. I am unable to defend myself in the moment. This seems to be the reaction Marcus was hoping for. He winks at me and leads the kids in a dinnertime hand-washing-and-food-preparation drill while I struggle to my feet too slowly to regain my composure.
Just what I needed—to start off feeling like the loser girl.
I am weary and feeling tousled in general, but instead of doing what I want, which is run and hide, I decide to step in line and find my place in the dinner routine. Marcus calls out orders for the color-named teams. Red team prepares vegetables, blue team breads the chicken for frying, the white team scoops up portions of potato salad from an industrial-sized container, and the green team sets the table.
Since the long, narrow kitchen space is filled with teens, I opt to be green. Thankfully the silverware is in the same oak buffet in the corner. Turns out Matty is green; I follow him as he sets mats at each place setting. Every couple paces he looks back to see if I am still following. I think I am growing on him.
The sounds of this chaos are stimulating and relaxing, like surprisingly rhythmic white noise. Matty and I finish our task facing the soda fountain bar, which divides our area from the kitchen. “Hey, Matt. Could you tell m
e everybody’s name?”
He considers this. I can almost see the rule about not talking to strangers flashing behind his blue eyes.
“I was the one who was supposed to be here when you got home from school. I’m sorry I was late. And I’m not just a friend of your housefolks, I am their daughter. I grew up here. We have something in common.” I motion between us, drawing an invisible thread from his heart to mine and back again.
His hand goes to his chin in a very adult gesture of contemplation as he thinks it over. “Left to right—Tara, Jon, Liz, Camden, Elsa, Grant, Josiah, Lou…”
“Lou?”
“Short for Louise. Katie, Alf—short for Alfred, Ben, and the little guy on the end is Wallace.”
“When I was here the girls outnumbered the boys. Good thing I came.” I give myself a reason to feel good about being here, even if nobody else will.
“Music. Music. Music.” Red team refuses to cut one more carrot until Marcus approves stereo usage.
His walk over to the sound system involves passing by me. I have not made eye contact with him yet, and I hope to keep up the avoidance. During my last visit here, Marcus mentioned having feelings for me, or at least the hope of developing feelings. I want to make it clear why I am here. For the sake of my parents and the kids, nothing else.
“Our special guest will make the music selection for this evening.” Marcus comes behind me and pulls me by my shirt until I am standing next to the rather large collection of CDs.
A large groan comes from the kitchen.
“Order in the galley,” Marcus hollers back.
I play up the importance and pressure of the decision by pacing along the bookshelf containing the music options. The kids stand watching me, grimacing as they anticipate some oldie from way back in the eighties or something equally disgusting. I break my initial rule and look to Marcus for a clue, but he looks past me and shakes his head no. I notice a few CDs are sticking out a bit from the shelf as though someone quickly put them back after use. I reach for one of these.
