I also see that next to the notebook is a printout of one of my own stories, one that Grandma was reading before she died. It had been near her bed, but it looks as if Seth has taken it for himself.
Grandma would have given me a critique (all positive; her notes were too nice). She would have talked about Chris’s illustrations and how beautifully he brought my words to life. She was my best fan.
I have not considered what it means to no longer have her as an editor. By the end, she was all things to me, but that was a big part of our relationship.
I think that maybe Seth could take Grandma’s place. If he stayed with me, even for a few months, we could talk more about our work.
I know it’s a violation, but I flip to the next page in his notebook. I tell myself it’s because I want to learn whether he writes his notes in full paragraphs or in phrases that look like poetry. I want to know if I take after him as a writer.
Turns out, whereas I’m a paragraph girl, he’s a phrases kind of guy. There are three- and four-word half sentences around the page. The shorthand probably means something to him. All I know is that I like his handwriting.
I flip to another page.
Then I see what he’s writing, and I can’t breathe.
He’s written things about me. Things that I’ve said, like recently, during the trip today.
Things about school and my mom and Grandma and Chris.
At first I’m excited, in the way that anyone gets when they see their own name and stuff written about them. It’s cool and flattering, and I’m thinking that he’s trying to remember this important week, the way I am.
But then, as I read more, the tone feels different. It’s not a diary entry or anything like that. It’s . . . something else. Not all of it is nice.
He’s described my eyeliner. “She doesn’t wash it off, and it’s uneven, one cat eye stretching further than the other,” it says.
Instinctively I run to the mirror in the spare room. He is right. I am an uneven cat.
What else? I wonder. What else is he writing?
The notebook has only random phrases, but I know there’s more to this.
At night this past week, when I’ve gone to bed, he’s told me he’ll be working for a few hours. He’s been on his laptop late into the night. When he wakes up, he’s in bed with it.
I open his laptop, and when it asks for a password, I type “Ethan.” What else could it be? And with that, I’m in.
I open “recent documents” and see one called “Scattered.”
There are ten thousand words that are all about a girl.
I read them all, and my body gives out like it’s a wet shopping bag. I slump over the laptop.
This is a story I know, but it’s like reality has been warped in a haunted fun-house mirror at a carnival.
I want to slam the laptop closed, but I have to force myself to keep reading, to know how furious to be.
* * *
This is the second time I’ve left the house at night in my pajamas and flip-flops. This time, at least, I’ve brought my phone and my wallet.
I am not trying to escape to the mall. This time I’m on a hunt. I take the car.
The Big Whale is in a strip mall in Framingham, one town over—but a quick Uber ride for Seth. It looks like the relic it is, an aging suburban bar with a blinking sign, in a building that will probably be torn down to make room for something better as soon as the ever-expanding mall is ready to swallow it.
I park the car all crooked because every car in the lot looks that way. It’s drizzling, and the small drops that fall on my shoulders make me shiver.
I take one breath for bravery before I open the door, and then I take stock of what I see.
I don’t think I’ve ever used the word saloon, but this would count as one. Everything is dark and made of gnarled wood, and there are blinking neon signs on the walls that say the names of beers. The one that says GANSETT is the brightest.
There aren’t many people here, only a few tables of two. The place smells like Buffalo chicken wings.
I spot Seth at a back table, seated across from another man. I am on my way to confront him, but am stopped by a server who comes out of nowhere.
“Can I help you?” the woman says as she looks me up and down. I’d taken a minute to put on a real bra, at least, but I’m still in full pajamas. My white tank top sort of looks like something you could wear during the day, but the thin white pants with rainbows on them, less so.
“Just looking for someone,” I say.
“We’re twenty-one-plus after six,” the woman says. She’s wearing a Red Sox shirt and a jean skirt.
“Lori.”
I see Seth’s mouth form the word when he spots my entrance. The server nods her permission for me to go talk to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, concerned, as I approach his table. “Is everything okay at home?”
“Fuck you, Seth,” I say.
It’s not the most creative sentiment, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment. Chris would flinch if he heard me say something like that in public. I push the thought of him aside.
Seth is embarrassed by my unfriendly hello. He looks across the table at the man he’s with and says, “Give me a second to talk to my niece.”
But before he stands up, I lean over him so he can’t move. I am feeling wild and angry, and my only weapon is to embarrass him the way he’s embarrassed me.
“I opened your laptop,” I say.
I’m standing and he’s still sitting, and I feel ten feet tall. “I know what you’re doing—why you’ve wanted to spend time with me. Why you’re thinking about staying in Natick with me.”
Seth’s mouth makes a thin line. He pushes his chair out, forcing me to take a step back. Now we’re the same height. He walks past me toward the front door of the bar.
“Where are you going?” I yell to him.
“Outside,” he barks without turning around.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him sound angry.
I look to the man at the table for a second, and I freeze. He’s around Seth’s age, and he’s the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, even counting famous actors. He takes a sip of his beer as if there isn’t a conflict happening right in front of him. He smiles at me like he’s Captain America.
“Is your name Jake?” I have to ask.
“How’d you know?” he says.
“Of course!” I say to the ceiling of the bar and then walk outside to meet Seth.
I’m barely out there when he yells first.
“What gives you the right to go through my things?” Seth asks. “How’d you get into my laptop?”
“Your password is Ethan,” I say. “I didn’t have to crack some code or hack you or anything. Anyway, I’m not the one who should be getting yelled at here. I only went into your laptop because I looked at your notebook. Maybe I shouldn’t have . . . but I was curious. I wanted to see how you took notes, as a writer. Then I saw you were writing things about me. And the file—is that what you think of me? What you said about my problems. My clothes. My room!”
“It’s a compliment! She’s a character! I’m writing about you because you’re a remarkable character!”
“I’m not a character!”
“It’s just some ideas, Lori,” he says. “It’s not anything to be concerned about. Writers write things all the time. It’s an exercise. It’s a process.”
“It’s ten thousand words! You’ve been acting like you want to support me, to know me, and it’s for a book!”
“Lori,” Seth says, softer this time.
“You put in little details that I gave you, that are real. The story about the promposal at my high school. All of it.”
He’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand the problem.
“Seth, my stories are mine! The way I feel about Chris, that’s all mine, too.”
That’s the worst part, how he documented what I told him about how I feel about Chris,
the most important person in my life. My face burns thinking about it.
“First of all,” he says, “can you lower your voice? Can we just calm down?”
There are two guys outside the bar, smoking cigarettes and watching us, and one is laughing, maybe at what they’re hearing, but I don’t care.
“Lori, you have to get home. It’s late and it’s raining,” Seth says.
It is more than drizzling now, and I’m shivering a little, but that could be because of my rage.
“No,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I think I’ll stand here and yell. Wouldn’t that be good for the book? Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll get my period while I do it. Maybe my eyeliner will run down my face.”
“Lor,” he says in a softer voice. “You’re overreacting.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’m a writer!” he says.
“So am I!”
“That means you should know that inspiration can come from many places. Yes, I’ve been very inspired by the death of my mother and being here with you. It is totally normal that a writer would put those thoughts to paper. It’s been very healing for me this week.”
“You said you’d consider staying to help me. You wanted to take Grandma Sheryl’s ashes to beautiful gardens with me. You said you wanted to get to know me better because you cared. You wanted . . . material? Is that it?”
“I have every right to take notes on this trip. I have every right to write about it,” Seth says. “You take notes and write about a lot of things in your life!”
“I write fantasy stories and turn living people into zombies. I don’t ask my niece about her hopes and fears and dreams and then use everything she says for some book she doesn’t know anything about.”
“You should be honored!” Seth says, and I reel back, stunned. “Lori, you are drenched, and it’s freezing.”
He sees our car behind me.
“That’s your parking job? Get in the car and go home.”
I am freezing now, and there is nothing else to say, so I turn and walk to the car. I won’t give him any more inspiration.
I look back, thinking that he’ll watch me leave, that I’ll see a look of remorse on his face, or maybe that he’ll follow me, but the bar door is already swinging shut. He’s back inside.
We’ll get through this week, I think, and then that’s it. He will not replace Grandma. No one could. I’d rather live in Maryland with Bill and know that it’s Seth’s fault. What I saw at Tapestry Garden wasn’t a lapse in judgment; it was any other day, maybe.
Back in the house, I open his laptop again and return to the file. I hit control A and then the delete button. The screen goes blank.
Almost immediately I am nauseous. I hit control Z, undoing what I’ve just done, and scream. As angry as I am, that is too big of a betrayal.
* * *
It’s late, almost one in the morning, but I call Chris. Like, really call instead of text.
“Lor? You okay?”
“I love you,” I tell him, and it feels big to me, but it doesn’t sound big. Because I’ve told him before that I love him. I mean, of course we love each other. He doesn’t know that I mean it in a different way right now. I know this because he responds, “I love you, too,” without missing a beat.
“Things have been weird,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “We didn’t talk all day. The vibes have been . . . off.”
“Will you still come tomorrow? To The Mount?”
“Of course,” Chris says, his voice all soft and scratchy and perfect.
“Can you sleep?” he asks.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
Then I tell him what I found. How Seth and I fought. Why I’m hurt.
And Chris reinforces what I know, which is that he’s my best friend. He validates and comforts me and promises me things will be okay. He listens without pretending that he knows the answers. He tells me I don’t even have to try to sleep.
“How was your day?” I ask him.
“We finished the shelves,” Chris says. “Big shelving day over here.”
“That’s good,” I say, trying to keep it light, but I can’t. “I'm sorry I might leave you. I’m sorry I need so much.”
“Lori,” he says, his voice sleepy. “Stop.”
I’ll miss this when I move to Maryland. But I know there’s no way for me to stay now.
“How about you write for a bit?” he says. “Give me something to draw.”
I sigh. It’s a good plan.
“Okay,” I tell him, and hang up.
I go back to my room and open my own laptop. The story I write is about a girl who wakes up in a town where everyone over twenty-one has disappeared.
It’s a little bit obvious, but I don’t care.
Chapter 12
The car is silent and cold. Literally and emotionally cold.
I have the air conditioning on blast because I’m exhausted. I’ve pointed the vents right at my face to keep me awake. There are low voices coming from the stereo. I’ve been listening to a podcast about horror films, and the hosts are ranking the adaptations of Stephen King books. It’s keeping me focused.
These guys love Christine, but they have complicated feelings about whether It should have ever been adapted at all.
Sometimes I have to look in the rearview mirror, and when I do, I see Seth. We accidentally make eye contact, and then I look away. He’s been angry with me all morning, but I will not let him make me feel bad when I know I’m right.
“What is this?” Seth asks angrily from the back seat, startling me.
“It’s called Evil Clowns,” I say. “It’s a horror podcast.”
I glance up and see him roll his eyes.
“It’s very academic,” I say angrily. “It’s often about gender and queer themes in horror.”
“I’m sure it is,” Seth says, and he sounds like such a jerk that I am a little bit stunned. I have never seen him so dismissive. Never experienced an adult being so petty. He has decided to play this like he’s mad at me for appropriate reasons. I can’t deal.
I look in the mirror after a minute and see that he’s actually listening to the podcast, which makes me feel smug.
Seth and I did manage to say about twenty civil words to each other this morning. We spoke just long enough for him to tell me that Ethan would be meeting us at The Mount and that he’d be treating us to some nice rooms near the property for the night so we don’t have to drive more than four hours in one day. I’d grunted, “fine,” in response.
I am excited to see Uncle Ethan, though. He is so wonderful, and he gets me a fancy pen for Hanukkah every year. I mean, I mostly write on my laptop and take notes with a basic Bic throwaway pen, but it’s a cool thing to have all these fancy writing instruments on my desk. Sometimes Chris uses them.
I’d texted Ethan, “Thanks for the hotel rooms! Looking forward to seeing you,” and he responded with a thumbs-up emoji. I wanted to get in a thank-you before Seth complained about me to him and spun our whole conflict to make it look like I was angry about nothing.
Mom had also checked in again.
“You okay?” she’d asked. “How is this process going for you? How is Seth holding up?”
“Fine,” I’d said because I didn’t want to give anything away.
I don’t want to think about Mom, or Seth’s betrayal, or my rootlessness. Today I am thinking about Edith Wharton.
Grandma Sheryl loved Edith Wharton. She has all her books, or a lot of them anyway. She also reread them a lot, the way I always go back to Stephen King’s The Stand, which I read out of order, in different sections, because it’s so crazy long.
I do not like Edith Wharton. Grandma thought I’d like Ethan Frome—she’d recommended it when I moved in—but I couldn’t get through the first fifty pages. I know from the back cover that it’s about a guy named Ethan who can’t date the woman he wants, and his life is a super bum
mer, and that’s all I can pretty much tell you, because it was quite clear that nothing was going to happen in that book.
Still, I appreciate that a woman wrote it and that Grandma liked it.
I did not know it was written at The Mount, but apparently it was. So that’s something.
The Mount is Edith Wharton’s home in Lenox, a town in the Berkshires, which is where people go in Massachusetts to see pretty trees, buy homemade jam, and experience cultural activities like outdoor symphonies. It is two and a half or three hours away from Natick, which means we should be there soon.
The road is getting smaller and narrower. The fields next to the car are bigger, with more cows. I’ve spotted signs for pottery shops and fresh produce. There are also little street signs that have grapes on them, because out here, there are wineries.
Just as the podcast hosts begin debating the merits of adaptations of The Stand, a topic on which I have many opinions, I see a sign that says THE MOUNT. I pull into the driveway and feel Chris shuffle to life in the passenger seat.
“Ethan just messaged. He’s pulling up,” Seth says after clearing his throat. The second I turn off the engine, he bolts from the car and stands next to it, not hiding his need to have a door and lots of space between us.
“Wow,” Chris says. “That was an icy ride.”
“I can’t apologize,” I say.
“Even just for reading his private stuff? Maybe if you start with that, he’ll listen and apologize back.”
“I can’t,” I say.
He nods. He gets it.
I exit the car, and I see Ethan at the far side of the dirt and gravel parking lot. It’s a relief because Seth and I need a new buffer. Any calm person who can separate us from each other.
He’s walking to us from his white rental car, and Seth is already by his side. They hug and kiss hello. Then Ethan sees me and smiles.
The last time I saw Ethan was Memorial Day. I had taken the train down to New York, and we went to get Chinese food and saw a Chris Evans movie. The next day he and Seth took me to a show. I don’t love musicals, but it was cool to be there.
Things That Grow Page 17
