by Gae Polisner
My father.
God, I miss him.
The thought sits there, heavy, but it doesn’t take me down.
“I’m glad you brought him up,” I say, and her eyes dart to mine. “I had this dream last night. It was weird, like dreams are, you know?” She nods, and picks her book back up but doesn’t open it, just fidgets with the bookmark inside. “And the details, well, they didn’t make too much sense. But I was in it, of course, and you were there, too. And Dad. We were a family again.” Mom dabs at her eye with her ring finger. “Armond was there, too. Which was weird, because, well, I wouldn’t exactly want him to be.” Mom lets out this strange, guttural sound, and I add, “I met him once, I told you that, right? At a gallery downtown. I remember him … Dad bought a painting. Called Icarus’s Flight Plan. It’s still here, in the guest room. We could hang it.”
Her eyes meet mine with fresh concern, and I bust out laughing.
“Oh,” she says, relieved. “You’re just joking?”
“Yeah, I kind of hate it,” I say. “Always did. It’s pretty hideous.”
But now that I brought him up, I feel like I have to finish, because I know we can’t keep pretending none of this happened. We need to talk about it, Mom and me. About Dad, and about him. Armond.
I need to talk about it.
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t like him all that much, either. He was nice, I guess, but weird. Then again, I was little.” I sigh at how long ago it was. Dad must have been living a lie for an awfully long time. “I feel bad for Armond, though. And I keep wondering. I mean, he must be missing Dad, don’t you think?” Mom nods sadly, which only makes me feel worse. “But, the painting? It’s so ugly. I can’t believe Dad even bought it. We should take it out back and burn it,” I add, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Something ceremonial, you know?”
“Klee!”
“What? We should.”
My mother laughs fully, now, and so I laugh too, because, seriously, that is one butt-ugly piece of art.
Finally, my mother shakes her head at me, and wraps her arms to her chest, fighting back another round of long-held tears. “I’m glad we’re having this conversation, Klee,” she says. “I’m glad to have you back home.”
I think of Dr. Alvarez saying that sometimes it’s better to just let it all out, get it over with, and I’m about to say that to my mom, but she turns her gaze back out over the water. When she turns back again, she says, “He tried to help Armond out that way, at first, apparently. By buying paintings, being a patron. But it wasn’t enough. So he started paying his rent, too. Just for the gallery, at first, but later, for his apartment … I found receipts, credit card statements, or else I never would have known. I suppose that’s partly my fault, for letting your father handle it all, putting it all on him. Initially, he said it was only because the gallery was going to go under, it was a business decision…” Her voice trails off. After a moment she shrugs and continues. “Maybe that was his way to hold on to his art.”
“If he had told us, if he had wanted to be with Armond, we would have found a way to deal with it, right?” I ask. “We would have understood? No matter what, I mean. If he had given us a chance, then maybe everything would have been okay?”
“Maybe,” my mother says. “To be honest, Klee, I just don’t know.” Her eyes meet mine again. She looks vulnerable, weary. “I’d like to believe that, yes. It wouldn’t have been easy, but, we sure would have tried. Yes,” she says, more firmly, “we would have found a way.”
“We would have still loved him,” I say. “That’s all I mean. That part would have been easy. We would have wanted him to be here, on earth. Alive. Happy.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course.” Mom blows her nose. “But, all we can do now is go forward.”
“Yeah,” I say, standing. “I just wanted to say that, I guess. And that I’m sorry. Sorry for not knowing. Sorry for thinking you were the one…” My voice breaks. I can’t say any more about that part yet. “I’m glad you got your water view,” I offer.
She waves me off like I’m silly, like she’s had more than enough out of me for now. “Let’s be clear, Klee. That’s not something that should have ever fallen on you.”
“Well, still—I’m going to do better from now on,” I say, not knowing exactly what that means. And how will I do anything when I’m leaving in a few short months for school? I hope to be, anyway. But what if she needs me here? What if she wants me to stay? Or what if I don’t get in? I’ve fucked things up so much. My final portfolio piece is long overdue. I need to walk and think. I need a few minutes to clear my head.
“I was thinking of going for a drive,” I say, glancing outside. “Get out for a bit before it gets dark. Just for an hour or so.” My mother’s face shifts, contorts with alarm. “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “Dr. Alvarez said no restrictions, that we need to be as normal as we can.” I laugh a little. “Presuming we can be normal at all.” My mother forces a smile. “Not far,” I add. “Just a drive up River Road? I’ll be back in an hour. Promise.”
“Klee…”
“It’s okay, Mom. Really. One hundred percent for sure.”
“One hour, not more, and you come right back, yes?” I nod. “Bring your phone and answer it, or I send out the troops.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
* * *
I make my way up our long driveway toward the road. It feels good to be in motion, and strangely good to be on my own. In a few short months, if all goes well, I’ll load the car up with all my worldly crap and head off to college in Boston. School of Fine Arts. My father’s alma mater.
I turn onto Old Basin Road and head in the direction of River’s Edge, the first place that Sarah took me. Our very own place to fool around.
Am I sorry for everything with her, or only the bad parts?
Will I ever get over loving her?
The back roads are quiet like they always are up here. Thankfully, I pass no one I recognize, only a few sporadic cars zipping by. When I reach the unpaved road that leads to our spot, I turn in, heart pounding, and drive up toward the empty clearing, and the guardrail.
I just want to be here and remember. One last time what it felt like to be with her.
I lock up and start down to the water. At the edge of the river, I gather a handful of stones. One after another, I skip them in. Some go six whole skips before sinking down. Something else good my father taught me.
* * *
“An old man walks along a riverbank until he comes to four pools,” Dad says. “At the first pool stands a young boy. He’s throwing a handful of stones.
“‘Hello, what are you doing?’ the old man asks the boy.
“‘I am scaring birds,’ the boy replies.”
I giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Dad asks.
“I just think it’s funny he’s scaring the birds.”
“Ah, I see,” Dad says. “Well, the boy must be very good at it, because there are no birds whatsoever near the pool. So, the old man walks on and comes to a second pool, where another young boy is skipping rocks.
“‘Hello, what is it that you are doing?’ the old man asks the boy.
“‘I’m seeing how many skips I can make,’ the boy replies. And the boy is very good at it because his rock skips ten times.”
“Ten is so many,” I say. “Are you sure he did ten? The most I’ve gotten is five.”
“You have to keep trying,” Dad says. “Shall I finish?”
“Yes.”
“The old man walks on.”
“He comes to the third pool?” I say.
“Yes, a third pool, where a young boy is tossing pebbles into the pond. ‘Hello, what is it that you are doing?’ the old man asks of this boy, too. ‘I am just making ripples,’ the boy replies. And, the boy is obviously successful, because the ripples spread outward in ever expanding circles, covering the entire surface of the pool.”
“Is that good or bad,” I ask, “that his ripp
les go out so far?”
“It’s neither,” Dad says, after thinking for a moment. “It just is.”
“Okay.”
“So, the old man walks on and comes to the fourth pool. A fourth and final pool, where he, as a young boy, used to throw stones, skip rocks, and toss pebbles. He stops there and reflects, and, after a while, the three young boys, bored with their own games, come join him.
“‘Hello, what is it that you are doing?’ they ask of the old man.
“‘I am watching the pond,’ he answers.
“The boys say, ‘You are obviously very successful,’ and so they stay with him, and they sit and watch the pond together.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “The end?”
“The end,” my father says. “That’s all there is.”
* * *
I glance at my phone. I’ve been gone half an hour, so I start back up to the car. I need to keep my promise to my mother.
Between my father and me, how will she ever stop worrying?
As I round the bend to my car, I see a figure on the guardrail. Thin, round shouldered. Long hair.
Did my mother tell her?
My chest tightens, and my heart beats so hard I’m afraid it might break through my chest.
For a minute, I stop walking. It’s like my legs won’t move. I think about heading back down to the water. But I need to get to my car. I need to be home within the hour.
I jam my hands in my pockets and keep going, feeling the ladder from Sister Agnes Teresa.
“For when you hit those chutes…”
Hey,” she calls, when I get close enough.
“Hey.”
Sarah.
I keep my hand on the ladder, moving my fingers up the rungs with my own steps, one after another, stopping, finally, a safe enough distance from the guardrail.
“With wisdom and bravery…”
“When did you get back?”
“This afternoon,” I say. “I was going to call you soon. Did my mother tell you I was home?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“How did you know I’d come up here?”
She shrugs. “It’s a small-ass town, Alden, you know that. People talk. Pretty much everyone knows everything.”
She’s being kind. I’m predictable. I’m needy. She knew to come looking here for me.
My hand wants to reflexively move to my ear, but I keep it in my pocket and think of Dr. Alvarez, of her promise that, one day, none of this will seem so important and big.
This moment is only a postage stamp.
Still, it feels insurmountably huge.
Sarah stretches a bare foot out in my direction. She points her toes. Her flip-flops sit there on the ground.
“Warm enough for those, then?” I ask. She smiles sadly and tries to reach her pointed toes out toward me, like a peace offering. Forgiveness, maybe. Friend to friend.
I don’t feel it, though. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just need to get through the next few days.
“Are you mad that I came?” Her voice breaks a little. She pulls her foot back, sensing.
“Not mad at you,” I say. “Not really. Just … at everything. But, mostly at myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be … I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me,” she says. I don’t answer. I can’t make any promises right now. “I’m so sorry, Klee…”
But I can’t hear it, not yet, not now, so I hold up a hand, and for the next few minutes, neither of us says anything.
Eventually, I take the remaining few steps to where she sits.
“So, are you coming back to school?”
“I guess so,” I say. “Yeah. What choice do I have? I need to graduate, right?”
She laughs softly. “Yeah, I guess you do. Pretty much.”
She turns her gaze up to me now. Her eyes cut through me, searching, like they did that first day in Tarantoli’s. For something I can’t give her now. For something I never could. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
“I feel awful, Klee. Just awful,” she says. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay.”
I nod, and stare at my cell phone. The time glares up at me. Forty-five minutes I’ve been gone. And ten minutes, at least, to get home.
“Give me a second,” I say. “I have to call my mom.”
“Okay.”
I walk out of earshot and call home. The whole time, I can feel Sarah watching. After I let my mother know I need a few more minutes, I shove my phone back in my pocket and return to Sarah. She’s still on the guardrail, but I don’t join her. I need to protect myself right now.
“Anyway, I’m really sorry, Klee. I know I probably shouldn’t have come here. I know I should leave you alone. But, I feel bad, and I … I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and just really needed to explain. I do love you. I think I was trying to push you away…”
“Sarah, don’t. Please.” I shake my head, the tears welling in her eyes make mine well up, too. And, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want an explanation. I’ve thought about the reasons a hundred times.
It was both our faults. What’s done is done. An explanation doesn’t matter now. Maybe it won’t ever. In the meantime, whatever she has to say won’t change anything. I need to focus and get better. I need to get my portfolio done and handed in. And, I need to leave for Boston at the end of summer. She’s been right about that all along.
I am leaving Northhollow. With or without her, in a few short months. No matter what.
So, what I want most right now is what I already have from her: to know that she cares. And she must. Because she’s already here.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, finally sitting next to her. “I have fifteen minutes before I have to head home. But only something stupid and unimportant. We need to make a pact,” I say, “and, in case you forgot, you kind of suck at pacts.”
She turns to me and smiles.
So, we do. We talk. Not so much about us, but about other things, like Tarantoli’s class, and senior prank plans, and the soccer camp her brother wants to go to this summer. Eventually, I tell her a little about Dr. Alvarez and Sister Agnes Teresa, and even Martin and Sabrina. Not by name, though—what you do and say in the Ape Can stays confidential.
Last, I tell her some of the stuff about my mother, and that I was wrong about her. But I don’t tell her about my father. It’s too soon, too raw, and anyway, he’s not here to tell his side of the story. So for now, it stays with us, just Mom and me, deep and safe in the abyssal zone. But one day soon, it will be time to let it out, let it float up and exist, and become part of the bright night sky.
I think about Armond, again, and worry for him. What became of him after my father died? I didn’t see him at the funeral. Maybe one day down the road, when I’m sure about everything, I’ll look him up and see if he’s still at the gallery. Check in. Share some stories about my dad.
Maybe one day my paintings will hang on his wall. Now, wouldn’t that be something?
But for now, all of that is in the future and way too big to wrap my head around. Right now I want to stay focused on smaller things.
Before I go, we talk more about the things that don’t really matter at all. About teachers and new movies we want to see, and whether last spring was as rainy as this one. I think about the bowls in Dr. Alvarez’s clearing, filling with rainwater, bits of life—acorns and flower petals—floating.
And, while we talk more about nothing, the tensions ease up a little between us, so that, sitting here, by her side, I don’t feel particularly hurt or broken or fucked-up or angry. I just feel quiet and satisfied to be here on this planet, intact.
Satisfied to watch the edge of the sun slip away, disappearing below the gentle lull of the waterline.
And happy to watch the sky go from dusk to dark, and for the stars to come out, and the moon to rise up, illuminating the long, inky vein of the Hudson, from here all the way to the city.
Acknowledgments
&nbs
p; I don’t know where my stories come from, or, really, how I write them. They are bits of magic, wrapped in luck, wrapped in endless hours staring at a screen. They begin without outline, and often take many years to write and revise, only to be put away, and dusted off again, and only when the right person is ready to find value in them.
I am beyond grateful that that right person continues to be my extraordinary editor, Vicki Lame. She sees something faintly shimmering in my messy words, and believes that, pushed, I am capable of revealing them to be stars.
In addition to Vicki, I am so lucky and honored to be with St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books, and grateful for the work you all do there to get the story from manuscript to beautiful book, from beautiful book to shelves, from shelves to readers’ hands. With special thanks to Sara Goodman, Jessica Preeg (whose manuscript-love notes mean more than she will ever know), Karen Masnica, D J Smyter, Brant Janeway, Janna Dokos, Elizabeth Curione, Cynthia Merman (thank you, too, for the tiny love-note gems interspersed with your skilled copyedits), James Iacobelli (oh, my cover!!), Anna Gorovoy (thank you for the scribbles…), and the amazing people in academic: Peter Jansen, Talia Sherer, and Anne Spieth, who get my books into one of the most important places: schools around the country!
But even before Vicki, and St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books, there were many sets of eyes, helpful feedback, and rungs on the proverbial ladder up to finishing and selling a good book.
To my early BETA readers who gave valuable feedback: Jeff Fielder, Terry Turner, and Wendy Watts Scalfaro; to my later BETA readers who did the same: Jordyn Dees, Eden Wirth, and Dr. Barbara Kanal; and my most steadfast BETA readers who read more times than I can count, giving me constant encouragement, honest criticism, and fresh insight each time (lather, rinse, repeat): Annmarie Kearney Wood, Jessie Grembos, Jane Small, and my mother, Ginger, who said, “make it more of a painting.” I only hope it is one fraction as beautiful as the paintings she makes come to life.
To my boys, Sam and Holden, who put up with my constant questions about what young adults say and don’t say, what music they listen to, and which type of guitar is which.
